sonal observations, with such amusing local and historical particulars that could be gleaned from the dry pages of the county historian, or which he has come across in his desultory reading; and he believes that from this latter source he has brought together a mass of facts and anecdotes, connected with his subject, which has escaped the notice of writers of far greater pretensions. His object has been to make his book serve the purpose of an agreeable gossiping companion, who shall discourse solely for the reader's amusement, and who, when he fails in this intention and grows prosy and uninteresting, the reader can dismiss as unceremoniously as he pleases. An obsequious cicerone, or a boreing friend, are not so easily got rid of. LONDON, 1847. *The writer would feel obliged by the correction of any errors that may be detected in the following pages. A note addressed to him at the Publishers will meet with attention. SUMMER EXCURSIONS. Here, then, thou tired denizen of the city, mayst thou find that resting-place for the mind, that pause from thought and care, which all of us seek so wistfully and find so seldom. "Not rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one But cawing rooks and kites that swim sublime Such are the charms of the country-such the tranquil enjoyments of nature; but here, around London, and in the many lovely spots whither we will guide thee, gentle reader, in our Excursions, there is superadded, like jewels to a beauty, an additional grace, a new delight of association. With a pleasant companion-and what more pleasant than this book?-delightful wilt thou find it to spend a day down the Thames-to visit Greenwich, with its park and palace-lodged veterans-to examine Woolwich, with its wonders of Dockyard, and of Arsenal-to look with pleased eye over the old rich abbey lands of Erith, or to stop for a time at Gravesend; and start thence for its many excursions-to storied Cobham and its pictured walls-to Rochester, with its Norman Castle towering over the Medway, and its Norman Cathedral close at hand-to Chatham, with its fortified lines and mingled population, half naval, half military or to that fine old English mansion, Knole House, bedded amongst groves of forest trees, with its oaken panelled and tapestried chambers rich in the treasures of the painter's art; perfect in their display of the elaborately carved antique furniture, and the massive decorations of the middle ages: or, taking another course, we may wander through the rural lanes and over the still wide chase of Enfield; where not a dwelling but has its A GOSSIP INTRODUCTORY. pictured story of Sir Walter Raleigh and his hunting parties with the royal Elizabeth; and where may yet be found the house, nay more, some of the family still existing, of Oliver Cromwell: or, seek the green glades of Epping Forest, from whose oak the Druids' golden sickle lopped the sacred mistletoe; and where, in later days, generation after generation of London's citizens kept blithe holiday under shadow of the Fairlop tree :or, trace the stream that Spenser sings, "The wanton Lea, that oft doth lose its way," as it meanders through the rich meadows and around the gentle slopes of Essex and Hertfordshire; in mood contemplative remembering the simple-minded Fleet Street mercer, quaint Izaak Walton, who here sought to beguile the finny tenants of the stream, awhile discoursing of the gentle craft to some disciple of the angle; anon gossipping with country milkmaid, and bribing her by a gift of fish to warble a country ditty: or, deeper in the country, seek the Elizabethan mansion of the Salisburys, Hatfield House. Journeying westward, we may range the palace of Hampton, whose gardens and whose halls recall the memory of the ambitious Wolsey, and his sensual master; and of the prisoned Charles:-or, ramble over to Windsor, its castle redolent of feudal recollections of tilt and tourney, and princely ceremonial; its forest sung by Shakspere, by Shelley, and by Pope; its green retreats, where monarchs love to take their pleasure,—— "Where woven leaves Make network of the dark blue light of day, As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms or, crossing Datchet Meads, where the "Merrie Wives" played off their wit and wantonness at the expense of Falstaff, loiter through the green lanes of Buckinghamshire to Horton, where Milton linked the beauties of the neighbourhood into his immortal song "L'Allegro: "—then, lengthening our ramble, seek, in some quiet mood, the sequestered churchyard of Stoke, and, looking over the low wall, "Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap," SUMMER EXCURSIONS. settle, if we can, the much-disputed question of the locality of Gray's Elegy. On another day, amid the glorious landscapes of Richmond, we will call to mind the memory of that young Edward, who, now more than four centuries ago, and at the age of seventeen, established those foundations of education, which the angry passions of posterity have still left unbuilt upon: or, making choice of a sunny afternoon, tranquilly glide in some pleasure-barge by Twickenham, where Pope raised an enduring, though artificial, lay: and, lower down the stream, float by Mortlake, where Dr. Dee, with magic glamour and astrology, was wont to be consulted by the "virgin queen." Refreshing at Putney, we will look over towards Fulham, round whose palace, embosomed in the calm silence of elm groves, the gentle spirit of the learned and pious Porteus may still seem to hover: then stop at Chelsea, whose college, with its quaintly clad veterans, recalls many a tradition of Mistress Nell Gwynne and the Merry Monarchwhose cedars, darkening with their shade the silver Thames, bring before us Sir Hans Sloane, the wise old physician-Chelsea, where many a ship-sign and dark buccaneering trophy from the Spanish main, hung up in parlours (and how strangely do such maritime decorations appear misplaced in this military colony), will tell the tale of Sir Henry Morgan, the bold buccaneer, whose life of blood and piracy and plunder was here, in an old red-brick mansion and river garden, ended in calm retirement,-perhaps as peaceful to the outward sight, perhaps as respected, as was, in his day, the venerable martyr Sir Thomas More, in this same neighbourhood: or, leaving the river, all Surrey offers its sweet sloping meadows and well-wooded hills; with Chertsey, and reminiscences of Cowley, and of Charles James Fox; then Guildford, with Dorking and Boxhill; and Norwood, with its springs; and quiet Dulwich, with its quaint college and wellstored gallery. All these, and a thousand other spots, each rich in natural beauty and thronged with local associations, tempt us to visit them. Not a village within a day's march of London, to use the words of Addison (whose health we have just toasted at his favourite haunt, the Don Saltero, on Cheyne Walk), "Rears its head unsung." To these, good reader, will we be your guide and finger |