dge." 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--a