“Ah! friend,” said I, “this is a hallowed spot—here lies one of Britain’s favoured sons, whose genius has assisted in exalting her among the nations of the earth.”—“Perhaps it was so,” said the man, “but we know nothing about the people buried, except to keep up their monuments, if the family pay; and, perhaps, Sir, you belong to this family; if so, I’ll tell you how much is due.”—“Yes, truly, friend,” said I, “I am one of the great family bound to preserve the monument of Gainsborough; but, if you take me for one of his relatives, you are mistaken.”—“Perhaps, Sir, you may be of the family, but were not included in the Will, therefore are not obligated.” I could not now avoid looking with scorn at the fellow; but, as the spot claimed better feelings, I gave him a trifle for his trouble, and mildly told him I would not detain him.

The monument being a plain one, and making no palpable appeal to vulgar admiration, was disregarded by these people; for it is in death as in life, if you would excite the notice of the multitude, you must in the grave have a splendid mausoleum, or in walking the streets you must wear fine clothes. It did not fall in the way of the untaught, on this otherwise polite spot, to know that they have among them the remains of THE FIRST PAINTER OF OUR NATIONAL SCHOOL, in fancy-pictures, and one OF THE FIRST in the classes of landscape and portrait;—a man who recommended himself as much by his superiority, as by his genius; as much by the mode in which his genius was developed, as by the perfection of his works; and as much by his amiable private character as by his eminence in the chief of Fancy’s Arts. There is this difference between a poet and a painter—that the poet only exhibits the types of ideas in words, limited in their sense by his views, or his powers of expression; but the painter is called upon to exhibit the ideas themselves in a tangible shape, and made out in all their parts and most beautiful forms. The poet may write with a limited knowledge of his subject, and he may produce any partial view of it which his powers enable him to exhibit in a striking manner; but the successful painter must do all this, and he must execute with his hand as well as conceive with his mind. The poet, too, has the advantage of exhibiting his ideas in succession, and he avails himself of stops and pauses; but the great painter is obliged to set his entire subject before the eye at once, and all the parts of his composition, his imagination, and his execution, challenge the judgment as a whole. A great poet is nevertheless a just object of admiration among ordinary persons—but far more so a great painter, who assumes the power of creation, and of improving on the ordinary combinations of the Creator. Yet such a man was Thomas Gainsborough, before whose modest tomb I stood! The following are the words engraven on the stone:—

Thomas Gainsborough, esq.
died August 2, 1788.
Also the body of
Gainsborough Dupont, esq.
who died Jan. 20, 1797,
aged 42 years.
Also, Mrs. Margaret Gainsborough,
wife of the above
Thomas Gainsborough, esq,
who died Dec. 17, 1798,
in the 72d year of her age.

A little to the eastward lie the remains of another illustrious son of art, the modest Zoffany, whose Florence Gallery, Portraits of the Royal Family, and other pictures, will always raise him among the highest class of painters. He long resided on this Green, and, like Michael Angelo, Titian, and our own West, produced master-pieces at four-score. The words on the monument are:

Sacred to the Memory
of John Zoffany, R.A.
who died Nov. 11, 1810,
aged 87 years.

It was a remarkable coincidence, that the bones of Gainsborough and Zoffany should thus, without premeditation, have been laid side by side; and that, but a few weeks before I paid my visit to this spot, delighted crowds had been daily drawn together to view their principal works, combined with those of Wilson and Hogarth, in forming an attractive metropolitan exhibition. On that occasion every Englishman felt proud of the native genius of our Gainsborough. It was ably opposed in one line by a Wilson, and in another by a Zoffany; yet the works of the untutored Gainsborough and Hogarth served to prove that every great artist must be born such; and that superiority in human works is the result of original aptitude, and cannot be produced by any servile routine of education, however specious, imposing, sedulous, or costly.

This valley of the Thames is, however, sanctified every-where by relics which call for equal reverence. But a mile distant on my right, in Chiswick Church-yard, lie the remains of the painting moralist Hogarth; who invented a universal character, or species of moral revelation, intelligible to every degree of intellect, in all ages and countries; who opened a path to the kindred genius of a Burnett and a Wilkie; and who conferred a deathless fame on the manners, habits, and chief characters of his time. And, but a mile on my left, in Richmond Church, lie the remains of Thomson, the poet of nature, of liberty, and of man—who displayed his powers only for noble purposes; who scorned, like the vile herd of modern rhymesters, to ascribe glory to injustice, heroism to the assassins of the champions of liberty, or wisdom to the mischievous prejudices of weak princes; and who, by asserting in every line the moral dignity of his art, became an example of poetical renown, which has been ably followed by Glover, Akenside, Cowper, Robinson, Burns, Barlow, Barbauld, Wolcot, Moore, and Byron.

The fast-declining Sun, and my wearied limbs here reminded me that I was the slave of nature, and of nature’s laws; and that I had neither time, nor power, to excurse or go farther. My course, therefore, necessarily terminated on this spot; and here I must take leave of the reader, who has been patient, or liberal enough, to accompany me.

For my own part, I had been highly gratified with the great volume, ten or twelve miles long, by two or three broad, in the study of which I had employed the lengthened morning; though this volume of my brief analysis the reader will doubtless find marked by the short-sightedness and imperfections which attend every attempt of human art to compress an infinite variety into a finite compass.

In looking back at the incidents of the day, which the language of custom has, with reference to our repasts, denominated THE MORNING, I could not avoid feeling the strong analogy which exists between such an excursion as that which I have here described and THE LIFE of MAN. Like that, and all things measured by TIME and SPACE, it had had its BEGINNING—its eventful COURSE—and its END determined by physical causes.