(French parques, i.e. locus inctus), is a large quantity of ground inclosed and privileged for wild beasts of chase, by the king's grant or prescription. See Chase and Forest.

Manwood defines a chase to be "a privileged place for beasts of venery, and other wild beasts of the forest and chase, tam Sylvictrices, quam Campefrees?" and differs from a chase or warren, in that it must be inclosed: for if it lies open, it is good cause of seizure into the king's hands, as a thing forfeited: as a free chase is, if it be inclosed: besides, the owner cannot have an action against such as hunt in his park, if it lies open. No man can erect a park without licence under the broad seal; for the common law does not encourage matter of pleasure, which brings no profit to the commonwealth. But there may be a park in reputation, erected without any lawful warrant; and the owner may bring his action against persons killing his deer.

To a park three things are required. 1. A grant thereof. 2. Inclosures by pale, wall, or hedge. 3. Beasts of a park; such as the buck, doe, &c. And where all the deer are destroyed, it shall no more be accounted a park; for a park consists of vert, venison, and inclosure; and if it is determined in any of them, it is a total disparking.

Parks as well as chases are subject to the common law, and are not to be governed by the forest laws.

Park, as connected with gardening. See Gardening.

A park and a garden are more nearly allied than a farm and a garden *, and can therefore be accommodated to each other without any disparagement to either. A farm loses some of its characteristic properties by the connection, and the advantage is on the part of the garden; but a park thus bordered retains all its own excellencies; they are only enriched, not counteracted, by the intermixture. The most perfect composition of a place that can be imagined, consists of a garden opening into a park, with a short walk through the latter to a farm, and ways along its glades to ridings in the country; but to the farm and the ridings the park is no more than a passage; and its woods and its buildings are but circumstances in their views; its scenes can be communicated only to the garden.

The affinity of the two subjects is so close, that it would be difficult to draw the exact line of separation between them. Gardens have lately encroached very much both in extent and in style on the character of a park; but still there are scenes in the one which are out of the reach of the other. The small sequestrated spots which are agreeable in a garden would be trivial in a park; and the spacious lawns which are among the noblest features of the latter, would in the former fatigue by their want of variety; even such as, being of a moderate extent, may be admitted into either, will seem bare and naked, if not broken in the one; and lose much of their greatness, if broken, in the other. The proportion of a part to the whole is a measure of its dimensions: it often determines the proper size for an object, as well as the space fit to be allotted to a scene; and regulates the style which ought to be assigned to either.

But whatever distinctions the extent may occasion between a park and a garden, a state of highly cultivated nature is consistent with each of their characters; and may in both be of the same kind, though in different degrees.

The excellencies both of a park and of a garden are happily blended at Hagley (A), where the scenes are equally elegant and noble. It is situated in the midst of a fertile and lovely country, between the Clent and the Witchberry hills; neither of which are within the pale, but both belong to the place. The latter rise in three beautiful swells. One of them is covered with wood; another is an open sheep-walk, with an obelisk on the summit; on the third, the portico of the temple of Theseus, exactly on the model of that at Athens, and little less in the dimensions, stands boldly out upon the brow, backed by the dark ground of a fir plantation, and has a most majestic appearance above the steeples which fall before and beside it. The house is seen to the greatest advantage from these eminences, and every point of them commands some beautiful prospect. The busy town of Stourbridge is just below them; the ruins of Dudley castle rise in the offskip; the country is full of industry and inhabitants; and a small portion of the moor, where the minerals, manufactured in the neighbourhood, are dug, breaking in upon the horizon, accounts for the richness, without derogating from the beauty, of the landscape. From the Clent hills the views are still greater; they extend on one side to the black mountains in Wales, a long ridge which appears, at 60 miles distance, in the interval between the unwieldy heap of the Malvern hills, and the solitary peak of the Wrekin, each 30 miles off, and as many asunder. The smok of Worcester, the churches in Birmingham, and the houes in Stourbridge, are distinctly visible. The country is a mixture of hill and dale, and strongly inclosed; except in one part, where a heath, varied by rising grounds, pieces of water, and several objects, forms an agreeable contrast to the cultivation which surrounds it. From the other extremity of the Clent hills, the prospect is less extensive; but the ground is more rude and broken: it is often overspread with large and beautiful woods; and the view is dignified with numerous seats. The hills also being

(A) Near Stourbridge, in Worcestershire, the seat of Lord Lyttelton. being very irregular, large advanced promontories frequently interrupt the sight, and vary the scene; in other parts, deep valleys shelving down towards the country below, exhibit the objects there in different lights. In one of these hollows is built a neat cottage, under a deep descent, sheltered besides by plantations, and presenting ideas of retirement in the midst of so much open exposure; from the heights above it, is seen all that view which before was commanded from the Witchberry hills, but which is seen here over Hagley park; a noble fore-ground, beautiful in itself, and completing the landscape.

The house, though low in the park, is yet above the adjacent country, which it overlooks to a very distant horizon. It is surrounded by a lawn of fine uneven ground, and diversified with large clumps, little groups, and single trees. It is open in front, but covered on one side by the Witchberry hills; on the other side, and behind, by the eminences in the park, which are high and steep, and all overspread with a lofty hanging wood. The lawn pressing to the foot, or creeping up the slopes of these hills, and sometimes winding along glades into the depth of the wood, traces a beautiful outline to a sylvan scene, already rich to luxuriance in masses of foliage and stateliness of growth.

But though the wood appears to be entire, it in reality opens frequently into lawns, which occupy much of the space within it. In the number, the variety, and the beauty of these lawns, in the shades of the separations between them, in their beauties also, and their varieties, the glory of Hagley consists. No two of the openings are alike in dimensions, in shape, or in character. One is of no more than five or fix acres; another of not less than fifty; and others are of all the intermediate sizes. Some stretch out into lengthened glades; some widen every way: they are again distinguished by buildings, by prospects, and often by the style only of the plantations around them. The boundary of one is described by a few careless lines; that of another is composed of many parts, very different and very irregular; and the ground is never flat; but falls sometimes in steep declents, sometimes in gentle declivities waves along easy swells, or is thrown into broken inequalities, with endless variety.

An octagon seat, sacred to the memory of Thomson, and erected on his favourite spot, stands on the brow of a steep; a mead winds along the valley beneath, till it is lost on either hand behind fome trees. Opposite to the seat, a noble wood crowns the top, and feathers down to the bottom of a large, oval, swelling hill. As it descends on one side, the distant country becomes the offskip. Over the fall, on the other side, the Clent hills appears. A dusky antique tower stands just below them, at the extremity of the wood; and in the midst of it is seen a Doric portico, called Pope's Building, with part of the lawn before it. The scene is very simple: the principal features are great; they prevail over all the rest, and are intimately connected with each other.

The next opening is small, circling about a rotunda on a knole, to the foot of which the ground rises every way. The trees which surround it are large; but their foliage is not very thick; and their stems appearing beneath, their ramifications between the boughs are, in so confined a spot, very distinguished and agreeable circumstances. It is retired; has no prospect; no visible outlet but one, and that is short and narrow, to a bridge with a portico upon it, which terminates a piece of water.

The grove behind the rotunda separates this from a large, airy, forest glade, thinly skirted with wood, carelefs of drets, and much overgrown with fern. The wilderness is an acceptable relief in the midst of so much elegance and improvement as reign in the neighbouring lawns; and the place is in itself pleasant; in no part confined; and from a Gothic seat at the end is a perspective view of that wood and tower which were seen before in front, together with the Witchberry hills, and a wide range of country.

The tower, which in prospect is always connected with wood, stands however on a piece of down, which stretches along the broad ridge of a hill, and spreads on each hand for some way down the sides. Thick groves catch the falls. The descent on the right is soon lost under the trees; but that on the left being steeper and shorter, it may be followed to the bottom. A wood hangs on the declivity, which is continued in the valley beneath. The tower overlooks the whole: it seems the remains of a castle, partly entire, partly in ruins, and partly overgrown with bushes. A finer situation cannot be imagined: It is placed in an exposed unfrequented spot; commands an extensive prospect; and is everywhere an interesting object.

At the end of the valley below it, in an obscure corner, and shut out from all view, is a hermitage, composed of roots and of moss: high banks, and a thick covert darkened with horse-chestnuts, confine the sequestered spot: a little rill trickles through it, and two small pieces of water occupy the bottom. They are seen on one side through groups of trees; the other is open, but covered with fern. This valley is the extremity of the park; and the Clent hills rise in all their irregularity immediately above it.

The other descent from the castle is a long declivity, covered like the rest with noble woods, in which fine lawns are again embosomed, differing still from the former, and from each other. In one, the ground is very rough, the boundary is much broken, and marked only by the trunks of the trees which shoot up high before the branches begin. The next is more simple; and the ground falls from an even brow into one large hollow, which slopes towards the glen, where it sinks into the covert. This has a communication thro' a short glade, and between two groves, with another called the Tinian lawn, from the resemblance which it is said to bear to those of that celebrated island: it is encompassed with the stateliest trees, all fresh and vigorous, and so full of leaf, that not a stem, not a branch, appears, but large masses of foliage only describe an undulating outline: the effect, however, is not produced by the boughs feathering down to the bottom; they in appearance shoot out horizontally, a few feet above the ground, to a surprising distance, and form underneath an edging of shade, into which the retreat is immediate at every hour of the day. The verdure of the turf is as luxuriant there as in the open space: the ground gently waves in both over easy swells and little dips, just varying, not breaking, the surface. No strong lines are drawn; no striking objects are admitted; but all is of an even temper, all mild, mild, placid, and serene; in the gayest season of the day not more than cheerful, in the stilllest watch of night not gloomy. The scene is indeed peculiarly adapted to the tranquillity of the latter, when the moon seems to repose her light on the thick foliage of the grove, and steadily marks the shade of every bough. It is delightful then to saunter here, and see the grass, and the gossamer which entwines it, glittering with dew; to listen and hear nothing stir, except perhaps a withered leaf dropping gently through a tree; and, sheltered from the chill, to catch the freshness of the evening air: a solitary urn, chosen by Mr Pope for the spot, and now inscribed to his memory, when shewn by a gleam of moon-light through the trees, fixes that thoughtfulness and composure to which the mind is insensibly led by the rest of this elegant scene.

The Doric Portico, which also bears his name, tho' not within sight, is near: it is placed on the declivity of a hill; and Thomson's seat, with its groves and appendages, are agreeable circumstances in the prospect before it. In the valley beneath is fixed a bench, which commands a variety of short views; one is up the ascent to the portico, and others thro' openings in the wood to the bridge and the rotunda.

The next lawn is large: the ground is steep and irregular, but inclines to one direction, and falls from every side into the general declivity: the outline is diversified by many groups of trees on the slopes; and frequent glimpses of the country are seen in perspective through openings between them. In the brow is a seat, in the proudest situation of all Hagley; it commands a view down the bold sweep of the lawn, and over a valley filled with the noblest trees, up to the heights beyond. One of those heights is covered with a hanging wood; which opens only to shew Thomson's seat, and the groves and the steeps about it: the others are the Witchberry hills, which seem to press forward into the landscape; and the mazy heads of the trees in the vale, uniting into a continued surface, form a broad base to the temple of Theseus, hide the swell on which it is built, and crowd up to the very foundation. Farther back stands the obelisk; before it is the sheep-walk; behind it the Witchberry wood. The temple is backed by the firs; and both these plantations are connected with that vast sylvan scene, which overspreads the other hill, and all the intermediate valley. Such extent of wood; such variety in the disposition of it; objects so illustrious in themselves, and ennobled by their situations, each contrasted to each, every one distinct, and all happily united: the parts so beautiful of a whole so great, seen from a charming lawn, and surrounded by a delightful country, compose all together a scene of real magnificence and grandeur.

The several lawns are separated by the finest trees; which sometimes grow in airy groves, chequered with gleams of light, and open to every breeze; but more frequently, whose great branches meeting or crossing each other, cast a deep impenetrable shade. Large boughs feathering down often intercept the sight; or a vacant space is filled with coppice-wood, nut, hawthorn, and hornbeam, whose tufted heads mixing with the foliage, and whose little stems cluttering about the trunks of the trees, thicken and darken the plantation. Here and there the division is of such coppice-wood only, which then being less constrained and oppressed, springs up stronger, spreads further, and joins in a low vaulted covering: in other places the shade is high, over-arched by the tallest ash, or spreads under the branches of the most venerable oaks. They rise in every shape, they are disposed in every form in which trees can grow. The ground beneath them is sometimes almost level; sometimes a gentle swell; but generally very irregular and broken. In several places, large hollows wind down the sides of the hills, worn in the stormy months by water-courses, but worn many ages ago. Very old oaks in the midst of the channels prove their antiquity: some of them are perfectly dry most part of the year; and some are watered by little rills all the summer; they are deep and broad; the sides are commonly steep; often abrupt and hollow; and the trees on the bank sometimes extend their roots, all covered with moss, over the channels of the water. Low down in one of these glens, under a thick shade of horse-chestnuts, is a plain bench, in the midst of several little currents and water-falls, running among large loose stones, and the stumps of dead trees, with which the ground is broken. On the brink of another glen, which is distinguished by a numerous rookery, is a seat in a still wider situation, near a deeper hollow, and in a darker gloom: the falls are nearly perpendicular; the roots of some of the trees are almost bare, from the earth having crumbled away; large boughs of others, sinking with their own weight, seem ready to break from the trunks they belong to; and the finest ash, still growing, lie all astir the water-course below, which, tho' the stream runs in winter only, yet constantly retains the black tinge of damp, and casts a chill all around.

Gravel-walks are conducted across the glens, thro' the woods, the groves, and the thickets, and along the sides of the lawns, concealed generally from the sight, but always ready for the communication, and leading to the principal scenes. The frequency of these walks, the number and the style of the buildings, and the high preservation in which all the place is kept, give to the whole park the air of a garden. There is, however, one spot more peculiarly adapted to that purpose, and more artificially disposed than the rest; it is a narrow vale, divided into three parts: one of them is quite filled with water, which leaves no room for a path, but thick trees on either side come down quite to the brink; and between them the sight is conducted to the bridge with a portico upon it, which closes the view: another part of this vale is a deep gloom, overhung with large ash and oaks, and darkened below by a number of yews: these are scattered over very uneven ground, and open underneath; but they are encompassed by a thick covert, under which a stream falls, from a stony channel, down a rock; other rills drop into the current, which afterwards pours over a second cascade into the third division of the vale, where it forms a piece of water, and is lost under the bridge. The view from this bridge is a perfect opera scene, through all the divisions of the vale, up to the rotunda. Both these buildings, and the other decorations of the spot, are of the species generally confined to a garden. The hermitage also, which has been described, and its appendages, are in a style which does not not belong to a park; but through all the rest of the place, the two characters are intimately blended. The whole is one subject; and it was a bold idea to conceive that one to be capable of so much variety; it required the most vigorous efforts of a fertile fancy to carry that idea into execution. See Gardening.

Park of Artillery. See Artillery.

Park of Provisions, in military affairs, the place where the sutlers pitch their tents in the rear, and sell their provisions to the soldiers. Likewise that place where the bread-waggons are drawn up, and where the troops receive their ammunition-bread, being the store of the army.