As we trudge along the high road we approach an object that should have extraordinary interest for the artistic mind. A high wall runs along the path. Within it is to be seen a much-dilapidated old house, its shoulder turned to the road, and which, like many a dilapidated old person, has the air of having seen better days. Its squalor is so marked, windows shattered and patched like an Irish shanty, that we wonder at finding such a spectacle on a country road. There are children as squalid, and a general air of discomfort. This is Hogarth’s old home. “Hogarth House” it is called, which he purchased about 1750, when he had grown prosperous, and whence he used to drive into town in his carriage. The good old red brick seems sound enough, and I fancy it would not be difficult to restore and repair. It is surprising that some artist or _littérateur_ does not purchase it, as it could be secured no doubt “for a song”; and there would be the additional gratification of earning public gratitude. One “fine morning” it will be found that it has been swept away, and a row of “Hogarth Villas” erected in its stead. Indeed, a week or so ago a warning voice--to which no one will attend--sounded a call that it was tumbling into ruin. Beside the river runs a wall which encloses the grounds and gardens of Chiswick House, the Duke of Devonshire’s villa, a classical structure, built by that nobleman of elegant taste--Lord Burlington, whose work is to be seen not only in London, but at York and other places. His buildings all exhibit this character, and are effective. This Italian villa, with the cupola to its octagon room rising over the pillared pediment, is in his best style. Not far away on the roadside is another villa, with an ambitious portico and pillars which may have been designed by the same amateur. It would be a surprise now-a-days to find a nobleman designing houses.