and took no little pride in the thickness of the low oak beams. She regarded us with respect when she found we had come from London to see and hear all about "The Patriot," which no one, she assured us, could tell better than her husband; "we must have great curiosity!" She had heard that Tring was twelve miles off; she had lived in this cottage forty years, but had never been so far. She confessed, with a quiet smile, "she was no great traveller.” This Dorcas had bright eyes beneath her white hair, and was withal kindly, courteous, and intelligent, with abundant health, and was well learned in simple garden and house craft, and better still in that lore which renders wise unto salvation; yet, from the time of her youth, she had never been twelve miles from that most lonely and primitive village in which she was born!

Yes; nothing is more likely than that Hampden mustered his men upon that common; for the broad and beautiful table-land, spread in front of the house, which now commands so glorious a view of the surrounding country, was then intersected by quaint hedges and garden fantasies, suited to the taste of the period; no place, therefore, could have been more fitted or appropriate, as a muster-ground for the Hampden men, than Hampden Common, which almost adjoins the house. We turned back; leaving the common, and passing again through the green lanes, and by the forge, we came to the gate opening to a winding drive that leads through the park to the entrance of both church and dwelling-separated only by a narrow road, over-arched by stately trees and almost as stately evergreens: on the right, a small garden gate admits, by a back path, to the house, flower-garden, and lawn, where

the Patriot spent his happiest days: on the left, is the entrance to the sacred church, where his remains repose. It is very rarely that thus, within, as it were, the compass of a ring, a great man's FIRST and LAST are gathered together. It is impossible to imagine anything more still than this hallowed spot, hid away at the back of that chalky range, the Chilterns, which bound on one side the rich vale of Aylesbury. The flower-garden, through which we passed, seemed as if called into existence by the wand of an enchanter; the lingering roses, the heavy-headed dahlias, the bright-toned autumn flowers, looked so lonely in their beauty. We almost feared to speak in such deep solitude. A human footstep, the bark of a dog, the song of a bird, the tinkle of a sheep-bell, would have been a relief-until we had drunk deeply of the spirit of the place, and then, as thoughts and memories crowded around us, we felt the luxury of its solemn quiet, and that sound here would be as sacrilege. Passing a low sort of postern entrance we walked beneath an arch, starred over by jessamine, and stood in front of the extensive mansion, added to and enlarged by various proprietors, and at one time displaying some goodly architecture of the age of Elizabeth; the stucco, as if ashamed of its usurpation, beginning to drop away from the red brick, of which the house is built. Save the "natural decay" which must progress in all uninhabited dwellings, we saw nothing that told of the "ruin" which comes of carelessness or neglect.

The hall is of that gloomy character, once considered necessary for grandeur of effect; the suite of rooms consists of a library, two dining-rooms, a drawing-room, a sort of small presence-chamber, and a bed-room, that enjoys the re

putation of having been especially furnished for Elizabeth by Griffith Hampden, when her gracious Majesty visited this

favored spot; the gallant high sheriff paid his Queen right royal homage, cutting a passage through the woods, which is still called "the Queen's gap." The furniture, however, of her Majesty's bed-room, has nothing about it of the

Elizabethan era ; it is no older than the time of the second Charles. In the library is a curious Bible, once the property of Philip, uncle of Oliver Cromwell; it contains detailed entries of the births of many of the Cromwell family.

There is a very celebrated portrait of the Protector on the stair-case, and another of one of the family of Hampden, we believe the "Patriot's" son,-who, wearied of the world he knew, rushed unbidden to that which he knew not. All memory of the sleeping-chamber of John Hampden is lost; but that of the tragedy is well-known ;—what house is there without its skeleton!-yet what dwelling in all England more sacred than this lonely one, to the hearts of Englishmen? In one of the reception-rooms is an interesting portrait, believed to be of the Patriot; it hung unnoticed on the stairs, until Lord Nugent undertook to exhume the remains of Hampden, with a view to ascertain whether he had died by the effect of the bursting of his own pistol, or from the shot of the carabine, which, according to other historians, shattered the shoulder of the hero on Chalgrove field. The body, of which the grave was despoiled in a ruder manner, and for a longer period than appears to have been at all necessary, was found perfect, except that a shattered hand was rolled in a separate cerement beside it: the features, when discovered, “bore so strong a resemblance to this hitherto neglected portrait, that it was taken down and cleaned, and in a corner the name was discovered;"*-it has since been placed in a

* Such, at least, is the motive assigned for its removal, by the household; but upon very unsatisfactory grounds. It is much to be lamented, and certainly not to be accounted for, that Lord Nu

wortnier position. It is deplorable that this noble mansion, honored by time and circumstance, contains no other record of the one who has given it immortality; no papers, no documents, no scrap of his hand-writing, no table upon which his hand rested, no chair, as the master of the household often has appropriately called "his own;" no room -nothing except a doubtful portrait; the very character of that dwelling changed, rendering it a whited sepulchre rather than a glorious Mausoleum, where everything connected with him should be found; and where the youth of England might learn how to live and how to die for their country. And yet his presence was with us wherever

gent, in his "Life of Hampden," published some time after the exhumation, takes no notice whatever of the circumstance; not attempting to account for the fact that in the "rummage" to which the grave was subjected no body was found exhibiting wounds on the shoulder, while that which his lordship and his friends disinterred was without the hand, which, wrapped in a separate cerement, was by its side. Lord Nugent quotes the statement, (which rests upon doubtful authority,) that "at Chalgrove field his pistol burst and shattered his hand in a terrible manner;" a story which his lordship's search would seem to confirm, but which he quotes and leaves without comment. Soon after the appearance of this article in the Art-Journal the author was subjected to a severe "questioning" in the Athenæum, where the accuracy of the statement was assailed; in reply, she gave her authorities-John Martin, the Parish Clerk, and the steward of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, both of whom were present at the disinterment; she has since again visited the locality, and her impressions were confirmed by conversations with others: the point at issue-the manner of Hampden's death-cannot fail to interest many-who may take up the controversy with a better grace than the author of this work; and for the facts glanced at, reference may be made to several persons of the district, whose testimony would be beyond suspicion.