know why, of some of the descriptions of natural scenery in the
novels of Charlotte Smith, which I read when a girl, and which,
perhaps, for that reason hang on my memory.

But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep
turfy slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and
limes of equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a
sweet peaceful landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods.
What a fragrance is in the air from the balmy fir trees and the
blossomed limes! What an intensity of odour! And what a murmur of
bees in the lime trees! What a coil those little winged people make
over our heads! And what a pleasant sound it is! the pleasantest of
busy sounds, that which comes associated with all that is good and
beautiful--industry and forecast, and sunshine and flowers. Surely
these lime trees might store a hundred hives; the very odour is of a
honeyed richness, cloying, satiating.

Emily exclaimed in admiration as we stood under the deep, strong,
leafy shadow, and still more when honeysuckles trailed their
untrimmed profusion in our path, and roses, really trees, almost
intercepted our passage.

'On, Emily! farther yet! Force your way by that jessamine--it will
yield; I will take care of this stubborn white rose bough.'--'Take
care of yourself! Pray take care,' said my fairest friend; 'let me
hold back the branches.'-- After we had won our way through the
strait, at some expense of veils and flounces, she stopped to
contemplate and admire the tall, graceful shrub, whose long thorny
stems, spreading in every direction, had opposed our progress, and
now waved their delicate clusters over our heads. 'Did I ever