London Bridge, so famous in nursery songs; the far-famed Monument; Gog
and Magog, and the Lions in the Tower, all brought back many a
recollection of infantile delight, and of good old beings, now no
more, who had gossiped about them to my wondering ear. Nor was it
without a recurrence of childish interest, that I first peeped into
Mr. Newberry's shop, in St. Paul's Church-yard, that fountain-head of
literature. Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind
with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the
picture-books of the day; and, out of his abundant love for children,
he charged "nothing for either paper or print, and only a
penny-halfpenny for the binding!"
I have mentioned these circumstances, worthy reader, to show you the
whimsical crowd of associations that are apt to beset my mind on
mingling among English scenes. I hope they may, in some measure, plead
my apology, should I be found harping upon stale and trivial themes,
or indulging an over-fondness for any thing antique and obsolete. I
know it is the humour, not to say cant of the day, to run riot about
old times, old books, old customs, and old buildings; with myself,
however, as far as I have caught the contagion, the feeling is
genuine.
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