In the retirement of the Deepdene, Mr. Hope passed much time in embellishing the mansion, and improving the gardens, grounds, &c. "Here," observes the author of the _Promenade round Dorking_, "I was much gratified with landscape gardening, the quiet of echoing dells, and the refreshing coolness of caverns--all which combined to render this spot a kind of fairy region. Flower-gardens laid out in parterres, with much taste, here mingle trim neatness with rude uncultivated nature, in walks winding through plantations and woods, with ruined grottoes and hermitages, well adapted, by their solitary situations, for study and reverie." Adjoining the mansion, Mr. Hope likewise constructed a classical sculpture gallery, which he enriched with several antiques from his town residence. Notwithstanding all these additions, we are bound to confess, that, compared with the beauty of the situation, they were but unsuccessful efforts of art to embellish bountiful Nature. The conveniences of the Deepdene are upon a scale of magnificence similar to that of the mansion in Duchess-street. Their present Majesties, before their accession, were occasional visiters at the Deepdene; and upon the formation of the Queen's Household, Mrs. Hope was appointed a Lady of the Bedchamber. Few men, even in the philanthropic neighbourhood of Dorking, were more beloved than the late Mr. Hope. His patronage by money and otherwise, was never vainly sought for a good object; and with this high merit we close our humble tribute to his public and private excellence. PHILO. * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. * * * * * BACCHANALIAN SONG. (_From the "Noctes" of Blackwood._) NORTH.--The air, you know, is my own, James. I shall sing it to-night to some beautiful words by my friend Robert Folkestone Williams, written, he tells me, expressly for the Noctes. Oh! fill the wine-cup high, The sparkling liquor pour; For we will care and grief defy, They ne'er shall plague us more. And ere the snowy foam From off the wine departs, The precious draught shall find a home, A dwelling in our hearts. Though bright may be the beams That woman's eyes display; They are not like the ruby gleams That in our goblets play. For though surpassing bright Their brilliancy may be, Age dims the lustre of their light, But adds more worth to thee. Give me another draught, The sparkling, and the strong; He who would learn the poet craft-- He who would shine in song-- Should pledge the flowing bowl With warm and generous wine; 'Twas wine that warm'd Anacreon's soul, And made his songs divine. And e'en in tragedy, Who lives that never knew The honey of the Attic Bee Was gather'd from thy dew? He of the tragic muse, Whose praises bards rehearse: What power but thine could e'er diffuse Such sweetness o'er his verse?