The church on the Avon (the same river which washes the noble walls of Warwick,) where Shakspeare lies buried, is a beautiful remnant of antiquity, adorned with numerous remarkable monuments; among which, that of the chief of poets is, of course, the most conspicuous. It was formerly painted and gilded, as was the bust; but through the stupidity of a certain Malone, was whitewashed over about a century ago, by which it lost much of its singular character. The bust is far from having any merit as a work of art: it is devoid of expression, and probably, therefore, of resemblance. It was not without a considerable outlay of trouble and money that I succeeded in getting a little engraving of the monument in the original colours,--the last copy the clerk's wife had, as she assured me. I send it with my letter. I also bought in a bookseller's shop several views of the place, and of the objects I have mentioned. In the town-house there is a large picture of Shakspeare, painted in more recent times; and a still better one of Garrick, which has some resemblance, not only in the features but the 'tournure' to Iffland. _Oxford, Jan. 7th._ After having given the 'parkomanie' two days rest, we revived it to-day, having visited no less than four great parks, the last of which was the famous Blenheim. But in order:--'Exécutez vous.' First we passed through Eastrop Park, remarkable in as far as it is of the time in which the French style had just begun to decline; but at this transition period the change was as yet so slight, that avenues of clumps, of different but regularly alternating figures, replaced avenues of single trees; and hedges were planted in serpentine lines. The whole appeared in great decay. Ditchley Park is more beautiful. Unfortunately, the English climate played us a sad trick to-day. In the morning (for the second time since we left London) the sun shone, and we were triumphing in our good luck, when suddenly there fell such a fog that during the whole remaining day we never could see a hundred steps before us,--often scarcely ten. In the house we found a number of good pictures, especially very fine portraits, but no creature could tell us whom they represented. We learned nothing new in _our_ art, but we found a novelty in another department. In the gamekeeper's lodge, in default of spoils of nobler beasts, were about six dozen rats nailed up, their legs and tails displayed with great taste. Our third visit was to Blandford Park, belonging to Lord Churchill; very inconsiderable as a park, but the house contains some noble pictures. Two, I particularly envied the possessor. The first, a female figure, attributed, no doubt falsely, to Michael Angelo. The drawing is certainly bold, but there is a truth and elasticity in the flesh, a Titian-like colouring, and a lovely archness of expression, which betray no Michael Angelo,--even suppose the assertion to be false, that we possess no oil-paintings of that great master.