s walk, tho' a continuation of the
plantation that encloses West-cotes, is liberally left open by its
possessor, who generously shares with the public the pleasure of his cool
and shady scenery. Where the walk, after winding thro' a flourishing
shrubbery, enters a grove of tall and venerable elms, the churches and
buildings of the town, broken by the intermediate trees of the paddock,
and the long line of distance varied by villages, scattered dwellings and
corn-mills, unite in a rich and pleasing prospect.

On turning towards the West, the lover of contrast may for a moment call
to his imagination the dark, heavy, and almost impenetrable forest which
covered these lands in the twelfth century, and depicture figures of the
inhabitants of Leicester bearing from thence their allowed load of wood,
the supply for their hearths, and for this privilege, paying at the West
bridge, their toll of _brigg silver_ to their feudal Baron. To this
picture he will oppose the present scene of pasturage, flocks, and free
husbandmen, cultivating the earth under the protection of just and equal
laws. The slightest glance at past ages is a moral study, that renders
us not only satisfied but grateful.

We cannot pass West-cotes, without noticing an object in the possession
of Mr. Ruding, highly interesting to the admirers of the fine Arts. This
is a picture in painted glass, representing Mutius Scaevola affording
Porsena an astonishing proof of his resolution by burning that hand which
had assassinated the secretary instead of the king. The exquisite
finish, and perfect preservation of this small piece bespeak it of the
antient Flemish school, whose artists according to Guicciardini, invented
the mode of burning their colours into the glass so as to secure them
from the corrosion of water, wind, or even time. There is no department
of the delightful art of painting that so much excites wonder as this.
When, in examining this piece, it is considered that every tint and
demi-tint of the highly relieved drapery, every stroke of the distant
tents and towers, was laid on in a fusile state; that delicate command of
skill which could prevent the shades from liquefying into each other, and
arrest every touch in its assigned place, so as to produce the effects of
the most finished oil painting, cannot be sufficiently admired.

Entering the town we pass the Braunston Gate, to the bridge of the same
name, crossing the old Soar, and soon arrive a