in the perfection to which it has been lately brought in Britain, is intitled to a place of considerable rank among the liberal arts. It is (says Mr Wheatley) as superior to landscape painting as a reality to a representation; it is an exertion of fancy; a subject for taste; and being released now from the restraints of regularity, and enlarged beyond the purposes of domestic convenience, the most beautiful, the most simple, the most noble scenes of nature, are all within its province. For it is no longer confined to the spots from which it takes its name; but, as already observed, regulates also the disposition and embellishments of a park, a farm, a forest, &c. and the business of a gardener is to select and apply whatever is great, elegant, or characteristic, in any of them to discover, and to show all the advantages of the place upon which he is employed; to supply its defects, to correct its faults, and to improve its beauties.

Sect. I. Materials of Gardening.

These may be divided into two general classes; Natural, and Fabulous.

§ 1. Of the Natural Materials.

These, according to Mr Wheatley's enumeration, are: Ground, Wood, Water, and Rocks.

I. GROUND. By this is meant that portion of naked surface which is included within the place to be improved; whether that surface be swamp, lawn, roughet, or broken ground; and whether it be a height, a valley, a plain, or a composition of swells, dips, and levels.

The following passage has been quoted from Mr Gilpin's observations on the Wye*, as affording a sublime idea of what ground ought to be.—"No thing (says he) gives so just an idea of the beautiful dwellings of ground as those of water, where it Wood has sufficient room to undulate and expand. In ground which is composed of very refractory materials, you are presented often with harsh lines, angular inflections, and disagreeable abruptnesses. In water, whether in gentle or in agitated motion, all is easy; all is softened into itself; and the hills and the valleys play into each other in a variety of the most beautiful forms. In agitated water, abruptnesses indeed there are, but yet they are such abruptnesses as in some part or other unite properly with the surface around them; and are on the whole peculiarly harmonious. Now, if the ocean in any of these swellings and agitations could be arrested and fixed, it would produce that pleasing variety which we admire in ground. Hence it is common to fetch our images from water, and apply them to land: we talk of an undulating line, a playing lawn, and a billowy surface; and give a much stronger and more adequate idea by such imagery, than plain language could possibly present.

The exertions of art, however, are here inadequate; and the artist ought not attempt to create a mountain, a valley, or a plain: he should but rarely meddle even with the smaller inequalities of grounds. Roughness and broken ground may generally be reduced to lawn, or hid with wood; and a swamp may be drained or covered with water; whilst lawn may be variegated at pleasure by wood, and sometimes by water.

II. WOOD, as a general term, comprehends all trees and shrubs in whatever disposition; but it is specifically applied in a more limited sense, and in that sense we shall now use it.

Every plantation must be either a wood, a grove, or a clump. A wood is composed both of trees and underwood, covering a considerable space. A grove consists of trees without underwood. A clump differs from either only in extent: it may be either close or open: when close, it is sometimes called a thicket; when open, a grove of trees; but both are equally clumps, whatever may be the shape or situation.

1. One of the noblest objects in nature (Mr Wheatley observes) is the surface of a large thick wood, commanded from an eminence, or seen from below hanging on the side of a hill. The latter is generally the more interesting object. Its aspiring situation gives it an air of greatness; its termination is commonly the horizon: and, indeed, if it is deprived of that splendid boundary, if the brow appears above it (unless some very peculiar effect characterizes that brow), it loses much of its magnificence: it is inferior to a wood which covers a less hill from the top to the bottom; for a whole space filled is seldom little. But a wood commanded from an eminence is generally no more than a part of the scene below; and its boundary is often inadequate to its greatness.

To continue it, therefore, till it winds out of sight, or loses itself in the horizon, is generally desirable: but then the varieties of its surface grow confused as it retires; while those of a hanging wood are all distinct, the furthest parts are held up to the eye, and none are at a distance though the whole be extensive.

The varieties of a surface are essential to the beauty of it: a continued smooth shaven level of foliage is neither agreeable nor natural; the different growths of trees commonly break it in reality, and their shades still more in appearance. These shades are so many tints, which, undulating about the surface, are its greatest embellishment; and such tints may be produced with more effect, and more certainty, by a judicious mixture of greens; at the same time an additional variety may be introduced, by grouping and contrasting trees very different in shape from each other; and whether variety in the greens or in the forms be the design, the execution is often easy, and seldom to a certain degree impossible. In raising a young wood, it may be perfect. In old woods, there are many spots which may be either thinned or thickened; and there the characteristic distinctions should determine what to plant, or which to leave; at the least will often point out those which, as blemishes, ought to be taken away; and the removal of two or three trees will sometimes accomplish the design. The number of beautiful forms, and agreeable masses, which may decorate the surface, is so great, that where the place will not admit of one, another is always ready; and as no delicacy of finishing is required, no minute exactness is worth regarding; great effects will not be disconcerted by small obstructions and little disappointments.

The contrasts, however, of masses and of groups must not be too strong, where greatness is the character of the wood; for unity is essential to greatness; and if direct opposites be placed close together, the wood is no longer one object; it is only a confused collection of several separate plantations. But if the progress be gradual from the one to the other, shapes and tints widely different may assemble on the same surface; and each should occupy a considerable space: a single tree, or a small cluster of trees, in the midst of an extensive wood, is in size but a speck, and in colour but a spot; the groups and the masses must be large to produce any sensible variety.

When, in a romantic situation, very broken ground is overspread with wood, it may be proper on the surface of the wood to mark the inequalities of the ground. Rudeness, not greatness, is the prevailing idea; and a choice directly the reverse of that which is productive of unity, will produce it. Strong contrasts, even oppositions, may be eligible; the aim is rather to disjoint than to connect: a deep hollow may sink into dark greens; an abrupt bank may be shown by a rising stage of aspiring trees, a sharp ridge by a narrow line of conical shapes: firs are of great use upon such occasions; their tint, their form, their singularity, recommend them.

A hanging wood of thin forest-trees, and seen from below, is seldom pleasing: those few trees are by the perspective brought nearer together; it loses the beauty of a thin wood, and is defective as a thick one: the most obvious improvement, therefore, is to thicken it. But, when seen from an eminence, a thin wood is often a lively and elegant circumstance in a view; it is full of objects; and every separate tree shows its beauty. To increase that vivacity, which is the peculiar excellence of a thin wood, the trees should be characteristically distinguished both in their tints and their shapes; and such as for their airiness have been professed in a thick wood, are frequently the most eligible here. Differences also in their growths are a further source of variety; each should be considered as a distinct object.

Wood, unless where a small number are grouped together; and then all that compose the little clutter must agree: but the groups themselves, for the same reason as the separate trees, should be strongly contrasted; the continued underwood is their only connection, and that is not affected by their variety.

Though the surface of a wood, when commanded, deserves all these attentions, yet the outline more frequently calls for our regard: it is also more in our power; it may sometimes be great, and may always be beautiful. The first requisite is irregularity. That a mixture of trees and underwood should form a long straight line, can never be natural; and a succession of easy sweeps and gentle rounds, each a portion of a greater or less circle, composing all together a line literally serpentine, is, if possible, worse. It is but a number of regularities put together in a disorderly manner, and equally distant from the beautiful both of art and of nature. The true beauty of an outline consists more in breaks than in sweeps; rather in angles than in rounds; in variety, not in succession.

Every variety in the outline of a wood must be a prominence or a recess. Breadth in either is not so important as length to the one and depth to the other. If the former ends in an angle, the latter diminishes to a point; they have more force than a shallow dent, or a dwarf excrescence, how wide forever. They are greater deviations from the continued line which they are intended to break; and their effect is to enlarge the wood itself, which seems to stretch from the most advanced point, back beyond the most distant to which it retires. The extent of a large wood on a flat, not commanded, can by no circumstance be so manifestly shown as by a deep recess; especially if that recess wind so as to conceal the extremity, and leave the imagination to pursue it. On the other hand, the poverty of a shallow wood might sometimes be relieved by here and there a prominence, or clumps which by their apparent junction should seem to be prominences from it. A deeper wood with a continued outline, except when commanded, would not appear so considerable.

An inlet into a wood seems to have been cut, if the opposite points of the entrance tally; and that show of art depreciates its merit: but a difference only in the situation of those points, by bringing one more forward than the other, prevents the appearance, though their forms be similar. Other points, which distinguish the great parts, should in general be strongly marked: a short turn has more spirit in it than a tedious circuitry; and a line broken by angles has a precision and firmness, which in an undulated line are wanting; the angles should indeed commonly be a little softened; the rotundity of the plant which forms them is sometimes sufficient for the purpose; but if they are mellowed down too much, they lose all meaning. Three or four large parts thus boldly distinguished, will break a very long outline. When two woods are opposed on the sides of a narrow glade, neither has so much occasion for variety in itself as if it were single; if they are very different from each other, the contrast supplies the deficiency to each, and the interval between them is full of variety. The form of that interval is indeed of as much consequence as their own: though the outlines of both the woods be separately beautiful, yet if together they do not cast the open space into an agreeable figure, the whole scene is not pleasing; and a figure is never agreeable, when the sides too closely correspond; whether they are exactly the same, or exactly the reverse of each other, they equally appear artificial.

Every variety of outline hitherto mentioned may be traced by the underwood alone; but frequently the same effects may be produced with more ease, and with much more beauty, by a few trees standing out from the thicket, and belonging, or seeming to belong, to the wood, so as to make a part of its figure. Even where they are not wanted for that purpose, detached trees are such agreeable objects, so distinct, so light, when compared to the covert about them, that skirting along it in some parts, and breaking it in others, they give an unaffected grace, which can no otherwise be given to the outline. They have a still further effect, when they stretch across the whole breadth of an inlet, or before part of a recess into the wood: they are themselves thrown to advantage by the space behind them; and that space, seen between their stems, they in return throw into an agreeable perspective.

2. The prevailing character of a wood is generally Of a Grove. grandeur: the principal attention therefore which it requires, is to prevent the excesses of that character, to diversify the uniformity of its extent, to lighten the unwieldiness of its bulk, and to blend graces with greatness. The character of a grove is beauty. Fine trees are lovely objects: a grove is an assemblage of them; in which every individual retains much of its own peculiar elegance, and whatever it loses is transferred to the superior beauty of the whole. To a grove, therefore, which admits of endless variety in the disposition of the trees, differences in their shapes and their greens are seldom very important, and sometimes they are detrimental. Strong contrasts scatter trees which are thinly planted, and which have not the connection of underwood; they no longer form one plantation; they are a number of single trees. A thick grove is not indeed exposed to this mischief, and certain situations may recommend different shapes and different greens for their effects upon the surface; but in the outline they are seldom much regarded. The eye attracted into the depth of the grove, passes by little circumstances at the entrance; even varieties in the form of the line do not always engage the attention: they are not so apparent as in a continued thicket, and are scarcely seen if they are not considerable.

But the surface and the outline are not the only circumstances to be attended to. Though a grove be beautiful as an object, it is besides delightful as a spot to walk or to fit in; and the choice and the disposition of the trees for effects within, are therefore a principal consideration. Mere irregularity alone will not please: strict order is there more agreeable than absolute confusion: and some meaning better than none. A regular plantation has a degree of beauty; but it gives no satisfaction, because we know that the same number of trees might be more beautifully arranged. A disposition, however, in which the lines only are broken, without varying the distances, is equally improper. The trees should gather into groups, or stand in various irregular lines, and describe several figures: the intervals between them should be contrasted both in shape and in dimensions; fions; a large space should in some places be quite open; in others the trees should be so close together, as hardly to leave a passage between them; and in others as far apart as the connection will allow. In the forms and the varieties of these groups, these lines, and these openings, principally confers the interior beauty of a grove.

The force of them is most strongly illustrated at Claremont*: where the walk to the cottage, though defective of many natural advantages, and eminent for none; though it commands no prospect; though the water below it is a trifling pond; though it has nothing, in short, but inequality of ground to recommend it; is yet the finest part of the garden: for a grove is there planted in a gently curved direction, all along the side of a hill, and on the edge of a wood, which rises above it. Large recesses break it into several clumps, which hang down the declivity; some of them approaching, but none reaching quite to the bottom. These recesses are so deep as to form great openings in the midst of the grove; they penetrate almost to the covert; but the clumps being all equally suspended from the wood; and a line of open plantation, though sometimes narrow, running constantly along the top; a continuation of grove is preserved, and the connection between the parts is never broken. Even a grove, which near one of the extremities stands out quite detached, is still in style so similar to the rest as not to lose all relation. Each of these clumps is composed of several others still more intimately united: each is full of groups, sometimes of no more than two trees, sometimes of four or five, and now and then in larger clusters: an irregular waving line, issuing from some little crowd, loses itself in the next; or a few scattered trees drop in a more distant succession from the one to the other. The intervals, winding here like a glade, and widening there into broader openings, differ in extent, in figure, and direction; but all the groups, the lines, and the intervals, are collected together into large general clumps, each of which is at the same time both compact and free, identical and various. The whole is a place wherein to tarry with secure delight, or faunter with perpetual amusement.

The grove at Ether-place was planted by the same masterly hand; but the necessity of accommodating the young plantation to some large trees which grew there before, has confined its variety. The groups are few and small; there was not room for larger or for more: there were no opportunities to form continued narrow glades between opposite lines; the vacant space are therefore chiefly irregular openings spreading every way, and great differences of distance between the trees are the principal variety; but the grove winds along the bank of a large river, on the side and at the foot of a very sudden ascent, the upper part of which is covered with wood. In one place, it presses close to the covert; retires from it in another; and stretches in a third across a bold recess, which runs up high into the thicket. The trees sometimes overspread the flat below; sometimes leave an open space to the river; at other times crown the brow of a large knole, climb up a steep, or hang on a gentle declivity. These varieties in the situation more than compensate for the want of variety in the disposition of the trees; and the many happy circumstances which concur

* New Ether in Surrey.

In Ether's peaceful grove, Where Kent and nature vie for Peham's love, render this little spot more agreeable than any at Claremont. But though it was right to preserve the trees already standing, and not to sacrifice great present beauties to still greater in futurity; yet this attention has been a restraint; and the grove at Claremont, considered merely as a plantation, is in delicacy of taste, and fertility of invention, superior to that at Ether.

It is, however, possible to secure both a present and a future effect, by fixing first on a disposition which will be beautiful when the trees are large, and then intermingling another which is agreeable while they are small. These occasional trees are hereafter to be taken away; and must be removed in time, before they become prejudicial to the others.

The consequence of variety in the disposition, is variety in the light and shade of the grove; which may be improved by the choice of the trees. Some are impenetrable to the fiercest sun-beam; others let in here and there a ray between the large masses of their foliage; and others, thin both of boughs and of leaves, only chequer the ground. Every degree of light and shade, from a glare to obscurity, may be managed, partly by the number, and partly by the texture, of the trees. Differences only in the manner of their growths have also corresponding effects: there is a closeness under those whose branches descend low, and spread wide; a space and liberty where the arch above is high; and frequent transitions from the one to the other are very pleasing. These still are not all the varieties of which the interior of a grove is capable: trees, indeed, whose branches nearly reach the ground, being each a sort of thicket, are inconsistent with an open plantation: but though some of the characteristic distinctions are thereby excluded, other varieties more minute succeed in their place; for the freedom of passage throughout brings every tree in its turn near to the eye, and subjects even differences in foliage to observation. These flight, as they may seem, are agreeable when they occur: it is true, they are not regretted when wanting; but a defect of ornament is not necessarily a blemish.

3. It has been already observed, that Clumps differ only in extent from woods, if they are close; or from groves, if they are open: they are small woods, and small groves, governed by the same principles as the larger, after allowances made for their dimensions. But besides the properties they may have in common with woods or with groves, they have others peculiar to themselves which require examination.

They are either independent or relative: when independent, their beauty, as single objects, is solely to be attended to; when relative, the beauty of the individuals must be sacrificed to the effect of the whole, which is the greater consideration.

The occasions on which independent clumps may be applied, are many. They are often desirable as beautiful objects in themselves; they are sometimes necessary to break an extent of lawn, or a continued line whether of ground or of plantation; but on all occasions a jealousy of art constantly attends them, which irregularity in their figure will not always alone remove. Though elevations show them to advantage, yet a hillock evidently thrown up on purpose to be crowned with a clump, is artificial to a degree of diff-

4 A z guilt: gust: some of the trees should therefore be planted on the sides, to take off that appearance. The same expedient may be applied to clumps placed on the brow of a hill, to interrupt its sameness; they will have less ostentation of design, if they are in part carried down either declivity. The objection already made to planting many along such a brow, is on the same principle: a single clump is less suspected of art; if it be an open one, there can be no finer situation for it, than just at the point of an abrupt hill, or on a promontory into a lake or a river. It is in either a beautiful termination, distinct by its position, and enlivened by an expanse of sky or of water about and beyond it. Such advantages may balance little defects in its form: but they are lost if other clumps are planted near it; art then intrudes, and the whole is displeasing.

But though a multiplicity of clumps, when each is an independent object, seldom seems natural; yet a number of them may, without any appearance of art, be admitted into the same scene, if they bear a relation to each other: if by their succession they diversify a continued outline of wood, if between them they form beautiful glades, if all together they cast an extensive lawn into an agreeable shape, the effect prevents any scrutiny into the means of producing it. But when the reliance on that effect is so great, every other consideration must give way to the beauty of the whole. The figure of the glade, of the lawn, or of the wood, are principally to be attended to: the finest clumps, if they do not fall easily into the great lines, are blemishes; their connections, their contrasts, are more important than their forms.

III. WATER. All inland water is either running or stagnated. When stagnated, it forms a lake or a pool, which differ only in extent; and a pool and a pond are the same. Running waters are either a rivulet, a river, or a rill; and these differ only in breadth: a rivulet and a brook are synonymous terms; a stream and a current are general names for all.

1. Space or expansion is essential to a Lake. It cannot be too large as a subject of description or of contemplation; but the eye receives little satisfaction when it has not a form on which to rest: the ocean itself hardly attones by all its grandeur for its infinity; and a prospect of it is, therefore, always most agreeable, when in some part, at no great distance, a reach of shore, a promontory, or an island, reduces the immensity into shape. An artificial lake, again, may be comparatively extravagant in its dimensions. It may be so out of proportion to its appendages, as to seem a waste of water; for all size is in some respects relative: if this exceeds its due dimensions, and if a flatness of shore beyond it adds still to the dreariness of the scene; wood to raise the banks, and objects to distinguish them, are the remedies to be employed. If the length of a piece of water be too great for its breadth so as to destroy all idea of circuitry, the extremities should be considered as too far off, and made important to give them proximity; while at the same time the breadth may be favoured, by keeping down the banks on the sides. On the same principle, if the lake be too small, a low shore will, in appearance, increase the extent.

But it is not necessary that the whole scene be bounded: if form be impressed on a considerable part, the eye can, without disgust, permit a large reach to stretch beyond its ken; it can even be pleased to observe a tremulous motion in the horizon, which shows that the water has not yet attained its termination. Still short of this, the extent may be kept in uncertainty; a hill or a wood may conceal one of the extremities, and the country beyond it, in such a manner as to leave room for the supposed continuation of so large a body of water. Opportunities to choose this shape are frequent, and it is the most perfect of any: the scene is closed, but the extent of the lake is undermined; a complete form is exhibited to the eye, while a boundless range is left open to the imagination.

But mere form will only give content, not delight: that depends upon the outline, which is capable of exquisite beauty; and the bays, the creeks, and the promontories, which are ordinary parts of that outline, together with the accidents of islands, of inlets and of outlets to rivers, are in their shapes and their combinations an inexhaustible fund of variety.

Bays, creeks, and promontories, however, though extremely beautiful, should not be very numerous: for a shore broken into little points and hollows has no certainty of outline; it is only ragged, not diversified; and the distinctness and simplicity of the great parts are hurt by the multiplicity of subdivisions. But islands, though the channels between them be narrow, do not so often derogate from greatness: they intimate a space beyond them whose boundaries do not appear; and remove to a distance the shore which is seen in perspective between them. Such partial interruptions of the sight suggest ideas of extent to the imagination.

2. Though the windings of a River are proverbially descriptive of its course; yet without being perpetually wreathed, it may be natural. Nor is the character expressed only by the turnings. On the contrary, if they are too frequent and sudden, the current is reduced into a number of separate pools, and the idea of progress is obscured by the difficulty of tracing it. Length is the strongest symptom of continuation: long reaches are therefore characteristic of a river, and they conduce much to its beauty; each is a considerable piece of water, and variety of beautiful forms may be given to their outlines.

A river requires a number of accompaniments. The changes in its course furnish a variety of situations; while the fertility, convenience, and amenity, which attend it, account for all appearances of inhabitants and improvement. Profusion of ornament on a fictitious river, is a just imitation of cultivated nature. Every species of building, every style of plantation, may abound on the banks; and whatever be their characters, their proximity to the water is commonly the happiest circumstance in their situation. A lustre is from thence diffused on all around; each derives an importance from its relation to this capital feature: those which are near enough to be reflected, immediately belong to it; those at a greater distance still share in the animation of the scene; and objects totally detached from each other, being all attracted towards the same interesting connection, are united into one composition.

In the front of Blenheim was a deep broad valley, which which abruptly separated the castle from the lawn and the plantations before it; even a direct approach could not be made without building a monstrous bridge over the vast hollow: but this forced communication was only a subject of raillery; and the scene continued broken into two parts, absolutely distinct from each other. This valley has been lately flooded: it is not filled; the bottom only is covered with water: the sides are still very high; but they are no longer the steeples of a chasm, they are the bold shores of a noble river. The same bridge is standing without alteration: but no extravagance remains; the water gives it propriety. Above it the river first appears, winding from behind a small thick wood, in the valley; and soon taking a determined course, it is then broad enough to admit an island filled with the finest trees: others, corresponding to them in growth and disposition, stand in groups on the banks, intermixed with younger plantations. Immediately below the bridge, the river spreads into a large expanse: the sides are open lawn. On that furtherth from the house formerly stood the palace of Henry II., celebrated in many an ancient ditty by the name of Fair Roland's Bower. A little clear spring, which rises there, is by the country people still called Fair Roland's Well. The spot is now marked by a single willow. Near it is a fine collateral stream, of a beautiful form, retaining its breadth as far as it is seen, and retiring at last behind a hill from the view. The main river, having received this accession, makes a gentle bend; then continues for a considerable length in one wide direct reach; and, just as it disappears, throws itself down a high cascade, which is the present termination. On one of the banks of this reach is the garden: the steeples are there diversified with thickets and with glades; but the covert prevails, and the top is crowned with lofty trees. On the other side is a noble hanging wood in the park: it was depreciated when it sunk into a hollow, and was poorly lost in the bottom; but it is now a rich appendage to the river, falling down an easy slope quite to the water's edge, where, without overshadowing, it is reflected on the surface. Another face of the same wood borders the collateral stream, with an outline more indented and various; while a very large irregular clump adorns the opposite declivity. This clump is at a considerable distance from the principal river: but the stream it belongs to brings it down to connect with the rest; and the other objects, which were before dispersed, are now, by the intercess of each in a relation which is common to all, collected into one illustrious scene. The castle is itself a prodigious pile of building; which, with all the faults in its architecture, will never seem less than a truly princely habitation; and the confined spot where it was placed, on the edge of an abyss, is converted into a proud situation, commanding a beautiful prospect of water, and open to an extensive lawn, adequate to the mansion, and an emblem of its domain. In the midst of this lawn stands a column, a stately trophy, recording the exploits of the duke of Marlborough, and the gratitude of Britain. Between this pillar and the castle is the bridge, which now, applied to a subject worthy of it, is established in all the importance due to its greatness. The middle arch is wider than the Rialto, but not too wide for the occasion; and yet this is the narrowest part of the river: but the length of the reaches is everywhere proportioned to their breadth. Each of them is alone a noble piece of water; and the last, the finest of all, loses itself gradually in a wood, which on that side is also the boundary of the lawn, and rises into the horizon. All is great in the front of Blenheim: but in that vast space no void appears; so important are the parts, so magnificent the objects. The plain is extensive, the valley is broad, the wood is deep. Though the intervals between the buildings are large, they are filled with the grandeur which buildings of such dimensions and so much pomp diffuse all around them; and the river, in its long varied course, approaching to every object, and touching upon every part, spreads its influence over the whole.

In the composition of this scene, the river, both as a part itself, and as uniting the other parts, has a principal share. But water is not lost though it be in so confined or so concealed a spot as to enter into no view; it may render that spot delightful. It is capable of the most exquisite beauty in its form; and though not in space, may yet in disposition have pretensions to greatness; for it may be divided into several branches, which will form a cluster of islands all connected together, make the whole place irriguous, and, in the stead of extent, supply a quantity of water. Such a sequestered scene usually owes its retirement to the trees and the thickets with which it abounds; but, in the disposition of them, one distinction should be constantly attended to. A river flowing through a wood which overspreads one continued surface of ground, and a river between two woods, are in very different circumstances. In the latter case, the woods are separate; they may be contrasted in their forms and their characters, and the outline of each should be forcibly marked. In the former, no outline ought to be discernible; for the river passes between trees, not between boundaries; and though, in the progress of its course, the style of the plantations may be often changed, yet on the opposite banks a similarity should constantly prevail, that the identity of the wood may never be doubtful.

A river between two woods may enter into a view; and then it must be governed by the principles which regulate the conduct and the accompaniments of a river in an open exposure. But when it runs through a wood, it is never to be seen in prospect: the place is naturally full of obstructions; and a continued opening, large enough to receive a long reach, would seem an artificial cut. The river must therefore necessarily wind more than in crossing a lawn, where the passage is entirely free. But its influence will never extend so far on the sides: the buildings must be near the banks; and, if numerous, will seem crowded, being all in one track, and in situations nearly alike. The scene, however, does not want variety: on the contrary, none is capable of more. The objects are not indeed so different from each other as in an open view; but they are very different, and in much greater abundance: for this is the interior of a wood, where every tree is an object, every combination of trees a variety, and no large intervals are requisite to distinguish the several dispositions; the grove, the thicket, or the groups, may may prevail, and their forms and their relations may be constantly changed, without restraint of fancy, or limitation of number.

Water is so universally and so deservedly admired in a prospect, that the most obvious thought in the management of it, is to lay it as open as possible, and purposely to conceal it would generally seem a severe self-denial; yet so many beauties may attend its passage through a wood, that larger portions of it might be allowed to such retired scenes than are commonly spared from the view, and the different parts in different styles would be fine contrasts to each other. If the water at Wotton* were all exposed, a walk of near two miles along the banks would be of a tedious length, from the want of those changes of the scene which now supply through the whole extent a succession of perpetual variety. That extent is so large as to admit of a division into four principal parts, all of them great in style and in dimensions, and differing from each other both in character and situation. The two first are the least. The one is a reach of a river, about the third of a mile in length, and of a competent breadth, flowing through a lovely mead, open in some places to views of beautiful hills in the country, and adorned in others with clumps of trees, so large, that their branches stretch quite across, and form a high arch over the water. The next seems to have been once a formal basin encompassed with plantations, and the appendages on either side still retain some traces of regularity; but the shape of the water is free from them: the size is about 14 acres; and out of it issue two broad collateral streams, winding towards a large river, which they are seen to approach, and supposed to join. A real junction is however impossible, from the difference of the levels; but the terminations are so artfully concealed, that the deception is never suspected, and when known is not easily explained. The river is the third great division of the water; a lake into which it falls, is the fourth. These two do actually join; but their characters are directly opposite; the scenes they belong to are totally distinct; and the transition from the one to the other is very gradual: for an island near the conflux, dividing the breadth, and concealing the end of the lake, moderates for some way the space; and permitting it to expand but by degrees, raises an idea of greatness, from uncertainty accompanied with increase. The reality does not disappoint the expectation; and the island, which is the point of view, is itself equal to the scene: it is large, and high above the lake; the ground is irregularly broken; thickets hang on the sides; and towards the top is placed an Ionic portico, which commands a noble extent of water, not less than a mile in circumference, bounded on one side with wood, and open on the other to two sloping lawns, the least of an hundred acres, diversified with clumps, and bordered by plantations. Yet this lake, when full in view, and with all the importance which space, form, and situation can give, is not more interesting than the sequestered river, which has been mentioned as the third great division of the water. It is just within the verge of a wood, three quarters of a mile long, everywhere broad, and its course is such as to admit of infinite variety without any confusion. The banks are cleared of underwood; but a few thickets still remain, and on one side an impenetrable covert soon begins: the interval is a beautiful grove of oaks, scattered over a green sward of extraordinary verdure. Between these trees and these thickets the river seems to glide gently along, constantly winding, without one short turn or one extended reach in the whole length of the way. This even temper in the stream suits the scenes through which it passes; they are in general of a very sober cast, not melancholy, but grave; never exposed to a glare; never darkened with gloom; nor, by strong contrals of light and shade, exhibiting the excesses of either. Undisturbed by an extent of prospect without, or a multiplicity of objects within, they retain at all times a mildness of character; which is still more forcibly felt when the shadows grow faint as they lengthen, when a little rustling of birds in the spray, the leaping of the fish, and the fragrance of the woodbine, denote the approach of evening; while the setting sun shoots its last gleams on a Tuscan portico, which is close to the great basin, but which from a seat near this river is seen at a distance, through all the obscurity of the wood, glowing on the banks, and reflected on the surface of the water. In another still more distinguished spot is built an elegant bridge, with a colonnade upon it, which not only adorns the place where it stands, but is also a picturesque object to an octagon building near the lake, where it is shown in a singular situation, over-arched, encompassed, and backed with wood, without any appearance of the water beneath. This building in return is also an object from the bridge; and a Chinese room, in a little island just by, is another: neither of them are considerable, and the others which are visible are at a distance; but more or greater adventitious ornaments are not required in a spot so rich as this in beauties peculiar to its character. A profusion of water pours in from all sides round upon the view; the opening of the lake appears; a glimpse is caught of the large basin; one of the collateral streams is full in sight, and the bridge itself is in the midst of the finest part of the river: all seem to communicate the one with the other. Though thickets often intercept, and groups perplex, the view, yet they never break the connection between the several pieces of water; each may still be traced along large branches, or little catches; which in some places are overshadowed and dim; in others glitten through a glade, or glimmer between the holes of trees in a distant perspective; and in one, where they are quite lost to the view, some arches of a stone-bridge, but partially seen among the wood, preserve their connection.

3. If a large river may sometimes, a smaller current or a rill undoubtedly may often, be conducted through a wood; and a Riva it seldom adorns, it frequently disfigures, a prospect, let where its course is marked, not by any appearance of water, but by a confused line of clotted grass, which disagrees with the general verdure. A Rivulet may, indeed, have consideration enough for a house scene, though it be open; but a Rill is always most agreeable when most retired from public view. Its characteristic excellencies are vivacity and variety, which require attention, leisure, and silence, that the eye may pore upon the little beauties, and the ear listen to the low murmurs of the stream without interruption. To such indulgence a confined spot only is favourable; a clothe copse is therefore often more acceptable than a high wood, and a sequestered valley at all times preferable to any open exposure; a single rill at a very little distance is a mere water-course; it loses all its charms; it has no importance in itself, and bears no proportion to the scene. A number of little streams have indeed an effect in any situation, but not as objects; they are interesting only on account of the character they express, the irregular appearance which they give to the whole.

The full tide of a large river has more force than activity, and seems too unwieldy to allow of very quick transitions. But in a rill, the agility of its motion accounts for every caprice; frequent windings disguise its insignificance; short turnings show its vivacity; sudden changes in the breadth are a species of its variety; and however fantastically the channel may be wreathed, contracted, and widened, it still appears to be natural. We find an amusement in tracing the little stream through all the intricacies of its course, and in seeing it force a passage through a narrow strait, expatiate on every opportunity, struggle with obstructions, and puzzle out its way. A rivulet, which is the mean between a river and a rill, partakes of the character of both: it is not licensed to the extravagance of the one, nor under the same restraints as the other: it may have more frequent bends than the river, longer reaches than a rill: the breadth of a stream determines whether the principal beauty results from extent or from variety.

The murmurs of a rill are amongst the most pleasing circumstances which attend it. If the bed of the stream be rough, mere declivity will occasion a constant rippling noise: when the current drops down a descent, though but of a few inches, or forcibly bubbles up from a little hollow, it has a deep gurgling tone, not uniformly continued, but incessantly repeated, and therefore more engaging than any. The flattest of all, is that found rather of the splashing than the fall of water, which an even gentle slope, or a tame obstruction, will produce: this is less pleasing than the others; but none should be entirely excluded; all in their turns are agreeable; and the choice of them is much in our power. By observing their causes, we may often find the means to strengthen, to weaken, or to change them; and the addition or removal of a single stone, or a few pebbles, will sometimes be sufficient for the purpose.

A rill cannot pretend to any sound beyond that of a little water-fall: the roar of a cascade belongs only to larger streams; but it may be produced by a rivulet to a considerable degree, and attempts to do more have generally been unsuccessful. A vain ambition to imitate nature in her great extravagancies betrays the weakness of art. Though a noble river, throwing itself headlong down a precipice, be an object truly magnificent, it must however be confessed, that in a single sheet of water there is a formality which its vastness alone can cure. But the height, not the breadth, is the wonder: when it falls no more than a few feet, the regularity prevails; and its extent only serves to expose the vanity of affecting the style of a cataract in an artificial cascade. It is less exceptionable if divided into several parts: for then each separate part may be wide enough for its depth; and in the whole, variety, not greatness, will be the predominant character. But a structure of rough, large, detached stones, cannot easily be contrived of strength sufficient to support a great weight of water: it is sometimes from necessity almost smooth and uniform, and then it loses much of its effect. Several little falls in succession are preferable to one great cascade which in figure or in motion approaches to regularity.

When greatness is thus reduced to number, and length becomes of more importance than breadth, a rivulet vies with a river; and it more frequently runs in a continued declivity, which is very favourable to such a succession of falls. Half the expense and labour which are sometimes bestowed on a river, to give it at the best a forced precipitancy in one spot only, would animate a rivulet through the whole of its course. And, after all, the most interesting circumstance in falling waters is their animation. A great cascade fills us with surprize: but all surprize must cease; and the motion, the agitation, the rage, the froth, and the variety of the water, are finally the objects which engage the attention: for these a rivulet is sufficient; and they may there be produced without that appearance of effort which raises a suspicion of art.

To obviate such a suspicion, it may be sometimes expedient to begin the descent out of sight; for the beginning is the difficulty: if that be concealed, the subsequent falls seem but a consequence of the agitation which characterizes the water at its first appearance; and the imagination is, at the same time, let loose to give ideal extent to the cascades. When a stream issues from a wood, such management will have a great effect: the bends of its course in an open exposure may afford frequent opportunities for it; and sometimes a low broad bridge may furnish the occasion: a little fall hid under the arch will create a disorder; in consequence of which, a greater cascade below will appear very natural.

IV. ROCKS. Rocks are themselves too vast and too stubborn to submit to our control; but by the addition or removal of appendages which we can command, parts may be shown or concealed, and the characters with their impressions may be weakened or enforced: to adapt the accompaniments accordingly, is the utmost ambition of art when rocks are the subject.

Their most distinguished characters are, dignity, terror, and fancy: the expressions of all are constantly wild: and sometimes a rocky scene is only wild, without pretensions to any particular character.

Rills, rivulets, and cascades, abound among rocks: they are natural to the scene; and such scenes commonly require every accompaniment which can be procured for them. Mere rocks, unless they are peculiarly adapted to certain impressions, though they may surprize, cannot be long engaging, if the rigour of their character be not softened by circumstances which may belong either to these or to more cultivated spots: and when the dreariness is extreme, little streams and water-falls are of themselves insufficient for the purpose; an intermixture of vegetation is also necessary, and on some occasions even marks of inhabitants are proper.

Large cliffs, sloping or precipitous, with a dale at bottom, furnish scenes of the wildest nature. In such spots, verdure alone will give some relief to the dreariness of the scene; and shrubs or bushes, without trees, are are a sufficiency of wood: the thickets may also be extended by the creeping plants, such as pyracantha, vines, and ivy, to wind up the sides or clutter on the tops of the rocks. And to this vegetation may be added some symptoms of inhabitants, but they must be flight and few; the use of them is only to cheer, not to destroy, the solitude of the place; and such therefore should be chosen as are sometimes found in situations retired from public resort; a cottage may be lonely, but it must not here seem ruinous and neglected; it should be tight and warm, with every mark of comfort about it, to which its position in some sheltered recesses may greatly contribute. A cavity also in the rocks, rendered easy of access, improved to a degree of convenience, and maintained in a certain state of preservation, will suggest similar ideas of protection from the bitterest inclemencies of the sky, and even of occasional refreshment and repose. But we may venture still further; a mill is of necessity often built at some distance from the town which it supplies; and here it would at the same time apply the water to a use, and increase its agitation. The dale may besides be made the haunt of those animals, such as goats, which are sometimes wild, and sometimes domestic; and which accidentally appearing, will divert the mind from the sensations natural to the scene, but not agreeable if continued long without interruption. These and such other expedients will approximate the severest retreat to the habitations of men, and convert the appearance of a perpetual banishment into that of a temporary retirement from society.

But too strong a force on the nature of the place always fails. A winding-path, which appears to be worn, not cut, has more effect than a high road, all artificial and level, which is too weak to overbear, and yet contradicts, the general idea. The objects therefore to be introduced must be those which hold a mean between solitude and population; and the inclination of that choice towards either extreme, should be directed by the degree of wilderness which prevails; for that runs sometimes to an excess which requires correction, at other times it wants encouragement, and at all times it ought to be preserved: it is the predominant character of rocks, which mixes with every other, and to which all the appendages must be accommodated; and they may be applied so as greatly to increase it: a licentious irregularity of wood and of ground, and a fantastic conduct of the streams, neither of which would be tolerated in the midst of cultivation, become and improve romantic rocky spots; even buildings, partly by their style, but still more by their position, in strange, difficult, or dangerous situations, distinguish and aggravate the native extravagancies of the scene.

Greatness is a chief ingredient in the character of dignity, with less of wilderness than in any other. The effect here depends more upon amplitude of surface, than variety of forms. The parts, therefore, must be large: if the rocks are only high, they are but stupendous, not majestic: breadth is equally essential to their greatness; and every slender, every grotesque shape, is excluded. Art may interpose to show these large parts to the eye, and magnify them to the imagination, by taking away thickets which stretch quite across the rocks, so as to disguise their dimensions; or by filling with wood the small intervals between them, and thus, by concealing the want, preserving the appearance of continuation. When rocks retire from the eye down a gradual declivity, we can, by raising the upper ground, deepen the fall, lengthen the perspective, and give both height and extent to those at a distance: this effect may be still increased by covering that upper ground with a thicket, which shall cease, or be lowered, as it descends. A thicket, on other occasions, makes the rocks which rise out of it seem larger than they are. If they stand upon a bank overspread with shrubs, their beginning is at least uncertain; and the presumption is, that they start from the bottom. Another use of this shrubby underwood is to conceal the fragments and rubbish which have fallen from the sides and the brow, and which are often unsightly. Rocks are seldom remarkable for the elegance of their forms; they are too vast, and too rude, to pretend to delicacy: but their shapes are often agreeable; and we can affect those shapes to a certain degree, at least we can cover many blemishes in them, by conducting the growth of shrubby and creeping plants about them.

For all these purposes mere underwood suffices: but for greater effects larger trees are requisite: they are worthy of the scene; and not only improvements, but accessions to its grandeur: we are used to rank them among the noblest objects of nature; and when we see that they cannot aspire to the midway of the heights around them, the rocks are raised by the comparison. A single tree is, therefore, often preferable to a clump: the size, though really less, is more remarkable: and clumps are besides generally exceptionable in a very wild spot, from the suspicion of art which attends them; but a wood is free from that suspicion, and its own character of greatness recommends it to every scene of magnificence.

On the same principle, all possible consideration should be given to the streams. No number of little rills are equal to one broad river; and in the principal current, some varieties may be sacrificed to importance: but a degree of strength should always be preserved: the water, though it needs not be furious, should not be dull; for dignity, when most serene, is not languid; and space will hardly atone for want of animation.

This character does not exclude marks of inhabitants, though it never requires them to tame its wilderness: and without inviting, it occasionally admits an intermixture of vegetation. It even allows of buildings intended only to decorate the scene: but they must be adequate to it, both in size and in character. And if cultivation is introduced, that too should be conformable to the rest; not a single narrow patch cribbed out of the waste; but the confines of a country shelving into the vale, and suggesting the idea of extent: nothing trivial ought to find admittance. But, on the other hand, no extravagance required to support it: strange shapes in extraordinary positions, enormous weights unaccountably sustained, trees rooted in the sides, and torrents raging at the foot of the rocks, are at the best needless excesses. There is a temperance in dignity, which is rather hurt by a wanton violence on the common order of nature.

The terrors of a scene in nature are like those of a dramatic representation: they give an alarm; but the sensations are agreeable, so long as they are kept to such such as are allied only to terror, unmixed with any that are horrible and disgusting. Art may therefore be used to heighten them, to display the objects which are distinguished by greatness, to improve the circumstances which denote force, to mark those which intimate danger, and to blend with all here and there a cast of melancholy.

Greatness is as essential to the character of terror as to that of dignity; vast efforts in little objects are but ridiculous; nor can force be supposed upon trifles incapable of resistance. On the other hand, it must be allowed, that exertion and violence supply some want of space. A rock wonderfully supported, or threatening to fall, acquires a greatness from its situation, which it has not in dimensions; so circumstanced, the size appears to be monstrous; a torrent has a consequence which a placid river of equal breadth cannot pretend to; and a tree, which would be inconsiderable in the natural foil, becomes important when it bursts forth from a rock.

Such circumstances should be always industriously sought for. It may be worth while to cut down several trees, in order to exhibit one apparently rooted in the stone. By the removal perhaps of only a little brushwood, the alarming disposition of a rock, strangely undermined, riveted, or suspended, may be shown; and if there be any foil above its brow, some trees planted there, and impending over it, will make the object still more extraordinary. As to the streams, great alterations may generally be made in them; and therefore it is of use to ascertain the species proper to each scene, because it is in our power to enlarge or contract their dimensions; to accelerate or retard their rapidity; to form, increase, or take away obstructions; and always to improve, often to change, their characters.

Inhabitants furnish frequent opportunities to strengthen the appearances of force, by giving intimations of danger. A house placed at the edge of a precipice, any building on the pinnacle of a crag, makes that situation seem formidable, which might otherwise have been unnoticed: a steep, in itself not very remarkable, becomes alarming, when a path is carried affront up the side: a rail on the brow of a perpendicular fall, shows that the height is frequented and dangerous: and a common foot-bridge thrown over a cleft between rocks has a still stronger effect. In all these instances, the imagination immediately transports the spectator to the spot, and suggests the idea of looking down such a depth: in the last, that depth is a charm, and the situation is directly over it.

In other instances, exertion and danger seem to attend the occupations of the inhabitants:

Half way down Hangs one that gathers lamphire; dreadful trade! is a circumstance chosen by the great poet of nature, to aggravate the terrors of the scene he describes.

The different species of rocks often meet in the same place, and compose a noble scene, which is not distinguished by any particular character: it is only when one eminently prevails, that it deserves such a preference as to exclude every other. Sometimes a spot, remarkable for nothing but its wildness, is highly romantic; and when this wildness rises to fancy; when the most singular, the most opposite forms and combinations are thrown together; then a mixture also of several characters adds to the number of instances which there concur to display the inexhaustible variety of nature.

So much variety, so much fancy, are seldom found within the same extent as in Dovedale. It is about two miles in length, a deep, narrow, hollow valley; both the sides are of rock; and the Dove in its passage between them is perpetually changing its course, its motion, and appearance. It is never less than ten, nor so much as twenty yards wide, and generally about four feet deep; but transparent to the bottom, except when it is covered with a foam of the purest white, under water-falls, which are perfectly lucid. These are very numerous, but very different. In some places they stretch straight across, or slant the stream: in others, they are only partial; and the water either dashes against the stones, and leaps over them, or, pouring along a steep, rebounds upon those below; sometimes it rushes through the several openings between them; sometimes it drops gently down; and at other times it is driven back by the obstruction, and turns into an eddy. In one particular spot, the valley almost closing, leaves hardly a passage for the river, which pent up, and struggling for a vent, rages, and roars, and foams, till it has extricated itself from the confinement. In other parts, the stream, though never languid, is often gentle; flows round a little distant island, glides between bits of bulrushes, disperses itself among tufts of grass or of moss, bubbles about a water-dock, or plays with the slender threads of aquatic plants which float upon the surface. The rocks all along the dale vary as often in their structure as the stream in its motion. In one place, an extended surface gradually diminishes from a broad base almost to an edge; in another, a heavy top hanging forwards, overshadows all beneath: sometimes many different shapes are confusedly tumbled together; and sometimes they are broken into slender sharp pinnacles, which rise upright, often two or three together, and often in more numerous clusters. On this side of the dale, they are universally bare; on the other, they are intermixed with wood; and the vast height of both the sides, with the narrowness of the interval between them, produces a further variety: for whenever the sun shines from behind the one, the form of it is distinctly and completely cast upon the other; the rugged surface on which it falls diversifies the tints; and a strong reflected light often glares on the edge of the deepest shadow. The rocks never continue long in the same figure or situation, and are very much separated from each other: sometimes they form the sides of the valley, in precipices, in steeps, or in flanges; sometimes they seem to rise in the bottom, and lean back against the hill; and sometimes they stand out quite detached, heaving up in cumbrous piles, or starting into conical shapes, like vast spars, 100 feet high; some are firm and solid throughout; some are cracked; and some, split and undermined, are wonderfully upheld by fragments apparently unequal to the weight they sustain. One is placed before, one over another, and one fills at some distance behind an interval between two. The changes in their disposition are infinite; every step produces some new combination; they are continually cringing, advancing, and retiring. tiring; the breadth of the valley is never the same 40 yards together; at the narrow pass which has been mentioned, the rocks almost meet at the top, and the sky is seen as through a chink between them: just by this gloomy abyss, is a wider opening, more light, more verdure, more cheerfulness, than anywhere else in the dale. Nor are the forms and the situations of the rocks their only variety; many of them are perforated by large natural cavities, some of which open to the sky, some terminate in dark recesses, and through some are to be seen several more uncouth arches, and rude pillars, all detached, and retiring beyond each other, with the light shining in between them, till a rock far behind them closes the perspective; the noise of the cascades in the river echoes amongst them; the water may often be heard at the same time gurgling near, and roaring at a distance; but no other sounds disturb the silence of the spot: the only trace of men is a blind path, but lightly and but seldom trodden, by those whom curiosity leads to see the wonders they have been told of Dovedale. It seems indeed a fitter haunt for more ideal beings: the whole has the air of enchantment. The perpetual shifting of the scenes; the quick transitions, the total changes; then the forms all around, grotesque as chance can cast, wild as nature can produce, and various as imagination can invent; the force which seems to have been exerted to place some of the rocks where they are now fixed immovable, the magic by which others appear still to be suspended; the dark caverns, the illuminated recesses, the fleeting shadows, and the gleams of light glancing on the sides, or trembling on the stream; and the loneliness and the stillness of the place, all crowding together on the mind, almost realize the ideas which naturally present themselves in this region of romance and of fancy.

The solitude of such a scene is agreeable, on account of the endless entertainment which its variety affords, and in the contemplation of which both the eye and the mind are delighted to indulge: marks of inhabitants and cultivation would disturb that solitude; and ornamental buildings are too artificial in a place so absolutely free from restraint. The only accompaniments proper for it are wood and water; and by these sometimes improvements may be made. When two rocks similar in shape and position are near together, by skirting one of them with wood, while the other is left bare, a material distinction is established between them: if the streams be throughout of one character, it is in our power, and should be our aim, to introduce another. Variety is the peculiar property of the spot, and every accession to it is a valuable acquisition. On the same principle, endeavours should be used not only to multiply, but to aggravate differences, and to increase distinctions into contrasts: but the subject will impose a caution against attempting too much. Art must almost despair of improving a scene, where nature seems to have exerted her invention.

§ 2. Of Factitious Accompaniments.

These consist of Fences, Walks, Roads, Bridges, Seats, and Buildings.

"I. The FENCE, where the place is large, becomes necessary; yet the eye dislikes constraint. Our ideas of liberty carry us beyond our own species: the imagination feels a dislike in seeing even the brute creation in a state of confinement. The birds wafting themselves from wood to grove are objects of delight; and the hare appears to enjoy a degree of happiness unknown to the barriered flock. Besides, a tall fence frequently hides from the sight objects the most pleasing; not only the flocks and herds themselves, but the surface they graze upon. These considerations have brought the unseen fence into general use.

This species of barrier it must be allowed incurs a degree of deception, which can scarcely be warranted upon any other occasion. In this instance, however, it is a species of fraud which we observe in nature's practice: how often have we seen two distinct herds feeding to appearance in the same extended meadow; until coming abruptly upon a deep funk rivulet, or an unfordable river, we discover the deception.

Besides the funk fence, another sort of unseen barrier may be made, though by no means equal to that, especially if near the eye. This is constructed of palings, painted of the invisible green. If the colour of the back-ground were permanent, and that of the paint made exactly to correspond with it, the deception would at a distance be complete; but back-grounds in general changing with the season, this kind of fence is the least eligible.

Clumps and patches of woodiness scattered promiscuously on either side of an unseen winding fence, affix very much in doing away the idea of constraint. For by this means

The wand'ring flocks that browse between the shades, Seem oft to pass their bounds, the dubious eye Decides not if they crop the mead or lawn.

Mason.

"II. The WALK, in extensive grounds is as necessary as the fence. The beauties of the place are disclosed that they may be seen; and it is the office of the walk to lead the eye from view to view; in order that whilst the tone of health is preserved by the favourite exercise of nature, the mind may be thrown into unison by the harmony of the surrounding objects.

The direction of the walk must be guided by the points of view to which it leads, and the nature of the ground it passes over: it ought to be made subservient to the natural impediments (the ground, wood, and water) which fall in its way, without appearing to have any direction of its own. It can seldom run with propriety any distance in a straight line; a thing which rarely occurs in a natural walk. The paths of the Negroes and the Indians are always crooked; and those of the brute creation are very similar. Mr Mason's description of this path of nature is happily conceived.

The peasant driving through each shadowy lane His team, that bends beneath th' incumbent weight Of laughing Ceres, marks it with his wheel; At night and morn, the milk-maid's careless step Has, through yon pasture green, from stile to stile In-pref a kindred curve; the scudding hare Draws to her dew-sprent feet, o'er thymy heaths, A path as gently wavering.

Eng. Gard. v. 60.

"III. The ROAD may be a thing of necessity, as an approach to the mansion; or a matter of amusement only, as a drive or a ride, from which the grounds and the surrounding country may be seen to advantage." Bridge, &c. It should be the study of the artist to make the same road answer, as far as may be, the two-fold purpose.

The road and the walk are subject to the same rule of nature and use. The direction ought to be natural and easy, and adapted to the purpose intended. A road of necessity ought to be straighter than one of mere convenience; in this, recreation is the predominant idea; in that, utility. But even in this the direct line may be dispensed with. The natural roads upon heaths and open downs, and the grassy glades and green roads across forests and extensive wastes, are proper subjects to be studied.

"IV. The BRIDGE should never be seen where it is not wanted: a useless bridge is a deception; deceptions are frauds; and fraud is always hateful, unless when practised to avert some greater evil. A bridge without water is an absurdity; and half an one stuck up as an eye-trap is a paltry trick, which, though it may strike the stranger, cannot fail of disgusting when the fraud is found out.

In low situations, and wherever water abounds, bridges become useful, and are therefore pleasing objects: they are looked for; and ought to appear not as objects of ornament only, but likewise as matters of utility. The walk or the road therefore ought to be directed in such a manner as to cross the water at the point in which the bridge will appear to the greatest advantage.

In the construction of bridges also, regard must be had to ornament and utility. A bridge is an artificial production, and as such it ought to appear. It ranks among the noblest of human inventions; the ship and the fortresses alone excel it. Simplicity and firmness are the leading principles in its construction. Mr Wheatley's observation is just when he says, "The single wooden arch, now much in fashion, seems to me generally misapplied. Elevated without occasion so much above, it is totally detached from the river; it is often seen straddling in the air, without a glimpse of water to account for it; and the ostentation of it as an ornamental object, diverts all that train of ideas which its use as a communication might suggest." But we beg leave to differ from this ingenious writer when he tells us, "that it is spoiled if adorned; it is disfigured if only painted of any other than a dusky colour." In a rustic scene, where Nature wears her own coarse garb, "the vulgar foot bridge of planks only guarded on one hand by a common rail, and supported by a few ordinary piles," may be in character; but amidst a display of ornamented nature, a contrivance of that kind would appear mean and paltry; and would be an affectation of simplicity rather than the lovely attribute itself. In cultivated scenes, the bridge ought to receive the ornaments which the laws of architectural taste allow; and the more polished the situation, the higher should be the style and finishings.

"V. SEATS have a two-fold use; they are useful as places of rest and conversation, and as guides to the points of view in which the beauties of the surrounding scene are disclosed. Every point of view should be marked with a seat; and, speaking generally, no seat ought to appear but in some favourable point of view. This rule may not be invariable, but it ought seldom to be deviated from.

In the ruder scenes of neglected nature, the simple trunk, rough from the woodman's hands, and the butts or stools of rooted trees, without any other marks of tools upon them than those of the saw which fevered them from their stems, are seats in character; and in romantic or recluse situations, the cave or the grotto are admissible. But wherever human design has been executed upon the natural objects of the place, the seat and every other artificial accompaniment ought to be in unison; and whether the bench or the alcove be chosen, it ought to be formed and finished in such a manner as to unite with the wood, the lawn, and the walk, which lie around it.

The colour of seats should likewise be suited to situations: where uncultivated nature prevails, the natural brown of the wood itself ought not to be altered; but where the rural art predominates, white or stone colour has a much better effect."

"VI. BUILDINGS probably were first introduced into gardens merely for convenience, to afford refuge from a sudden shower, and shelter against the wind; or, Mr Wheatley at the most, to be seats for a party; or for retirement. They have since been converted into objects, and now serve the original use too often forgotten in the greater number of purposes to which they are applied: they are considered as objects only; the inside is totally neglected, and a pompous edifice frequently wants a room barely comfortable. Sometimes the pride of making a lavish display to a visitor without any regard to the owner's enjoyments, and sometimes too pompous an attention to the style of the structure, occasions a poverty and dullness within, which deprive the buildings of part of their utility. But in a garden they ought to be considered both as beautiful objects and as agreeable retreats: if a character becomes them, it is that of the scene they belong to; not that of their primitive application. A Grecian temple, or Gothic church may adorn spots where it would be affectation to prefer that solemnity within which is proper for places of devotion: they are not to be exact models, subjects only of curiosity or study: they are also seats; and such seats will be little frequented by the proprietor; his mind must generally be indisposed to so much simplicity, and so much gloom, in the midst of gaiety, richness, and variety.

But though the interior of buildings should not be disregarded, it is by their exterior that they become objects; and sometimes by the one, sometimes by the other, and sometimes by both, they are intitled to be considered as characters.

1. As objects, they are designed either to distinguish; Of buildings or to break, or to adorn, the scenes to which they are intended for objects.

The differences between one wood, one lawn, one piece of water, and another, are not always very apparent; the several parts of a garden would, therefore, often seem similar, if they were not distinguished by buildings; but these are so observable, so obvious at a glance, so easily retained in the memory, they mark the spots where they are placed with so much strength, they attract the relation of all around with so much power, power, that parts thus distinguished can never be confounded together. Yet it by no means follows, that therefore every scene must have its edifice; the want of one is sometimes a variety; and other circumstances are often sufficiently characteristic: it is only when these too nearly agree, that we must have recourse to buildings for differences: we can introduce, exhibit, or contrast them as we please: the most striking object is thereby made a mark of distinction; and the force of this first impression prevents our observing the points of resemblance.

The uniformity of a view may be broken by similar means, and on the same principle: when a wide heath, a dreary moor, or a continued plain, is in prospect, objects which catch the eye supply the want of variety: none are so effectual for this purpose as buildings. Plantations or water can have no very sensible effect, unless they are large or numerous, and almost change the character of the scene; but a small single building diverts the attention at once from the sameness of the extent; which it breaks, but does not divide; and diversifies, without altering, its nature. The design, however, must not be apparent. The merit of a cottage applied to this purpose, consists in its being free from the suspicion: and a few trees near it will both enlarge the object, and account for its position. Ruins are a hackneyed device immediately detected, unless their style be singular, or their dimensions extraordinary. The semblance of an ancient British monument might be adapted to the same end, with little trouble, and great success. The materials might be brick, or even timber plastered over, if stone could not easily be procured: whatever they were, the fallacy would not be discernible; it is an object to be seen at a distance, rude, and large, and in character agreeable to a wild open view. But no building ought to be introduced, which may not in reality belong to such a situation: no Grecian temples, no Turkish mosques, no Egyptian obelisks or pyramids; none imported from foreign countries, and unusual here. The apparent artifice would destroy an effect, which is so nice as to be weakened, if objects proper to produce it are displayed with too much ostentation; if they seem to be contrivances, not accidents; and the advantage of their position appear to be more laboured than natural.

But in a garden, where objects are intended only to adorn, every species of architecture may be admitted, from the Grecian down to the Chinese; and the choice is so free, that the mischief most to be apprehended is an abuse of this latitude in the multiplicity of buildings. Few scenes can bear more than two or three: in some a single one has a greater effect than any number: and a careless glimpse, here and there, of such as belong immediately to different parts, frequently enliven the landscape with more spirit than those which are industriously shown. If the effect of a partial sight, or a distant view, were more attended to, many scenes might be filled, without being crowded; a greater number of buildings would be tolerated, when they seemed to be casual, not forced; and the animation, and the richness of the objects, might be had without pretence or display.

Too fond an orientation of buildings, even of these which are principal, is a common error; and when all buildings is done, they are not always shown to the greatest advantage. Though their symmetry and their beauties ought in general to be distinctly and fully seen, yet an oblique is sometimes better than a direct view; and they are often less agreeable objects when entire, than when a part is covered, or their extent is interrupted; when they are bosomed in wood, as well as backed by it; or appear between the stems of trees which rise before or above them: thus thrown into perspective, thus grouped and accompanied, they may be as important as if they were quite exposed, and are frequently more picturesque and beautiful.

But a still greater advantage arises from this management, in connecting them with the scene: they are considerable, and different from all around them; inclined therefore to separate from the rest; and yet they are sometimes still more detached by the pains taken to exhibit them: that very importance which is the cause of the distinction ought to be a reason for guarding against the independence to which it is naturally prone, and by which an object, which ought to be a part of the whole, is reduced to a mere individual. An elevated is generally a noble situation. When it is a point or a pinnacle, the structure may be a continuation of the ascent; and on many occasions, some parts of the building may descend lower than others, and multiply the appearances of connection: but an edifice in the midst of an extended ridge, commonly seems naked alone, and imposed upon the brow, not joined to it. If wood, to accompany it, will not grow there, it had better be brought a little way down the declivity; and then all behind, above, and about it, are so many points of contact, by which it is incorporated into the landscape.

Accompaniments are important to a building; but they lose much of their effect when they do not appear to be casual. A little mount just large enough for it; a small piece of water below, of no other use than to reflect it; and a plantation close behind, evidently placed there only to give it relief; are as artificial as the structure itself, and alienate it from the scene of nature into which it is introduced, and to which it ought to be reconciled. These appendages therefore should be so disposed, and so connected with the adjacent parts, as to answer other purposes, though applicable to this: that they may be bonds of union, not marks of difference; and that the situation may appear to have been chosen at the most, not made, for the building.

In the choice of a situation, that which shows the building best ought generally to be preferred: eminence, relief, and every other advantage which can be, ought to be given to an object of so much consideration: they are for the most part desirable; sometimes necessary; and exceptionable only when, instead of rising out of the scene, they are forced into it, and a contrivance to procure them at any rate is avowed without any disguise. There are, however, occasions, in which the most tempting advantages of situation must be waived; the general composition may forbid a building in one spot, or require it in another; at other times, the interest of the particular group it belongs to, may exact a sacrifice of the opportunities to exhibit

Buildings exhibit its beauties and importance; and at all times, the pretensions of every individual object must give way to the greater effect of the whole.

2. The same structure which adorns as an object, may also be expressive as a character. Where the former is not wanted, the latter may be desirable; or it may be weak for one purpose, and strong for the other; it may be grave, or gay; magnificent, or simple; and, according to its style, may or may not be agreeable to the place it is applied to. But mere confidence is not all the merit which buildings can claim: their characters are sometimes strong enough to determine, improve, or correct, that of the scene: and they are so conspicuous, and so distinguished, that whatever force they have is immediately and sensibly felt. They are fit therefore to make a first impression; and when a scene is but faintly characterized, they give at once a call which spreads over the whole, and which the weaker parts concur to support, though perhaps they were not able to produce it.

Nor do they stop at fixing an uncertainty, or removing a doubt; they raise and enforce a character already marked: a temple adds dignity to the noblest, a cottage simplicity to the most rural, scenes; the lightness of a spire, the airiness of an open rotunda, the splendor of a continued colonnade, are less ornamental than expressive; others improve cheerfulness into gaiety, gloom into solemnity, and richness into profusion: a retired spot, which might have been passed unobserved, is noticed for its tranquility, as soon as it is appropriated by some structure to retreat; and the most unfrequented place seems less solitary than one which appears to have been the haunt of a single individual, or even of a sequestered family, and is marked by a lonely dwelling, or the remains of a deserted habitation.

The means are the same, the application of them only is different, when buildings are used to correct the character of the scene; to enliven its dulness, mitigate its gloom, or to check its extravagance; and, on a variety of occasions, to soften, to aggravate, or to counteract, particular circumstances attending it. But care must be taken that they do not contradict too strongly the prevailing idea: they may lessen the dreariness of a waste, but they cannot give it amenity; they may abate horrors, but they will never convert them into graces; they may make a tame scene agreeable, and even interesting, not romantic; or turn solemnity into cheerfulness, but not into gaiety. In these, and in many other instances, they correct the character, by giving it an inclination towards a better, which is not very different; but they can hardly alter it entirely: when they are totally inconsistent with it, they are at the best nugatory.

The great effects which have been ascribed to buildings do not depend upon those trivial ornaments and appendages which are often too much relied on; such as the furniture of a hermitage, painted glass in a Gothic church, and sculpture about a Grecian temple; grotesque or bacchanalian figures to denote gaiety, and death's-heads to signify melancholy. Such devices are only descriptive, not expressive, of character; and must not be substituted in the stead of those superior properties, the want of which they acknowledge, but do not supply. They besides often require time to trace their meaning, and to see their application; but the peculiar excellence of buildings is, that their effects are instantaneous, and therefore the impressions they make are forcible. In order to produce such effects, the general style of the structure, and its position, are the principal considerations: either of them will sometimes be strongly characteristic alone; united, their powers are very great; and both are so important, that if they do not concur, at least they must not contradict one another.

Every branch of architecture furnishes, on different species and occasions, objects proper for a garden; and there is no situation on our selection, provided it be conformable to the style of the scene, proportioned to its extent, and agreeable to its character.

The choice of situations is also very free. A hermitage, indeed, must not be close to a road; but whether it be exposed to view on the side of a mountain, or concealed in the depth of a wood, is almost a matter of indifference; that it is at a distance from public resort is sufficient. A castle must not be sunk in a bottom; but that it should stand on the utmost pinnacle of a hill, is not necessary: on a lower knoll, and backed by the rise, it may appear to greater advantage as an object, and be much more important to the general composition. Many buildings, which from their splendor but become an open exposure, will yet be sometimes not ill bestowed on a more sequestered spot, either to characterize or adorn it; and others, for which a solitary would in general be preferred to an eminent situation, may occasionally be objects in very conspicuous positions. A Grecian temple, from its peculiar grace and dignity, deserves every distinction; it may, however, in the depth of a wood, be so circumstantial, that the want of those advantages to which it seems intitled will not be regretted. A happier situation cannot be devised, than that of the temple of Pan on the south lodge of Enfield Chase. It is of the usual oblong form, encompassed by a colonnade; in dimensions, and in style, it is equal to a most extensive landscape; and yet by the antique and rustic air of its Doric columns without bases; by the chastity of its little ornaments, a crook, a pipe, and a scrip, and those only over the doors; and by the simplicity of the whole both within and without; it is adapted with so much propriety to the thickets which conceal it from the view, that no one can wish it to be brought forward, who is sensible to the charms of the Arcadian scene which this building alone has created. On the other hand, a very spacious field, or sheep-walk, will not be disgraced by a farm-house, a cottage, or a Dutch barn; nor will they, though small and familiar, appear to be inconceivable or insignificant objects. Numberless other instances might be adduced to prove the impossibility of refraining particular buildings to particular situations, upon any general principles: the variety in their forms is hardly greater than in their application. Only let not their uses be disguised, as is often absurdly attempted with the humbler kinds. "A barn * dressed up in the habit of a country-church, or a farm-house figuring away in the fierceness of a castle, are ridiculous deceptions. A dining-landscape daubed upon a board, and a wooden steepie p. 59* stuck up in a wood, are beneath contempt."

Temples, those favourite and most costly objects in gardens, too generally merit censure for their inutility, their

Whether they be dedicated to Bacchus, Venus, Priapus, or any other demon of debauchery, they are in this age, enlightened with regard to theological and scientific knowledge, equally absurd. Architecture, in this part of its sphere, may more nobly, and with greater beauty and effect, be exercised upon a chapel, a mausoleum, a monument, judiciously disposed among the natural ornaments. The late Sir William Harbord, has given us a model of the first kind, at Gunton, in Norfolk; the parish-church standing in his park, and being an old unlighted building, he had it taken down, and a beautiful temple, under the direction of the Adams's erected upon its site for the same sacred purpose:—The mausoleum at Castle-Howard, in Yorkshire, the seat of the earl of Carlisle, is a noble structure:—And as an instance of the last sort, may be mentioned the Temple of Concord and Victory at Stowe, erected to the memory of the great lord Chatham and his glorious war; a beautiful monumental building, suited to the greatness of the occasion.

To the great variety above mentioned must be added, Mr Wheatley observes, the many changes which may be made by the means of ruins. They are a class by themselves, beautiful as objects, expressive as characters, and peculiarly calculated to connect with appendages into elegant groups. They may be accommodated with ease to irregularity of ground, and their disorder is improved by it. They may be intimately blended with trees and thickets; and the interruption is an advantage: for imperfection and obscurity are their properties; and to carry the imagination to something greater than is seen, is their effect. They may for any of these purposes be separated into detached pieces; contiguity is not necessary, nor even the appearance of it, if the relation be preserved; but straggling ruins have a bad effect, when the several parts are equally considerable. There should be one large mass to raise an idea of greatness, to attract the others about it, and to be a common centre of union to all: the smaller pieces then mark the original dimensions of one extensive structure; and no longer appear to be the remains of several little buildings.

All remains excite an inquiry into the former state of the edifice, and fix the mind in a contemplation of the use it was applied to; besides the characters expressed by their style and position, they suggest ideas which would not arise from the buildings if entire. The purposes of many have ceased: an abbey, or a castle, if complete, can now be no more than a dwelling; the memory of the times, and of the manners to which they are adapted, is preserved only in history, and in ruins; and certain sensations of regret, of veneration, or compassion, attend the recollection. Nor are these confined to the remains of buildings which are now in dilapidation; those of an old mansion raise reflections on the domestic comforts once enjoyed, and the ancient hospitality which reigned there. Whatever building we see in decay, we naturally contrast its present to its former state, and delight to ruminate on the comparison. It is true that such effects properly belong to real ruins; they are however produced in a certain degree by those which are fictitious: the impressions are not so strong, but they are exactly similar; and the representation, though it does not present facts to the memory, yet suggests subjects to the imagination. But, in order to affect the fancy, the supposed original design should be clear, the use obvious, and the form easy to be traced; no fragments should be hazarded without a precise meaning, and an evident connection; none should be perplexed in their construction, or uncertain as to their application. Conjectures about the form, raise doubts about the existence of the ancient structure: the mind must not be allowed to hesitate; it must be hurried away from examining into the reality, by the exactness and the force of the resemblance.

In the ruins of Tintern abbey, the original construction of the church is perfectly marked; and it is obvious principally from this circumstance that they are celebrated as a subject of curiosity and contemplation. The walls are almost entire; the roof only is fallen in, but most of the columns which divided the aisles are still standing: of those which have dropped down, the bases remain, every one exactly in its place; and in the middle of the nave four lofty arches, which once supported the fleecy, rise high in the air above all the rest, each reduced now to a narrow rim of stone, but completely preserving its form. The shapes even of the windows are little altered; but some of them are quite obscured, others partially shaded, by tufts of ivy; and those which are most clear, are edged with its slender tendrils, and lighter foliage, wreathing about the sides and the divisions: it winds round the pillars; it clings to the walls; and in one of the aisles clutters at the top in bunches, so thick and so large as to darken the space below. The other aisles, and the great nave, are exposed to the sky: the floor is entirely overgrown with turf; and to keep it clear from weeds and bushes, is now its highest preservation. Monkish tomb-stones, and the monuments of benefactors long since forgotten, appear above the green sward; the bases of the pillars which have fallen, rise out of it; and maimed effigies, and sculpture worn with age and weather, Gothic capitals, carved cornices, and various fragments, are scattered about, or lie in heaps piled up together. Other shattered pieces, though disjointed and mouldering, still occupy their original places; and a stair-case much impaired, which led to a tower now no more, is suspended at a great height, uncovered and inaccessible. Nothing is perfect; but memorials of every part still subsist; all certain, but all in decay; and suggesting at once every idea which can occur in a seat of devotion, solitude, and desolation. Upon such models, fictitious ruins should be formed; and if any parts are entirely lost, they should be such as the imagination can easily supply from those which are still remaining. Distinct traces of the building which is supposed to have existed, are less liable to the suspicion of artifice, than an unmeaning heap of confusion. Precision is always satisfactory, but in the reality it is only agreeable; in the copy it is essential to the imitation.

A material circumstance to the truth of the imitation is, that the ruins appear to be very old. The idea is besides interesting in itself: a monument of antiquity is never seen with indifference; and a semblance of age may be given to the representation by the hue of the materials, the growth of ivy and other plants, and cracks. cracks and fragments seemingly occasioned rather by decay than by destruction. An appendage evidently more modern than the principal structure will sometimes corroborate the effect: the shed of a cottager amidst the remains of a temple, is a contrast both to the former and to the present state of the building; and a tree flourishing among ruins, shows the length of time they have lain neglected. No circumstance so forcibly marks the desolation of a spot once inhabited, as the prevalence of nature over it:

Campus ubi Troja fuit,

is a sentence which conveys a stronger idea of a city totally overthrown, than a description of its remains; but in a representation to the eye, some remains must appear; and then the perversion of them to an ordinary use, or an intermixture of a vigorous vegetation, intimates a settled despair of their restoration.

Sect. II. Principles of Selection and Arrangement in the Subjects of Gardening.

I. Of ART. In the lower classes of rural improvements, art should be seen as little as may be; and in the more negligent scenes of nature, every thing ought to appear as if it had been done by the general laws of nature, or had grown out of a series of fortuitous circumstances. But in the higher departments, art cannot be hid; and the appearance of design ought not to be excluded. A human production cannot be made perfectly natural; and held out as such it becomes an imposition. Our art lies in endeavouring to adapt the productions of nature to human taste and perceptions; and if much art be used, do not attempt to hide it. Art seldom fails to please when executed in a masterly manner: nay, it is frequently the design and execution, more than the production itself, that strikes us. It is the artifice, not the design, which ought to be avoided. It is the labour and not the art which ought to be concealed. The rural artist ought, therefore, upon every occasion, to endeavour to avoid labour; or, if indispensably necessary, to conceal it. No trace should be left to lead back the mind to the expensive toil. A mound raised, a mountain levelled, or a useless temple built, convey to the mind feelings equally disgusting.

II. PICTURESQUE BEAUTY. Tho' the aids of art are as essential to gardening, as education is to manners; yet art may do too much: she ought to be considered as the hand-maid, not as the mistress, of nature; and whether she be employed in carving a tree into the figure of an animal, or in shaping a view into the form of a picture, she is equally culpable. The nature of the place is sacred. Should this tend to landscape, from some principal point of view, afflit nature and perfect it; provided this can be done without injuring the views from other points. But do not disfigure the natural features of the place:—do not sacrifice its native beauties, to the arbitrary laws of landscape painting.

Great Nature scorns control; she will not bear One beauty foreign to the spot or soil She gives thee to adorn: 'Tis thine alone To mend, not change her features.

Nature scarcely knows the thing mankind call a landscape. The landscape-painter seldom, if ever, finds it perfected to his hands;—some addition or alteration is almost always wanted. Every man who has made his observations upon natural scenery, knows that the millettoe of the oak occurs almost as often as a perfect natural landscape; and to attempt to make up artificial landscape upon every occasion is unnatural and absurd.

If, indeed, the eye were fixed in one point, the trees could be raised to their full height at command, and the sun be made to stand still, the rural artist might work by the rules of light and shade, and compose his landscape by the painter's law. But, whilst the sun continues to pour forth its light impartially, and the trees to rise with slow progression, it would be ridiculous to attempt it. Let him rather seek out, imitate, and associate, such striking passages in nature as are immediately applicable to the place to be improved, with regard to rules of landscape, merely human;—and let him,

Be various, wild, and free, as Nature's self.

Instead of sacrificing the natural beauties of the place to one formal landscape, let every step disclose fresh charms unfought for.

III. Of CHARACTER. Character is very reconcileable with beauty; and, even when independent of it, has attracted to much regard, as to occasion several frivolous attempts to produce it: statues, inscriptions, and even paintings, history and mythology, and a variety of devices, have been introduced for this purpose: The heathen deities and heroes have therefore had their several places assigned to them in the natural woods and the lawns of a garden: natural cæsacades have characters been disfigured with river-gods, and columns erected only to receive quotations; the compartments of a summer-house have been filled with pictures of gambols and revels, as significant of gaiety; the cypresses, because it was once used in funerals, has been thought peculiarly adapted to melancholy; and the decorations, the furniture, and the environs of a building, have been crowded with puerilities under pretence of propriety. All these devices are rather emblematical than expressive: they may be ingenious contrivances, and real absent ideas to the recollection; but they make no immediate impression: for they must be examined, compared, perhaps explained, before the whole design of them is well understood. And tho' an allusion to a favourite or well known subject of history, of poetry, or of tradition, may now and then animate or dignify a scene; yet as the subject does not naturally belong to a garden, the allusion should not be principal: it should seem to have been suggested by the scene; a transitory image, which irresistibly occurred; not sought for, not laboured; and have the force of a metaphor, free from the detail of an allegory.

Another species of character arises from direct imitation; when a scene or an object, which has been celebrated in description, or is familiar in idea, is represented in a garden. Artificial ruins, lakes, and rivers, fall under this denomination. The air of a seat extended to a distance, and scenes calculated to raise ideas of Arcadian elegance or of rural simplicity, with many more which have been occasionally mentioned or will obviously Character, obviously occur, may be ranked in this class. They are all representations. But the materials, the dimensions, and other circumstances, being the same in the copy and the original, their effects are similar in both; and if not equally strong, the defect is not in the resemblance; but the consciousness of an imitation checks that train of thought which the appearance naturally suggests. Yet an over-anxious solicitude to disguise the fallacy is often the means of exposing it: too many points of likeness sometimes hurt the deception; they seem studied and forced; and the affectation of resemblance destroys the supposition of a reality. A hermitage is the habitation of a recluse; it should be distinguished by its solitude, and its simplicity: but if it is filled with crucifixes, hour-glasses, beads, and every other trinket which can be thought of, the attention is diverted from enjoying the retreat to examining the particulars: all the collateral circumstances which agree with a character, seldom meet in one subject; and when they are indistinctly brought together, though each be natural, the collection is artificial.

But the art of gardening aspires to more than imitation: it can create original characters, and give expressions to the several scenes superior to any they can receive from allusions. Certain proprieties, and certain dispositions, of the objects of nature, are adapted to excite particular ideas and sensations; many of them have been occasionally mentioned, and all are very well known. They require no discernment, examination, or discussion; but are obvious at a glance, and instantaneously distinguished by our feelings. Beauty alone is not so engaging as this species of character: the impressions it makes are more transient and less interesting; for it aims only at delighting the eye, but the other affects our sensibility. An assemblage of the most elegant forms in the happiest situations is to a degree indiscriminate, if they have not been selected and arranged with a design to produce certain expressions; an air of magnificence, or of simplicity, of cheerfulness, tranquillity, or some other general character, ought to pervade the whole; and objects pleasing in themselves, if they contradict that character, should therefore be excluded; those which are only indifferent, must sometimes make room for such as are more significant; many will often be introduced for no other merit than their expression; and some, which are in general rather disagreeable, may occasionally be recommended by it. Barrenness itself may be an acceptable circumstance in a spot dedicated to solitude and melancholy.

The power of such characters is not confined to the ideas which the objects immediately suggest; for these are connected with others, which insensibly lead to subjects far distant perhaps from the original thought, and related to it only by a similitude in the sensations they excite. In a prospect enriched and enlivened with inhabitants and cultivation, the attention is caught at first by the circumstances which are gayest in their season, the bloom of an orchard, the fertility of a hay-field, and the carols of harvest-home; but the cheerfulness which these infuse into the mind, expands afterwards to other objects than those immediately presented to the eye; and we are thereby disposed to receive, and delighted to pursue, a variety of pleasing ideas, and every benevolent feeling. At the sight of a General ruin, reflections on the change, the decay, and the desolation before us, naturally occur; and they introduce a long succession of others, all tinctured with that melancholy which these have inspired; or if the monument revive the memory of former times, we do not stop at the simple fact which it records, but recollect many more coeval circumstances, which we see, not perhaps as they were, but as they are come down to us, venerable with age, and magnified by fame. Even without the assistance of buildings or other adventitious circumstances, nature alone furnishes materials for scenes which may be adapted to almost every kind of expression: their operation is general, and their consequences are infinite: the mind is elevated, depressed, or composed, as gaiety, gloom, or tranquillity prevails in the scene; and we soon lose sight of the means by which the character is formed; we forget the particular objects it presents; and giving way to their effects, without recurring to the cause, we follow the track they have begun, to any extent which the disposition they accord with will allow. It suffices that the scenes of nature have a power to affect our imagination and our sensibility; for such is the constitution of the human mind, that if once it is agitated, the emotion spreads far beyond the occasion; when the passions are roused, their course is unrestrained; when the fancy is on the wing, its flight is unbounded; and, quitting the inanimate objects which first gave them their spring, we may be led by thought above thought, widely differing in degree, but still corresponding in character, till we rise from familiar subjects up to the sublimest conceptions, and are rapt in the contemplation of whatever is great or beautiful, which we see in nature, feel in man, or attribute to divinity.

IV. GENERAL ARRANGEMENT. Notwithstanding the nature of the place, as already observed, ought not to be sacrificed to the mansion;—the house must ever be allowed to be a principal in the composition. It ought to be considered as the centre of the Treat. on Planting system; and the rays of art, like those of the sun, and Gard. should grow fainter as they recede from the centre. The house itself being entirely a work of art, its immediate environs should be highly finished; but as the distance increases, the appearance of design should gradually diminish, until nature and fortuitousness have full possession of the scene.

In general, the approach should be to the back-front, which, in suitable situations, ought to lie open to the pasture-grounds. On the sides more highly ornamented, a well-kept gravel-walk may embrace the walls; to this the shaven lawn and shrubbery succeed; next, the grounds closely pastured; and, lastly, the surrounding country, which ought not to be considered as out of the artist's reach: for his art consists not more in decorating particular spots, than in endeavouring to render the whole face of nature delightful.

Another reason for this mode of arrangement is, objects immediately under the eye are seen more distinctly than those at a distance, and ought to be such as are pleasing in the detail. The beauties of a flower can be discerned on a near view only; whilst at a distance a roughet of coppice-wood, and the most elegant arrangement... Part II. EXECUTION OF THE GENERAL SUBJECTS.

Improvements in general may be clasped under the following heads: The Hunting-Box, The Ornamented Cottage, the Villa, and the Principal Residence.

But before any step can be taken towards the execution of the design, be it large or small, a map or plan of the place, exactly as it lies in its unimproved state, should be made; with a corresponding sketch, to mark the intended improvements upon. Not a hovel nor a twig should be touched, until the artist has studied maturely the natural abilities of the place, and has decidedly fixed in his mind, and finally settled on his plan, the proposed alterations; and even then, let him "dare with caution."

1. Of Improvements adapted to a Hunting-Box.

Here art has little to do. Hunting may be called the amusement of nature; and the place appropriated to it ought to be no farther altered from its natural state than decency and convenience require:

With men who live in the present age of refinement, "a want of decency is a want of sense."

The style throughout should be rustic. If shrubs be required, they should be of the hardier sorts; the box, the holly, the laurel. The trees should be the oak and the beech, which give in autumn an agreeable variety of foliage, and anticipate as it were the season of diversion. A suite of paddocks should be seen from the house; and if a view of distant covers can be caught, the back-ground will be complete. The stable, the kennel, and the leaping-bar, are the fictitious accompaniments; in the construction of which simplicity, substantialness, and convenience, should prevail.

2. Of the Styles of an Ornamented Cottage.

Neatness and simplicity ought to mark the style of this rational retreat. Ostentation and show should be cautiously avoided; even elegance should not be attempted; though it may not be hid, if it offer itself spontaneously.

Nothing, however, should appear vulgar, nor should simplicity be pared down to baldness; every thing whimsical or expensive ought to be studiously avoided;—chasteness and frugality should appear in every part.

Vol. VII. Part II. to appear more or less in the fore-ground; if the distance abound with wood, the fore-ground should be thickened, lest baldness should offend; if open and naked, elegance rather than richness ought to be studied, lest heaviness should appear.

It is far from being any part of our plan to cavil unnecessarily at artifices, whether living or dead; we cannot, however, refrain from expressing a concern for the almost total neglect of the principles here in ornamenting the vicinages of villas. It is to be regretted, that in the present practice these principles seem to be generally lost sight of. Without any regard to uniting the house with the adjacent country, and, indeed, seemingly without any regard whatever to the offscaple, one invariable plan of embellishment prevails; namely, that of stripping the fore-ground entirely naked, or nearly so, and surrounding it with a wavy border of shrubs and a gravel walk; leaving the area, whether large or small, one naked sheet of green sward.

In small confined spots, this plan may be eligible. But a simple border round a large unbroken lawn only serves to show what more is wanted. Simplicity in general is pleasing; but even simplicity may be carried to an extreme, so as to convey no other idea than that of poverty and baldness. Besides, how often do we see in natural scenery, the holly and the fox-glove flourishing at the foot of an oak, and the primrose and the campion adding charms to the hawthorn scattered over the pastured lawn? And we conceive that fingle trees footed with evergreens and native flowers, and clumps as well as borders of shrubs, are admissible in ornamental as well as in natural scenery.

The species of shrub will vary with the purpose. If the principal intention be a winter retreat, evergreens and the early-blooming shrubs should predominate; but in a place to be frequented in summer and autumn, the deciduous tribes ought chiefly to be planted.

4. Of the Principal Residence.

Here the whole art centres. The artist has here full scope for a display of taste and genius. He has an extent of country under his eye, and will endeavour to make the most of what nature and accident have spread before him.

Round a principal residence, a gentleman may be supposed to have some considerable estate, and it is not a shrubbery and a ground only which fall under the consideration of the artist; he ought to endeavour to disclose to the view, either from the house or some other point, as much as he conveniently can of the adjacent estate. The love of possession is deeply planted in every man's breast; and places should bow to the gratification of their owners. To curtail the view by an artificial side-screen, or any other unnatural machinery, so as to deprive a man of the satisfaction of overlooking his own estate, is an absurdity which no artist ought to be permitted to be guilty of. It is very different, however, where the property of another intrudes upon the eye: Here the view may, with some colour of propriety, be bounded by a woody screen.

The grounds, however, by a proper management, may be made independent of whatever is external; and though prospects are nowhere more delightful than from a point of view which is also a beautiful spot, yet if in the environs of such a garden they should be wanting, the elegant, picturesque, and various scenes within itself, almost supply the deficiency.

"This (says Mr Wheatley) is the character of the gardens at Stowe: for there the views in the country are only circumstances subordinate to the scenes; and the principal advantage of the situation is the variety of the ground within the inclosure. The house stands on the brow of a gentle ascent; part of the gardens lie on the declivity, and spread over the bottom beyond it: this eminence is separated by a broad winding valley from another which is higher and steeper; and the descents of both are broken by large dips and hollows, sloping down the sides of the hills. The whole space is divided into a number of scenes, each distinguished with taste and fancy; and the changes are so frequent, so sudden, and complete, the transitions so artfully conducted, that the same ideas are never continued or repeated to satiety.

These gardens were begun when regularity was in fashion; and the original boundary is still preserved, on account of its magnificence: for round the whole circuit, of between three or four miles, is carried a very broad gravel-walk, planted with rows of trees, and open either to the park or the country; a deep sunk fence attends it all the way, and comprehends a space of near 400 acres. But in the interior scenes of the garden, few traces of regularity appear; where it yet remains in the plantations, it is generally disguised: every symptom, almost, of formality is obliterated from the ground; and an octagon basin in the bottom is now converted into an irregular piece of water, which receives on one hand two beautiful streams, and falls on the other down a cascade into a lake.

In the front of the house is a considerable lawn, open to the water: beyond which are two elegant Doric pavilions, placed in the boundary of the garden, but not marking it, though they correspond to each other; for still further back, on the brow of some rising grounds without the inclosure, stands a noble Corinthian arch, by which the principal approach is conducted, and from which all the gardens are seen, reclining back against their hills: they are rich with plantations; full of objects; and lying on both sides of the house almost equally, every part is within a moderate distance, notwithstanding the extent of the whole.

On the right of the lawn, but concealed from the house, is a perfect garden-scene, called the queen's amphitheatre, where art is avowed, though formality is avoided. The fore ground is scooped into a gentle hollow. The plantations on the sides, though but just rescued from regularity, yet in style are contrasted to each other: they are, on one hand, chiefly thickets, standing out from a wood; on the other, they are open groves, through which a glimpse of the water is visible. At the end of the hollow on a little knole, quite detached from all appendages, is placed an open Ionic rotunda: beyond it, a large lawn slopes across the view; a pyramid stands on the brow; the queen's pillar, in a recess on the descent; and all the three buildings, being evidently intended for ornament alone, are peculiarly adapted to a garden-scene. Yet their number does not render it gay: the dusky hue of the pyramid, the retired situation of the queen's pillar, and... the solitary appearance of the rotunda, give it an air of gravity; it is encompassed with wood; and all the external views are excluded; even the opening into the lawn is but an opening into an inclosure.

At the king's pillar, very near to this, is another lovely spot; which is small, but not confined; for no termination appears; the ground one way, the water another, retire under the trees out of sight, but nowhere meet with a boundary. The view is first over some very broken ground, thinly and irregularly planted; then between two beautiful clumps, which feather down to the bottom; and afterwards across a glade, and through a little grove beyond it, to that part of the lake where the thickets, close upon the brink, spread a tranquillity over the surface, in which their shadows are reflected. Nothing is admitted to disturb that quiet; no building obtrudes; for objects to fix the eye are needles in a scene which may be comprehended at a glance; and none would suit the pastoral idea it inspires, of elegance too refined for a cottage, and of simplicity too pure for any other edifice.

The situation of the rotunda promises a prospect more enlarged; and in fact most of the objects on this side of the garden are there visible; but they want both connection and contrast; each belongs peculiarly to some other spot: they all are blended together in this, without meaning; and are rather shown on a map, than formed into a picture. The water only is capital; a broad expanse of it is so near as to be seen under the little groups on the bank without interruption. Beyond it is a wood, which in one place leaves the lake, to run up behind a beautiful building, of three pavilions joined by arcades, all of the Ionic order: it is called Kent's Building. And never was a design more happily conceived: it seems to be characteristically proper for a garden; it is so elegant, so varied, and so purely ornamental: it directly fronts the rotunda, and a narrow rim of the country appears above the trees beyond it. But the effect even of this noble object is fainter here than at other points: its position is not the most advantageous; and it is but one among many other buildings, none of which are principal.

The scene at the temple of Bacchus is in character directly the reverse of that about the rotunda, though the space and the objects are nearly the same in both: but in this, all the parts concur to form one whole. The ground from every side shelves gradually towards the lake; the plantations on the further bank open to show Kent's building, rise from the water's edge towards the knole on which it stands, and close again behind it. That elegant structure, inclined a little from a front view, becomes more beautiful by being thrown into perspective; and though at a greater distance, is more important than before, because it is alone in the view: for the queen's pillar and the rotunda are removed far aside; and every other circumstance refers to this interesting object: the water attracts, the ground and the plantations direct, the eye thither: and the country does not just glimmer in the offscrape, but is close and eminent above the wood, and connected by clumps with the garden. The scene all together is a most animated landscape; and the splendor of the building; the reflection in the lake; the transparency of the water, and picturesque beauty of its form, diversified by little groups on the brink, while on the broadest expanse no more trees cast their shadows than are sufficient to vary the tints of the surface; all these circumstances, varying in lustre with each other, and uniting in the point to which every part of the scene is related, diffuse a peculiar brilliancy over the whole composition.

The view from Kent's building is very different from those which have been hitherto described. They are all directed down the declivity of the lawn. This rises up the ascent: the eminence being crowned with lofty wood, becomes thereby more considerable; and the hillocks into which the general fall is broken, sloping further out this way than any other, they also acquire an importance which they had not before; that, particularly, on which the rotunda is placed, seems here to be a profound situation; and the structure appears to be properly adapted to open an exposure. The temple of Bacchus, on the contrary, which commands such an illustrious view, is itself a retired object, close under the covert. The wood rising on the brow, and descending down one side of the hill, is shown to be deep; is high, and seems to be higher than it is. The lawn too is extensive; and part of the boundary being concealed, it suggests the idea of a still greater extent. A small portion only of the lake indeed is visible; but it is not here an object: it is a part of the spot; and neither termination being in sight, it has no diminutive appearance: if more water had been admitted, it might have hurt the character of the place, which is sober and temperate; neither solemn nor gay; great and simple, but elegant; above rusticity, yet free from ostentation.

There are the principal scenes on one side of the gardens. On the other, close to the lawn before the house, is the winding valley abovementioned: the lower part of it is assigned to the Elysian fields. These are watered by a lovely rivulet; are very lightsome, and very airy; so thinly are the trees scattered about them; are open at one end to more water and a larger glade; and the rest of the boundary is frequently broken to let in objects afar off, which appear still more distant from the manner of showing them. The entrance is under a Doric arch, which coincides with an opening among the trees, and forms a kind of vista, through which a Pembroke bridge just below, and a lodge built like a castle in the park, are seen in a beautiful perspective. That bridge is at one extremity of the gardens; the queen's pillar is at another; yet both are visible from the same station in the Elysian fields: and all these external objects are unassistedly introduced, divested of their own appurtenances, and combined with others which belong to the spot. The temple of Friendship also is in sight, just without the place; and within it, are the temples of ancient Virtue, and of the British worthies; the one in an elevated situation, the other low down in the valley, and near to the water: both are decorated with the effigies of those who have been most distinguished for military, civil, or literary merit; and near to the former stands a rostral column, sacred to the memory of Captain Grenville, who fell in an action at sea: by placing here the meed of valour, and by filling these fields with the representations of those who have deserved

Part II.

heft of mankind, the character intended to be given to the spot is justly and poetically expressed; and the number of the images which are presented or excited, perfectly corresponds with it. Solitude was never rec- ognized among the charms of Elysium; it has been al- ways pictured as the mansion of delight and of joy: and in this imitation, every circumstance accords with that established idea. The vivacity of the stream which flows through the vale; the glimpses of another ap- proaching to join it; the sprightly verdure of the green sward, and every bush of the British worthies reflected in the water; the variety of the trees; the lightness of the greens; their disposition; all of them distinct objects, and dispersed over gentle inequalities of the ground; together with the multiplicity of ob- jects both within and without, which embellish and enliven the scene; give it a gaiety, which the imagi- nation can hardly conceive, or the heart wish to be ex- ceeded.

Close by this spot, and a perfect contrast to it, is the alder grove; a deep recess in the midst of a shade, which the blaze of noon cannot brighten. The water seems to be a stagnated pool, eating into its banks; and of a peculiar colour, not dirty but clouded, and dimly reflecting the dun hue of the horse chestnuts and alders which press upon the brink: the stems of the latter, rising in clusters from the same root, bear one another down, and slant over the water. Millhaven elms and ragged haws are frequent in the wood which encompasses the hollow; the trunks of dead trees are left standing amongst them; and the uncouth fumach, and the yew, with elder, nut, and holly, compose the underwood: some limes and laurels are intermixed; but they are not many: the wood is in general of the darkest greens; and the foliage is thickened with ivy, which not only twines up the trees, but creeps also over the falls of the ground: these are steep and ab- rupt: the gravel-walk is covered with moss; and a grotto at the end, faced with broken flints and pebbles, preserves, in the simplicity of its materials, and the darkness of its colour, all the character of its situation: two little rotundas near it were better away; one building is sufficient for such a scene of solitude as this, in which more circumstances of gloom concur than were ever perhaps collected together.

Immediately above the alder-grove is the principal eminence in the gardens. It is divided by a great dip into two pinnacles; upon one of which is a large Go- thic building. The space before this structure is an extensive lawn: the ground on one side falls imme- diately into the dip; and the trees which border the lawn, sinking with the ground, the house rises above them, and fills the interval: the vast pile seems to be still larger than it is; for it is thrown into perspective, and between and above the heads of the trees, the up- per story, the porticoes, the turrets and battlements, and all the slated roofs, appear in a noble confusion. On the other side of the Gothic building, the ground slopes down a long-continued declivity into a bottom, which seems to be perfectly irriguous. Divers streams wander about it in several directions: the conflux of that which runs from the Elysian fields with another below it, is full in sight; and a plain wooden bridge thrown over the latter, and evidently designed for a passage, imposes an air of reality on the river. Be- yond it is one of the Doric porticoes which front the principal house; but now it is alone; it stands on a little bank above the water, and is seen under some trees at a dis- tance before it: thus grouped, and thus accompanied, it is a happy incident, concurring with many other circumstances to distinguish this landscape by a charac- ter of cheerfulness and amenity.

From the Gothic building a broad walk leads to the Grecian valley, which is a scene of more grandeur than any in the gardens. It enters them from the park, spreading at first to a considerable breadth; then winds; grows narrower, but deeper; and loses itself at last in a thicket, behind some lofty elms, which in- terrupt the sight of the termination. Lovely woods and groves hang all the way on the declivities: and the open space is broken by detached trees; which, near the park, are cautiously and sparingly introduced, lest the breadth should be contracted by them; but as the valley sinks, they advance more boldly down the sides, stretch across or along the bottom, and clutter at times into groups and forms, which multiply the varieties of the larger plantations. Those are some- times close coverts, and sometimes open groves: the trees rise in one upon high stems, and feather down to the bottom in another; and between them are short openings into the park or the gardens. In the midst of the scene, just at the bend of the valley, and com- manding it on both sides, upon a large, easy, natural rise, is placed the temple of Concord and Victory: at one place its majestic front of five Ionic columns, sup- porting a pediment filled with bas relief, and the points of it crowned with statues, faces the view; at another, the beautiful colonnade, on the side, of ten lofty pillars, retires in perspective. It is seen from every part; and impressing its own character of dignity on all around, it spreads an awe over the whole: but no gloom, no melancholy, attends it: the sensations it excites are ra- ther placid; but full of respect, admiration, and fo- lemnity: no water appears to enliven, no distant pro- spect to enrich the view; the parts of the scene are large, the idea of it sublime, and the execution hap- py; it is independent of all adventitious circumstances, and relies on itself for its greatness.

The scenes which have been described are such as are most remarkable for beauty or character; but the gardens contain many more; and even the objects in these, by their several combinations, produce very dif- ferent effects, within the distance sometimes of a few paces, from the unevenness of the ground, the variety of the plantations, and the number of the buildings. The multiplicity of the last has indeed been often urged as an objection to Stowe; and certainly, when all are seen by a stranger in two or three hours, twenty or thirty capital structures, mixed with others of inferior note, do seem too many. But the growth of the wood every day weakens the objection, by concealing them one from the other; each belongs to a distinct scene; and if they are considered separately, at different times, and at leisure, it may be difficult to determine which to take away. Yet still it must be acknowledged that their frequency destroys all ideas of silence and retire- ment. Magnificence and splendour are the characteris- tics of Stowe: it is like one of those places celebrated in antiquity, which were devoted to the purposes of religion, and filled with sacred groves, hallowed foun- tains,

Principal Residence

tains, and temples dedicated to several deities; the resort of distant nations, and the object of veneration to half the heathen world: this pomp is, at Stowe, blended with beauty; and the place is equally distinguished by its amenity and its grandeur.

In the midst of so much embellishment as may be introduced into this species of garden, a plain field, or a sheep-walk, is sometimes an agreeable relief, and even wilder scenes may occasionally be admitted. These indeed are not properly parts of a garden, but they may be comprehended within the verge of it; and the proximity to the more ornamented scenes is at least a convenience, that the transition from the one to the other may be easy, and the change always in our option. For though a spot in the highest state of improvement be a necessary appendage to a seat; yet, in a place which is perfect, other characters will not be wanting: if they cannot be had on a large scale, they are acceptable on a smaller; and so many circumstances are common to all, that they may often be intermixed; they may always border on each other."

But on this head it would be in vain to attempt to lay down particular rules: different places are marked by sets of features as different from each other as are those in mens faces. Much must be left to the skill and taste of the artist; and let those be what they may, nothing but mature study of the natural abilities of the particular place to be improved can render him equal to the execution, so as to make the most of the materials that are placed before him.

Some few general rules may nevertheless be laid down. The approach ought to be conducted in such a manner, that the striking features of the place shall burst upon the view at once: no trick however should be made use of: all should appear to fall in naturally. In leading towards the house, its direction should not be fully in front, nor exactly at an angle, but should pass obliquely upon the house and its accompaniments; so that their position with respect to each other, as well as the perspective appearance of the house itself, may vary at every step: and having shown the front and the principal wing, or other accommodation, to advantage, the approach should wind to the back-front, which, as has been already observed, ought to lie open to the park or pastured grounds.

The improvements and the rooms from which they are to be seen should be in unison. Thus, the view from the drawing-room should be highly embellished, to correspond with the beauty and elegance within: everything here should be feminine, elegant, beautiful, such as attunes the mind to politeness and lively conversation. The breakfasting-room should have more masculine objects in view: wood, water, and an extended country for the eye to roam over; such as allure us imperceptibly to the ride or the chase. The eating and banqueting rooms need no exterior allurements.

There is a harmony in taste as in music: variety, and even wildness upon some occasions, may be admitted; but discord cannot be allowed. If, therefore, a place be so circumstanced as to consist of properties totally irreconcilable, the parts ought, if possible, to be separated in such a manner, that, like the air and the recitative, the adagio and the allegro, in music, they may set off each other's charms by the contrast.

These observations, in the elegant performance whence they are extracted, the author illustrates by the following description and proposed improvement of Persefield, the seat of Mr Morris, near Cleptow in Monmouthshire, a place upon which nature has been peculiarly lavish, field, ibid., of her favours, and which has been spoken of by Mr p. 616, &c., Wheatley, Mr Gilpin, and other writers, in the most flattering terms.

Persefield is situated upon the banks of the river Wye, which divides Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire, and which was formerly the boundary between England and Wales. The general tendency of the river is from north to south; but about Persefield it describes by its winding course the letter S, somewhat compressed, so as to reduce it in length and increase its width. The grounds of Persefield are lifted high above the bed of the river, shelving, and form the brink of a lofty and steep precipice, towards the south-west.

"The lower limb of the letter is filled with Persewood, which makes a part of Persefield; but is at present an impenetrable thicket of coppice-wood. This dips to the south-east down to the water's edge; and, seen from the top of the opposite rock, has a good effect.

"The upper limb receives the farms of Llancot: rich and highly cultivated: broken into inclosures, and scattered with groups and single trees: two well looking farm-houses in the centre, and a neat white chapel on one side: altogether a lovely little paradisaical spot. The lowliness of its situation stamps it with an air of meekness and humility; and the natural barriers which surround it adds that of peacefulness and security. These picturesque farms do not form a low flat bottom, subject to be overflowed by the river; but take the form of a gorget, rising fullest in the middle, and falling on every side gently to the brink of the Wye; except on the east-side, where the top of the gorget leans in an easy manner against a range of perpendicular rock; as if to show its dulk with advantage to the walks of Persefield.

"This rock stretches across what may be called the Isthmus, leaving only a narrow pass down into the fields of Llancot, and joins the principal range of rocks at the lower bend of the river.

"To the north, at the head of the letter, stands an immense rock (or rather a pile of immense rocks heaped one above another) called Windcliff; the top of which is elevated as much above the grounds of Persefield as those are above the fields of Llancot.

"These several rocks, with the wooded precipices on the side of Persefield, form a circular inclosure, about a mile in diameter, including Persewood, Llancot, the Wye, and a small meadow lying at the foot of Windcliff.

"The grounds are divided into the upper and lower lawn, by the approach to the house: a small irregular building, standing near the brink of the precipice, but facing down the lower lawn, a beautiful ground, falling precipitately every way into a valley which shelves down in the middle, and is scattered with groups and single trees in an excellent style.

"The view from the house is soft, rich, and beautifully picturesque; the lawn and woods of Persefield and the opposite banks of the river; the Wye, near its mouth, winding through 'meadows green as emerald,'..." principal rald,' in a manner peculiarly graceful; the Severn, here very broad, backed by the wooded and highly cultivated hills of Gloucestershire, Wiltshire, and Somersetshire. Not one rock enters into the composition. The whole view consists of an elegant arrangement of lawn, wood, and water.

"The upper lawn is a less beautiful ground, and the view from it, though it command the 'cultivated hills and rich valleys of Monmouthshire,' bounded by the Severn and backed by the Mendip-hills, is much inferior to that from the house.

"To give variety to the views from Persefield, to disclose the native grandeur which surrounds it, and to set off its more striking features to advantage, walks have been cut through the woods and on the face of the precipice which border the grounds to the south and east. The viewer enters these walks at the lower corner of the lower lawn.

"The first point of view is marked by an alcove, from which are seen the bridge and the town of Chepstow, with its castle situated in a remarkable manner on the very brink of a perpendicular rock, washed by the Wye; and beyond these the Severn shows a small portion of its silvery surface.

"Proceeding a little farther along the walk, a view is caught which the painter might call a complete landscape: The castle with the serpentine part of the Wye below Chepstow, intermixed in a peculiar manner with the broad waters of the Severn, form the foreground; which is backed by distant hills; the rocks, crowned with wood, lying between the alcove and the castle, to the right; and Cattlehill farm, elevated upon the opposite banks of the river, to the left, form the two side-screens. This point is not marked, and must frequently be lost to the stranger.

"The grotto, situated at the head of Perse wood, commands a near view of the opposite rocks; magnificent beyond description! The littleness of human art was never placed in a more humiliating point of view; the castle of Chepstow, a noble fortress, is compared with these natural bulwarks, a mere house of cards.

"Above the grotto, upon the isthmus of the Persefield side, is a shrubbery strangely misplaced! an unpardonable intrusion upon the native grandeur of this scene. Mr Gilpin's observations upon this, as upon every other occasion, are very just. He says, 'It is pity the ingenious embellisher of these scenes could not have been satisfied with the great beauties of nature which he commanded. The shrubberies he has introduced in this part of his improvements I fear will rather be esteemed paltry.'

"It is not the shrub which offends; it is the formal introduction of it. Wild underwood may be an appendage of the grandest scene; it is a beautiful appendage. A bed of violets or of lilies may enamel the ground with propriety at the foot of an oak; but if you introduce them artificially in a border, you introduce a trifling formality, and disgrace the noble object you wish to adorn."

"The walk now leaves the wood, and opens upon the lower lawn, until coming near the house it enters the alarming precipice facing Llancot; winding along the face of it in a manner which does great honour to the artist. Sometimes the fragments of rock which fall in its way are avoided, at other times partially removed, so as to conduct the path along a ledge carved out of the rock; and in one instance, a huge fragment, of a somewhat conical shape and many yards high, is perforated; the path leading through its base.

"This is a thought which will hand down to future times the greatness of Mr Morris's taste; the design and the execution are equally great; not a mark of a tool to be seen; all appears perfectly natural. The arch-way is made winding, so that on the approach it appears to be the mouth of a cave; and, on a nearer view, the idea is strengthened by an allowable deception; a black dark hole on the side next the cliff, which, seen from the entrance before the perforation is discovered, appears to be the darksome inlet into the body of the cave.

"From this point, that vast inclosure of rocks and precipices which marks the peculiar magnificence of Persefield is seen to advantage. The area, containing in this point of view the fields of Llancot and the lower margin of Perse-wood, is broken in a manner peculiarly picturesque by the graceful winding of the Wye; here washing a low gravelly shore, and their sweeping at the feet of the rocks, which rise in some places perpendicular from the water; but in general they have a wooded offset at the base; above which they rise to one, two, or perhaps three or four hundred feet high; exposing one full face, silvered by age, and bearded with ivy, growing out of the wrinkle-like crevices and fissures. If one might be allowed to compare the paltry performances of art with the magnificent works of nature, we should say, that this inclosure resembles a prodigious fortress which has lain long in ruins. It is in reality one of nature's strong holds; and as such has probably been frequently made use of. Across the isthmus on the Gloucestershire side there are the remains of a deep intrenchment, called to this day the Bulwark; and tradition still teems with the extraordinary warlike feats that have been performed among this romantic scenery.

"From the perforated rock, the walk leads down to the cold-bath (a complete place), seated about the mid-way of the precipice, in this part left steep; and from the cold-bath a rough path winds down to the meadow, by the side of the Wye, from whence the precipice on the Persefield side is seen with every advantage; the giant fragments, hung with shrubs and ivy, rise in a gaily manner from amongst the underwood, and show themselves in all their native savage grace.

"From the cold-bath upward, a coach-road (very steep and difficult) leads to the top of the cliff, at the upper corner of the upper lawn. Near the top of the road is a point which commands one of the most pleasing views of Persefield: The Wye sweeping through a gravelly vale which opens to the left;—Llancot backed by its rocks, with the Severn immediately behind them; and, seen in this point of view, seems to be divided from the Wye by only a sharp ridge of rock, with a precipice on either side; and behind the Severn, the vale and wooded hills of Gloucestershire.

"From this place a road leads to the top of Windcliff—a astonishing sight! The face of nature probably affords not a more magnificent scene! Llancot in all its grandeur, the grounds of Persefield, the castle and town of Chepstow, the graceful windings of the Wye below, and its confluence with the Severn; to the left the forest of Dean; to the right, the rich marshes and picturesque..." Part II.

Principal picturesque mountains of South Wales; a broad view of the Severn, opening its sea-like mouth; the confluence of the Avon, with merchant ships at anchor in King-road, and vessels of different descriptions under sail; Aust-Cliff, and the whole vale of Berkeley, backed by the wooded twells of Gloucestershire, the view terminating in clouds of distant hills, rising one behind another, until the eye becomes unable to distinguish the earth's billowy surface from the clouds themselves.

The leading principle of the improvement proposed by our author is, to "separate the sublime from the beautiful; so that in viewing the one, the eye might not so much as suspect that the other was near."

"Let the hanging walk be conducted entirely along the precipices, or through the thickets, so as to disclose the natural scenery, without once discovering the lawn or any other acquired softness. Let the path be as rude as if trodden only by wild beasts and savages, and the resting places, if any, as rustic as possible.

"Erase entirely the present shrubbery, and lay out another as elegant as nature and art could render it before the house, swelling it out into the lawn towards the tables; between which and the kitchen-garden make a narrow winding entrance.

"Convert the upper lawn into a deer-paddock, suffering it to run as wild, rough, and forest-like as total negligence would render it.

"The viewer would then be thus conducted: He would enter the hanging-walk by a sequestered path at the lower corner of the lawn, pursuing it through the wood to beneath the grotto, and round the headland, or winding through Persewood, to the perforated rock and the cold-bath, without once conceiving an idea (if possible) that art, or at least that much art, had been made use of in disclosing the natural grandeur of the surrounding objects; which ought to appear as if they presented themselves to his view, or at most as if nothing was wanted but his own penetration and judgment to find them out. The walk should therefore be conducted in such a manner, that the breaks might be quite natural; yet the points of view obvious, or requiring nothing but a block or a stone to mark them. A stranger at least wants no seat here; he is too eager, in the early part of his walk, to think of lounging upon a bench.

"From the cold-bath he would ascend the steep, near the top of which a commodious bench or benches might be placed: the fatigue of ascending the hill would require a resting-place; and there are few points which afford a more pleasing view than this; it is grand, without being too broad and glaring.

"From these benches he would enter the forelost part. Here the idea of Nature in her primitive state would be strengthened: the roughnesses and deer to the right, and the rocks in all their native wildness to the left. Even Llancot might be shut out from the view by the natural shrubbery of the cliff. The Lover's Leap, however (a tremendous peep), might remain; but no benches, nor other work of art, should here be seen. A natural path, deviating near the brink of the precipice, would bring the viewer down to the lower corner of the park; where benches should be placed in a happy point, so as to give a full view of the rocks and native wildnesses, and at the same time hide the farmhouses, fields, and other acquired beauties of Llancot.

"Having satiated himself with this savage scene, he would be led, by a still rustic path, through the labyrinth—when the shrubbery, the lawn, with all its appendages, the graceful Wye, and the broad silver Severn, would break upon the eye with every advantage of ornamental nature: the transition could not fail to strike.

"From this soft scene he would be shown to the top of Windcliff, where in one vast view he would unite the sublime and beautiful of Persefield."

Only one other particular remains to be noticed before closing this article. A place which is the residence of a family all the year is very defective, if some portion of it be not set apart for the enjoyment of a fine day, for air, and exercise, in winter. To such a spot shelter is absolutely essential; and evergreens being the thickest covert, are therefore the best: their verdure also is then agreeable to the eye; and they may be arranged so as to produce beautiful mixture of greens, with more certainty than deciduous trees, and with almost equal variety: they may be collected into a wood; and through that wood gravel-walks may be led along openings of a considerable breadth, free from large trees which would intercept the rays of the sun, and winding in such a manner as to avoid any draft of wind, from whatever quarter it may blow. But when a retreat at all times is thus secured, other spots may be adapted only to occasional purposes; and be sheltered towards the north or the east on one hand, while they are open to the sun on the other. The few hours of cheerfulness and warmth which its beams afford are so valuable as to justify the sacrifice even of the principles of beauty to the enjoyment of them; and therefore no objections of fannetism or formality can prevail against the pleasantness of a straight walk, under a thick hedge, or a south wall. The eye may, however, be diverted from the screen by a border before it, where the acornite and the snowdrop, the crocus and hepatica, brought forward by the warmth of the situation, will be welcome harbingers of spring; and on the opposite side of the walk, little tufts of lauriflora, and of variegated evergreens, may be planted. The spot thus enlivened by a variety of colours, and even a degree of bloom, may be still further improved by a green-house. The entertainment which exotics afford peculiarly belongs to this part of the year; and if amongst them be interspersed some of our earliest flowers, they will there blow before their time, and anticipate the gaiety of the season which is advancing. The walk may also lead to the flows, where the climate and the plants are always the same. And the kitchen-garden should not be far off; for that is never quite destitute of produce, and always an active scene: the appearance of bustle is alone engaging; and the occupations there are an earnest of the happier seasons to which they are preparative. By these expedients even the winter may be rendered cheerful in a place where shelter is provided against all but the bitterest inclemencies of the sky, and agreeable objects and interesting amusements are contrived for every hour of tolerable weather.

For the particular operations in gardening, see Planting, Pruning, Grafting, Inoculating, Kitchen-Garden, Orchard, Green-House, Hot-House, Inarching, Espalier, &c. and the culture and management of different plants under their respective names.