"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..." Bridge, &c. 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 milkmaid's careless step Has through yon pasture green, from file to file Imprest a kindred curve: the scudding hare Draws to her dewy prent feet, o'er thymy heaths, A path as gently waving—

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. It should be the study of the artist to make the same road answer, as far as may be, the twofold 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 a 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 fortres 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 twofold 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 stumps of rooted trees, without any other marks of tools upon them than those of the saw which severed 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 presides, white or stone colour has a much better effect."

"VI. BUILDINGS probably were first introduced into gardens merely for contrivance, to afford refuge from a sudden shower, and shelter against the wind; or, at the most, to be seats for a party; or for retirement. They have since been converted into objects, and now the original use is too often forgotten in the greater 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 scrupulous an attention to the style of the structure, occasions a poverty and dulness 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..." Buildings, greasable 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 preferve that solemnity within which it 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 entitled to be considered as characters.

1. As objects, they are designed either to distinguish, or to break, or to adorn, the scenes to which they are applied.

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, 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 continual plain, is in prospect, objects which catch the eye supplant 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 thrown. 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 ostentation of buildings, even of these which are principal, is a common error; and when all 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 boomed 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 connexion: 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 landscape.

Accompaniments are important to a building; but they lose much of their effect when they do not appear to be casual. A little mound just large enough for it; a small piece of water below, of no other use, than Buildings 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 exceptional 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 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 sufficiency 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 cast 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 splendour 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 tranquillity, 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 dullness, 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 refraining 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 splendour best 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 taste and dignity, deserves every distinction; it may, however, in the depth of a wood, be so circumstanced, that the want of those advantages to which it seems entitled will not be regretted. A happier situation cannot be devised, than that of the temple of Pan on the south ledge on 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