* * * * *
We love an occasional stroll into the environs of London--_on foot_--and
_alone_. On foot, because we hate the machinery of a coach--and alone,
because we have only our own leisure to consult, and there is no time lost
in "making up minds." On such occasions we have no set object in view, but
we determine to make "good in every thing." A book, great or small, is then
to us a great evil; and putting a map into one's pocket is about as absurd
as Peter Fin's taking Cook's Voyages on his journey to Brighton. We read
the other day of a reviewer who started from Charing Cross with a blue bag
filled with books for his criticship: he read at Camberwell, and he read at
Dulwich--he wrote in the sanded and smoke-dried parlour of the Lion, the
Lamb, or the Fox--and he wrote whilst his steak was grilling at the
_auberge_ at Dulwich--and he went home in a hackney-coach: "Lord how he
went out--Lord how he came in." Another brother talks of rambling in a
secluded village field with Gilbert White's "Natural History of Selborne,"
or the "Journal of a Naturalist," in his hand. All this is very pleasant
and mighty pretty; but it is not true; and we stake our critical character
that neither Gilbert White nor our "Naturalist" did such things, or if they
did, that they were not essential to their writings. Making notes and
comparing them with others, after a long walk, is another matter; but to
walk out into the country to read a book on natural philosophy is not
indicative of a susceptible mind. For our own part, we want no book but the
broad volume of Nature--but to derive profit as well as pleasure, we must
go out with some of the philosophy of Nature in our hearts--for walking is
like travelling, (which is only a long walk,)--"a man must carry knowledge
with him, if he would bring home knowledge." We think Mr. Hazlitt talks of
lying a whole day on Salisbury Plain as one of his greatest enjoyments, and
he is doubtless sincere. When we set out on such a walk as we are about to
take, with the reader's consent, we quote Thomson for our exordium:--
To me be Nature's volume broad display'd;
And to peruse its all instructive page,
* * * * *
My sole delight; as through the falling glooms
Pensive I stray, or with the rising dawn
On Fancy's eagle wing excursive soar;
--and starting from our metropolis, we love to watch the ebbing of
population, the dwindling from groves of chimneys and worlds of bricks and
mortar to tricksy cottages marshalled with the plumb-line, or sprinkled
over "farmy fields" facing Macadamized roads, and collecting more dust in
one month than would have ransomed all the captive kings of history, sacred
or profane. There we love to trace the ramifications of art from the steam
and gas chimneys of the metropolis to the quiet dell, in whose seclusion
you might imagine yourself a hundred miles from town, were it not for the
hum of the great tun that is fretting and working at a distance. On the
road you enjoy scenes that are to be found in no printed book. Nay, every
sign-board is a study. Those near the town would do honour to the
President's pencil; as you advance, they retrograde--and as Art declines,
Nature smiles still sweeter and softer in never-ending successions of woods
and groves, hills and dales, glassy lakes and pebbly streams, with all the
variegated charms of rustic life.
But we are getting too _rural_; for our "Suburban Stroll" extended but to
Dulwich and back, about four miles south of London. Twenty years since, we
remember, the parish of Camberwell (which includes Peckham and Dulwich) was
a pleasant village, with several mansions inhabited by citizens of
property, who retired hither for air and recreation; now the whole district
is crowded with lath and plaster cottages, and sugar-bakers' boxes, which
appear well adapted for twelfth-cake kings and queens.[7] Twenty years ago,
we enjoyed the embowered walk of Camberwell Grove, and above all, _Grove
Hill_, the retreat of Dr. John Coakley Lettsom, till his benevolence
overmuch obliged him to part with this delightful residence. Well do we
remember the picturesque effect of Grove Hill, the unostentatious,
casino-like villa, ornamented with classic figures of Liberality, Plenty,
and Flora--and the sheet of water whose surface was broken by a stream from
a dank and moss-crusted fountain in its centre. Then, the high, overarching
grove, and its summit, traditionally said to be the spot where George
Barnwell murdered his uncle, the incident that gave rise to Lillo's
pathetic tragedy. But the march of improvement has extended hither--the
walk can scarcely be traced: still there is abundance of timber, for the
grove has disappeared, and scores of new houses have sprung up with almost
magical effect--and the whole scene reminds us of one of the change-scenes
of a pantomime. The builder's _share_ has turned over nearly every inch of
the ground, and fresh gravel and loose loam remind the philosophical
pedestrian that all is change beneath as well as on the surface. Of the
mock villas that have been "put up" in this quarter, we must speak with
forbearance. Their little bits of Gothic plastered here and there; their
puny machicolations, square and pointed arches, and stained glass "cut out
into little stars"--are but sorry specimens of taste, and but poor
indications of comfort. They seem to totter like card-houses, and all their
spick-and-span finery vanishes beside a wing of the picturesque--a cottage
in true rustic taste, with rudely-arched virandahs, formed of limbs and
trunks of trees, intermixed with evergreens, and reminding us of the
"gnarled oaks and soft myrtles" of the poet's fancy; and with trimmed
arches of thatch over little casements, with flowers
"Blinding the lower panes."
Now is the little hatch-gate slammed with the wind, contrasting its rude
sound with the rusty creak of the "invisible" iron fence just set up, but
already
So loose that it but wants another push
To leap from off its hinges;
--the milk-white window-sill, or painted flower-pots ranged on bars of
cast-iron, like so many toys of Nature. Such was the contrast when we last
visited the "Grove;" the picturesque cottage was then as we have described
it, and its new-born neighbours were rising fast on every side, and we
would not insure its existence for a week longer; for the slicing, cutting,
and carving of this once beautiful spot, exceeds all credibility. With all
these changes, however, the fine panoramic view of two hundred miles may
still be enjoyed from this spot, and overlooking the meaner glories of the
GREAT CITY at your feet, the eye rests on the "sister hills," Harrow spire,
and where
Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow;
Shooter's Hill and Greenwich, with tower, dome, and turret; Sydenham and
Norwood on the south; and Chelsea and the _unbridged_ winding Thames on the
west. Art has not yet thrown up her screens, so as to fence in this world
of beauties from our enjoyment. Here we sit down and rest our recreant
limbs, leaving the reader to enjoy the innumerable reflections which our
poor mention has called up. Another fine day, and we may proceed in our
stroll.