be distinctly enjoyed without the aid of art; whilst beyond it the
prospect extends, and fades away in the South Downs on one hand, and
beyond the metropolis on the other.

The little _parterre_ to be described, includes the sheltered town of
Dorking, environed with rich lawny slopes, variegated with villas in the
last taste; and little heights, from whose clustering foliage peeps the
cottage roof of humble life. But the Paradise immediately at the foot of
Box Hill is the gem of the whole scene, and is one of the most perfect
pictures of rural beauty which pen or pencil can attempt. It appears
like an assemblage of every rural charm in a few acres, in whose
disposal nature has done much, and art but little. Park, lawn, woody
walk, slope, wilderness and dell are among its varieties; and its quiet
is only broken by the sluggish stream of the Mole. Adjoining is a little
inn, more like one of the picturesque _auberges_ of the continent than
an English house of cheer. The grounds are ornamented with rustic
alcoves, boscages, and a bowery walk, all in good taste. Here hundreds
of tourists pass a portion of "the season," as in a "loop-hole of
retreat." In the front of the inn, however, the stream of life glides
fast; and a little past it, the road crosses the Mole by Burford Bridge,
and winds with geometrical accuracy through the whole of this hasty
sketch.

PHILO.

[1] Here is a stump of wood which denotes the grave of Major
Labelliere, a deranged officer of the Marines, who, by his own
request was buried on this spot, with his head downwards; it
being a constant assertion with him, "that the world was turned
topsy-turvy, and, therefore, at the end he should be right."