The solitariness, the absence of men and of human interest, is not compensated by any of the wild charms of nature. There is small room here for the discovery of the _habitat_ and native character of plants, no chance of meeting with a rare species, every thing is modelled to art. The land-bailiff is an adept. With his dirty composts and top-dressings, he smothers the _fog_ and the daisy; the scythe {229} sweeps down every idle weed, every wild flower which escapes his large-mouthed oxen. The live smooth bark of the lush fast-growing trees, affords no footing for the various and beautiful tribes of mosses and lichens. The fog-bee has lost its dwelling, the humble-bee its flowers, and they have flown away. Scarce an insect remains, except the swollen earth-worm, the obscene beetle, and the bloated toad, crawling among the rank grass. There is a heavy dankness in the air itself. The nervous fluid stagnates under it,—the muscles relax into lassitude,—inexpressible depression sinks upon the heart. It is impossible to describe the relief we feel when we emerge again into varied nature beyond the ring-fence,—we have the hill and the furze, the wild-violet and the thyme, and all the sweet diversity of our subalpine flora. We have the thatched, patched hut, the fine ragged children, the blooming cottage-girl,—we have the corn-field, where weeds of every dye, the beautiful centaurea and scabiosa, the elegant fumaria, the gaudy cock-rose, and the splendid chrysanthemum, are contending for existence with the cerealeæ. Look at the broken mound, with its old picturesque trees and tangled bushes; there is the ancient root where the throstle had its nestlings, which are now at large on the leafy boughs, and are {230} tuning their yet unformed notes to melody. Now every twig has raised its new column of foliage to the sun; and branch, and root, and stone, embellished all over in the richest variety of cryptogamic beauty, swarm of insect life. This smooth path has been paved by the lightsome foot; how superior to the gravel-walk on which the labourer has grudged his useless toil! Even the cart-ruts possess an interest, which useful labour has worn. After the smooth monotony of the park; the turf-dykes, the fluting of the ridges, the different kinds of crops, are most agreeable diversity. The dunghil, and chanticleer among his dames, the toiled horse, the lean milch-cow, and the superhumanly-sagacious-looking shepherd-colley,—every thing we behold commands a sympathy, draws forth a wish of benevolence. * * * * * As Sir Walter Scott’s Critique came under our notice prior to Sir Henry’s Guide, we shall proceed in the same order.