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enduring people. Strangely enough, beside his tomb are the shelves which, Sunday after Sunday, are piled with bread and money for the widow and the orphan; nay, the very scales are there, to tell the justice of the weights. Right opposite the monument is the pure font he mentions, though its carved cover, one of the most exquisite, both in elegant design and execution, we ever saw, is not noted in his 'Chronicle;' but there it is blessed to receive, and, in receiving, blessing, the younglings of Christ's flock. Surely he would rejoice to behold the infant citizens received into Holy Church! There he lies among those he loved-the most honoured of those he delighted to honour-THE ONE JOHN STOW!

Let no one sneer at the toils of the antiquary; for his labours are pregnant with instruction, and he has enjoyments peculiarly his own; his enthusiasm may not be at all times intelligible, but out of it proceeds enlightenment to thousands: he may work like the mole-often in darkness and underground-but that which he brings to the surface is fruitful and good. How many pleasures do we owe him: for how much of instruction are we his debtors, bringing together the present and the past-illustrating history by proofs surer than hosts of witnesses. Rarely is the antiquary other than the advocate and ally of virtue; it is the gentle and generous only who seek intercourse and intimacy with the dead and the forgotten.

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THE HEART OF SIR NICHOLAS CRISPE.

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F many sad pages in the history of our own age, there is one, at least, that has reference to our own locality-at old Brompton. We had been reading some matters connected with the modern story of Brandenburgh House, and determined to pay it a visit: yet, as will be seen, our pilgrimage was extended to a distance somewhat further off. It was a day in early Spring; it is pleasant to remember it in dull November as a day that must come again to many. The day was sharp, but clear; a day that stimulates to exercise and repays it. Away we went, hardly pausing to think, until we found ourselves where the two roads branch off at Brompton-one leading to Hammersmith, through the Fulham Fields; the other to Fulham; both roads bordering the Market Gardens' of the Metropolis. Of course we preferred the one through a region little known; where we have heard nightingales sing within a mile and a quarter of London, and have rambled for hours amid cherry and apple orchards, while our eyes wearied over acres of lettuce, asparagus, and cauliflowers, and the sunbeams danced above fields of square and bell-glasses which protected the young plants of the pungent cucumber. We passed along the grey and buttressed walls of the old Brompton Road-on, until we found ourselves between the hedge-rows the little green buds were already beginning to crack the protecting bark, which, rugged as the friendship of a hearty friend,

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sheltered them from the bitter blast. Stout labourers were about, their coats thrown off, and their white shirt sleeves bearing ample testimony to the good housewifery of their humble homes. Carts were moving from the ample yard of the market-gardener: the master himself, lusty and full of life, and that which makes life lusty-hope-was abroad, calling to his men: it was pleasant to hear his jocund voice, and see his face, ruddy as one of his own beet-roots, and observe his sleek horses and stout lazy dogs basking in a bit of new-found sunshine, and to note the quiet face of his wife pressed against the diamond-paned window, glowing again with the brightness of her rosy ribbons; the children, doubtless, were at school, but their pets, the pigeons, were cooing on the bar of the dove-cote, perched against the gable of an old barn; and there was much cackling and crowing from the farm-yard. We peeped over the hedge into the garden, for we thought we heard the humming of bees; and there truly were three well-thatched hives, and some of the inhabitants whirling slowly round, or standing upon the hedge brushing their legs, one against the other, as if to restore circulation and fit themselves for exertion: one had rested on a snowdrop, and another was booming round a crocus, but they soon returned, and then crept snugly in, as if but half-awake.

A new cemetery has been consecrated along the road, just after we pass Earl, or Erles court, of which, perhaps, something hereafter. We paused at North End, but for a moment, and then called to mind the stories we had heard, how thousands, who died at the time of the great plague of London, were buried within those high, hard-looking, dull brick walls, near to Wentworth Cottage: they say no one has been bold enough to turn up the earth beyond a certain depth for fear of letting the plague out; and many are the tales of ghosts with shrouds and without.

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More fields, more trees, more market-gardeners, but all bearing the same character: the spring, hourly expected,' and the English husbandman We reached the spot at last there stands the cottage in which Mrs. Billington some time resided, and here was the entrance to Brandenburgh House, now levelled with the bank of the 'flowery Thames,' on which it so proudly stood for such a number of years.*

*The vicissitudes of Brandenburgh House are worth noting; it was, according to Lysons, built by Sir Nicholas Crispe (who is said to have been the first inventor of the art of making

Unhappy Queen Caroline! What an extraordinary time was that in England! It was wonderful to see the crowds that flocked to cheer, encourage, and address her; and the more one party condemned, the more numerous became her friends. John Bull is a fine fellow at heart: if persons are oppressed, John immediately decks them out in all the virtues of the world. As long as an enthusiasm, so hard to awaken, is roused, and continues, John will see only one side of the question: the persecuted not only becomes, in his eyes, the most injured, but the most admirable, of human beings, without spot or blemish; and far from listening to the reason he so boasts of possessing, he will hearken to nothing, see nothing, that does not tally with his own imagination for the time. It was not the calm noiseless scene that it is now-you can hear a robin sing, or a leaf dropwhen deputation upon deputation poured over those fields-when men of all classes, and women of all characters, congregated round her. Well, enough of this-the turmoil attending Queen Caroline's brief sojourn on the banks of the Thames is too feverish to give birth to healthful thoughts; and as far as the reminiscence of her period extends, we can have no regrets as to the pulling down of this once beautiful residence, rendered so beautiful when it was in the possession of the late Margrave of Brandenburgh Anspach and Bayreuth, by whom its name was changed-from the jesting one given it by its once possessor, Bubb Dodington, La Trappe '-to Brandenburgh House.' The Margrave was one of those rare instances of bricks as now practised) about the beginning of the reign of King Charles I., and the expense to have amounted to nearly 23,000l. The loyalty of Sir Nicholas was punished by the plunder of his house during the Civil War, and when the parliamentary army was stationed at Hammersmith in the beginning of August, 1647, Fairfax took up his quarters there, Sir Nicholas being then in France, to which country he retired when the king's affairs became desperate, and he could be of no further use. His estates became forfeit; but having submitted to a composition, he entered into the Guinea trade, and assisted Charles II. when in exile, with money, and greatly aided General Monk in his restoration. In his old age he resided peaceably at his mansion at Hammersmith, and dying there, the house was sold in 1683 by his nephew to Prince Rupert, who gave it to his Mistress Margaret Hughes, a much admired actress in the reign of Charles II. She possessed it nearly ten years, when it passed through many hands, until George Dodington, afterwards Lord Melcombe, obtained it in 1748, and he completely altered and modernised it. In 1792 it was purchased by the Margrave of Brandenburgh Anspach and Bayreuth, from whose occupancy it received the name of Brandenburgh House. Its last resident was the ill-starred Princess Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., who died within its walls, soon after which it was razed to the ground.

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the laying down of princely power in exchange for domestic English life. Soon after his marriage with the widow of Lord Craven, he resigned the government of his territorial inheritance to the King of Prussia, in consideration of an annuity, for the joint lives of himself and the Margravine, of 400,000 rix dollars. Doubtless he was clear-sighted enough to foresee the storm that was gathering over Europe, and deemed England the country of the greatest safety. How many have followed his example since! There used to be a few trees standing, said to have been planted by that eccentric courtier, George Bubb Dodington, who died Lord Melcombe, and whom even Lord Orford confesses was treated with more severity than he deserved by Pope and Churchill. We may imagine he called his house La Trappe' by the rule of contraries: singular contrasts met within its walls during his lordship's life. Cumberland introduces him into his Memoirs,' Thomson inscribed to him one of his Seasons,' and Young addressed to him a satire. His magnificent estate in Dorsetshire was the frequent residence of poets and authors of the time. His flattery

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of Walpole was mean in the extreme, and was followed by a quarrel; while his political intrigues in after times, with both Pitt and Fox, did him no service. Lord Bute advanced him to the Peerage, and then-ay, then he died! Death's presence is always powerfully with us in these old memories.

The house upon whose site we stood was once the property of Prince Rupert; and therein the fierce prince, foregoing his fierceness, made love to a frail actress, Mistress Margaret Hughes, whom that delightfully

*This nobleman's original name was George Bubb, and he was the son of an apothecary in Dorsetshire, where he was born in 1691. He added the name of Dodington in compliment to his uncle George Dodington, Esq., who was one of the Lords of the Admiralty during the reigns of King William, Queen Anne, and George I., whose large fortune he inherited. A whimsical story is related of him to the effect that when he achieved fortune, he considered the name of Bubb too short and insignificant for a man of his position, and anxiously asked a joker as to the best means of altering it, who exclaimed- Oh, call yourself silly-bubb,' a name which afterwards stuck to him. His amount of mind seems to have consisted in a large share of worldly wisdom which enriched himself; a total want of conscience in political movements; and a safety-loving desire of being on friendly terms with literary men and satirists, that his faults and follies might be overlooked under the shadow of his patronage. In his Diary he coolly details acts of political knavery that would condemn any man, without appearing at all to feel their impropriety. His face would have delighted Lavater, so exactly characteristic is it of a well-fed, mindless worldling.

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