The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 363, March 28, 1829

The person whose office it is to amuse his majesty with these stories is always in attendance. It is equally his duty to beguile the fatigue of a long march, and to soothe the mind when disturbed by the toils of public affairs; and his tales are artfully made to suit the disposition and momentary humour of the monarch. Sometimes he recites a story of the genii; at others he speaks of the warlike deeds of former sovereigns, or of the love of some wandering prince. Often the story is of coarser materials, and the king is entertained with low and obscene adventures. In no court is more rigid attention paid to ceremony. Looks, words, the motions of the body, are all regulated by the strictest forms. When the king is seated in public, his sons, ministers, and courtiers, stand erect, with their hands crossed, and in the exact place belonging to their rank. They watch his looks, and a glance is a command. If he speaks to them, you hear a voice reply, and see the lips move, but not a motion or gesture betrays that there is animation in any other part of the frame. The monarch often speaks in the third person: "The king is pleased," "The king commands." His ministers usually style him "The object of the world's regard." They are as particular in forms of speech as in other ceremonies; and superiority and inferiority of rank, in all their gradations, are implied by the terms used in the commonest conversations.

Sir J. Malcolm's History of Persia

.

THE COSMOPOLITE

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

7

  In the neighbourhood of Dulwich, we remember the mansion of a retired confectioner, which wags styled

Lollipop Hall

.

 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