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.

PHILO.

    [7] In the neighbourhood of Dulwich, we remember the mansion of a
        retired confectioner, which wags styled Lollipop Hall.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

  A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

  SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

The Division of Justice.

  John Hobbs, partridge-snaring, was dragged to the ’Squire,
  The Magistrate flamed, but the statute hung fire. 
  “Burns states,” says the Clerk, “that tread-mill will do,
  For two months, if the culprit’s convicted by two.” 
  “Two months and two magistrates:  I sit alone. 
  Well, Clerk, we must halve it—­commit him for one.”