filled with books for his criticship: he read at Camberwell, and he read at
Dulwich--he wrote in the sanded and smoke-dried parlour of the Lion, the
Lamb, or the Fox--and he wrote whilst his steak was grilling at the
_auberge_ at Dulwich--and he went home in a hackney-coach: "Lord how he
went out--Lord how he came in." Another brother talks of rambling in a
secluded village field with Gilbert White's "Natural History of Selborne,"
or the "Journal of a Naturalist," in his hand. All this is very pleasant
and mighty pretty; but it is not true; and we stake our critical character
that neither Gilbert White nor our "Naturalist" did such things, or if they
did, that they were not essential to their writings. Making notes and
comparing them with others, after a long walk, is another matter; but to
walk out into the country to read a book on natural philosophy is not
indicative of a susceptible mind. For our own part, we want no book but the
broad volume of Nature--but to derive profit as well as pleasure, we must
go out with some of the philosophy of Nature in our hearts--for walking is
like travelling, (which is only a long walk,)--"a man must carry knowledge
with him, if he would bring home knowledge." We think Mr. Hazlitt talks of
lying a whole day on Salisbury Plain as one of his greatest enjoyments, and
he is doubtless sincere. When we set out on such a walk as we are about to
take, with the reader's consent, we quote Thomson for our exordium:--

To me be Nature's volume broad display'd;
And to peruse its all instructive page,

* * * * *

My sole delight; as through the falling glooms
Pensive I stray, or with the rising dawn
On Fancy's eagle wing excursive soar;