The old palace at Kew formerly belonged to the Capel family, and by marriage became the property of Samuel Molyneux, Esq., secretary to George II. when prince of Wales.  The late Frederic, prince of Wales, took a long lease of the house, which he made his frequent residence; and here, too, occasionally resided his favourite poet, James Thomson, author of “The Seasons.”  It is now held by his majesty on the same tenure.  The house contains some good pictures, among which is a set of Canaletti’s works; the celebrated picture of the Florence gallery, by Zoffany, (who resided in the neighbourhood,) was removed several years since.  The pleasure-grounds, which contain 120 acres, were laid out by Sir William Chambers, one of the greatest masters of ornamental English gardening.  Altogether they form a most delightful suburban retreat, and we hope to take an early opportunity of noticing them more in detail.

The old mansion opposite the palace was taken on a long lease by Queen Caroline of the descendants of Sir Richard Lovett, and has been inhabited by different branches of the royal family:  and here his present majesty was educated, under the superintendance of the late Dr. Markham, archbishop of York.  This house was bought, in 1761, for the late Queen Charlotte, who died here November 17, 1818.

Apart from these courtly attractions, Kew is one of the most interesting of the villages near London.  On Kew Green once stood a house, the favourite retirement of Sir Peter Lely.  In the church and cemetery, too, are interred Meyer, the celebrated miniature-painter, Gainsborough, and Zoffany.  Their tombs are simple and unostentatious; but other and more splendid memorials are left to record their genius.

The premature fate of Kew Palace renders it at this moment an object of public curiosity; while the annexed engraving may serve to identify its site, when posterity
    “Asks where the fabric stood.”

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THE NUPTIAL CHARM.

(For the Mirror.)

  There is a charm in wedded bliss. 
  That leaves each rapture cold to this;
  There is a soft endearing spell,
  That language can but faintly tell.

  ’Tis not the figure, form, nor face,
  ’Tis not the manner, air, nor grace,
  ’Tis not the smile nor sparkling eye,
  ’Tis not the winning look nor sigh.

  There is a charm surpassing these,
  A pleasing spell-like pleasure’s breeze! 
  A joy that centres in the heart,
  And doth its balmy sweets impart!

  ’Tis not the lure of beauty’s power,
  The skin-deep magnet of an hour;
  It is—­affection’s mutual glow,
  That does the nuptial charm bestow!

  Utopia.

* * * * *

FINE ARTS.

RAPHAEL SANZIO D’URBINO.