On the death of the third Lord, his son Henry Edward, who was for some time British Minister at Florence, succeeded him. He died at Naples in , and the house is now in the possession of his widow, Lady Holland, who has sold the reversion of it to the Earl of Ilchester. We have now nothing to do but to take our leave of this house " which can boast of a greater number of inmates distinguished more in political and literary history than any other private dwelling in England "-an observation of 's, capped by that of Lord Brougham, that "it was the resort not only of the most interesting persons composing English society, literary, philosophical, and political, but also of all belonging to those classes who ever visited this country from abroad."

No wonder we quit such a spot lingeringly, and, indeed, as we walk through the grounds there is much to make us linger. To reach them we may pass through the door, out of the large bow window in the West Room, just glancing at a view of " Ranelagh," and another of "Private Theatricals," by Hogarth. On descending a flight of steps, we shall find ourselves in the Dutch garden; walking in zigzag we come across a green-bowered summer-house, on either side of which is a fox cut in box. This is " Rogers' seat," where Lord Holland placed the inscription,

" Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell

With me, those Pleasures that he sings so well."

-" VII. Hd.

1818

."

Hanging below, there is this commentary by our old friend, Luttrell, the wit:

"How happily sheltered is he who reposes

In this haunt of the poet, overshadowed with roses,

While the sun is rejoicing unclouded on high,

And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky !

Let me in, and be seated. I'll try if, thus placed,

I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste,

Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain,

Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain.

Well now I am fairly installed in the bower,

How lovely the scene ! How propitious the hour !

The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs;

All is beauty around me-but nothing occurs;

Not a thought, I protest-Tho' I'm here, and alone,

Not a line can I hit on that Rogers would own,

Though my senses are ravished, my feelings in tune,

And Holland's my host, and the season is June.

The trial is ended, no garden, nor grove,

Though poets amid them may linger or rove,

Not a seat e'en so hallowed as this can impart

The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart.

So I rise, since the Muses continue to frown,

No more of a poet than when I sat down;

While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike

Their lyre at all times, in all places, alike.

June,1818

. HENRY LUTTRELL."

thought these lines very pretty and polished.

Opposite the summer-house is a bronze bust of Napoleon I., with a Greek inscription from the Odyssey on the pedestal. We have innumerable English versions of the lines, many made by visitors to the House, and here is 's, which he thought gave in a measure, a better idea of Homer's manner than " Pope's sing-song couplet" :

"For not, be sure, within the grave

Is hid that prince, the wise, the brave;

But in an islet's narrow bound,

With the great ocean roaring round

The captive of a foeman base

He pines to view his native place."

Passing through the arcade at the end of the gar

"The Dahlia you brought to our isle,

Your praises for ever shall speak,

'Mid gardens as sweet as your smile,

And in colours as bright as your cheek."

Lord Holland must have been of a wonderfully forgiving nature.

We must not forget to pay a visit to the moats, said to be the site of the old Manor House of the De Veres, and the scene of the Best and Camelford duel.

Lord Camelford was a nephew ot the great Earl of Chatham, a young man of an extravagantly " wild" disposition, with considerable talents, and a fondness for literature, science, and seamanship, but with a character altogether unformed and eccentric. The quarrel with Mr. Best was about a lady. His lordship paid Mr. Best a visit at his hotel in Bond Street, and said to him with perfect calmness, "Mr. Best, I am glad to see you face to face, and to tell you, you are an infamous scoundrel."

Lord Camelford at heart owned himself entirely in the wrong, and on the night before the duel inserted in his will a paper on which he had written, " In the present contest, I am fully and entirely the aggressor, as well as in the spirit, as in the letter of the word; should I lose my life in a contest of my own seeking, I must solemnly forbid any of my friends or relations, let them be of whatsoever description they may, from instituting any vexatious proceedings against my antagonist."

Unfortunately, he had not the moral courage to acknowledge this to his opponent, lest he might be accused of cowardice, Mr. Best having the reputation of being a good shot. The encounter took place at eight o'clock on the morning of the . Lord Camelford fired first, and missed. Then Mr. Best fired, and his antagonist fell. He was at once removed to Little , then occupied by Mr. Ottic, and after having suffered much pain, died on the evening of Saturday, a victim to his own want of moral determination and the most barbarous custom which human stupidity has countenanced in modern times. The day before he died he wrote a

Let us also notice the two pieces of Portland stone designed by Inigo Jones, on the south, and the lawn or meadow in front of the house, concerning which exists the tradition that Ireton and Cromwell conferred there to be out of the reach of eavesdroppers. Our visit has indeed been a long one, yet we might have remained twice the time, and yet have far from exhausted its treasures. Still, our ramble has worn out the day, evening is closing in, darkness is coming on, and boasts of two ghosts. One, indeed-that of the First Lord -confines himself to the Gilt Room, and need give us no anxiety, but there is another-and an outdoor one-who was seen by his daughter Lady Diana Rich in broad daylight. She met her double, habit and everything as in a looking glass. Her sister also saw " the like of herself before she died." Lest, then, so hideous a spectacle should appal our eyes, let us hasten down the avenue of elms, happy if we conclude our moonlight ramble as gunfire sounds from the House, the clock striking eleven. The origin of this gunfire seems uncertain; some say it comes from Spain, others that it is to show that the servants

The pile to Addison so dear,

Where Sully feasted, and where Rogers' song

Still adds sweet music to the perfum'd air,

And gently leads each grace and muse along ;"

"May neither fire destroy, nor waste impair,

Nor time consume thee, till the twentieth Heir.

May Taste respect thee, and may Fashion spare."