THE COSMOPOLITE.
Reading edition
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.
"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.
Philo.