Pope is in most instances singularly happy in his compliments, but the allusion to STOWE—as "a work to wonder at"—has rather an equivocal appearance, and so also has the mention of Lord Cobham, the proprietor of the place. In the first draught of the poem, the name of Bridgeman was inserted where Cobham's now stands, but as Bridgeman mistook the compliment for a sneer, the poet thought the landscape-gardener had proved himself undeserving of the intended honor, and presented the second-hand compliment to the peer. The grounds at Stowe, more praised by poets than any other private estate in England, extend to 400 acres. There are many other fine estates in our country of far greater extent, but of less celebrity. Some of them are much too extensive, perhaps, for true enjoyment. The Earl of Leicester, when he had completed his seat at Holkham, observed, that "It was a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's country. I look round; not a house is to be seen but mine. I am the Giant of Giant-castle and have ate up all my neighbours." The Earl must have felt that the political economy of Goldsmith in his Deserted Village was not wholly the work of imagination.

Sweet smiling village! Loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen And desolation saddens all the green,— One only master grasps thy whole domain.

* * * * *

Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

"Hearty, cheerful Mr. Cotton," as Lamb calls him, describes Stowe as a Paradise.

ON LORD COBHAM'S GARDEN.

It puzzles much the sage's brains Where Eden stood of yore, Some place it in Arabia's plains, Some say it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute, As all the curious know; For he hath proved beyond dispute, That Paradise is STOWE.

Thomson also calls the place a paradise:

Ye Powers That o'er the garden and the rural seat Preside, which shining through the cheerful land In countless numbers blest Britannia sees; O, lead me to the wide-extended walks, The fair majestic paradise of Stowe! Not Persian Cyrus on Ionia's shore E'er saw such sylvan scenes; such various art By genius fired, such ardent genius tamed By cool judicious art, that in the strife All-beauteous Nature fears to be out-done.

The poet somewhat mars the effect of this compliment to the charms of Stowe, by making it a matter of regret that the owner

His verdant files Of ordered trees should here inglorious range, Instead of squadrons flaming o'er the field, And long embattled hosts.

This representation of rural pursuits as inglorious, a sentiment so out of keeping with his subject, is soon after followed rather inconsistently, by a sort of paraphrase of Virgil's celebrated picture of rural felicity, and some of Thomson's own thoughts on the advantages of a retreat from active life.

Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he! Who far from public rage Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life, &c.

Then again:—

Let others brave the flood in quest of gain And beat for joyless months, the gloomy wave. Let such as deem it glory to destroy, Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek; Unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail, The virgin's shriek and infant's trembling cry.

* * * * *

While he, from all the stormy passions free That restless men involve, hears and but hears, At distance safe, the human tempest roar, Wrapt close in conscious peace. The fall of kings, The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the man, who from the world escaped, In still retreats and flowery solitudes, To nature's voice attends, from month to month, And day to day, through the revolving year; Admiring sees her in her every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart; Takes what she liberal gives, nor asks for more. He, when young Spring, protudes the bursting gems Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale Into his freshened soul; her genial hour He full enjoys, and not a beauty blows And not an opening blossom breathes in vain.

Thomson in his description of Lord Townshend's seat of Rainham—another English estate once much celebrated and still much admired—exclaims:

Such are thy beauties, Rainham, such the haunts Of angels, in primeval guiltless days When man, imparadised, conversed with God.

And Broome after quoting the whole description in his dedication of his own poems to Lord Townshend, observes, in the old fashioned fulsome strain, "This, my lord, is but a faint picture of the place of your retirement which no one ever enjoyed more elegantly."[019] "A faint picture!" What more would the dedicator have wished Thomson to say? Broome, if not contented with his patron's seat being described as an earthly Paradise, must have desired it to be compared with Heaven itself, and thus have left his Lordship no hope of the enjoyment of a better place than he already possessed.

Samuel Boyse, who when without a shirt to his back sat up in his bed to write verses, with his arms through two holes in his blanket, and when he went into the streets wore paper collars to conceal the sad deficiency of linen, has a poem of considerable length entitled The Triumphs of Nature. It is wholly devoted to a description of this magnificent garden,[020] in which, amongst other architectural ornaments, was a temple dedicated to British worthies, where the busts of Pope and Congreve held conspicuous places. I may as well give a specimen of the lines of poor Boyse. Here is his description of that part of Lord Cobham's grounds in which is erected to the Goddess of Love, a Temple containing a statue of the Venus de Medicis.

Next to the fair ascent our steps we traced, Where shines afar the bold rotunda placed; The artful dome Ionic columns bear Light as the fabric swells in ambient air. Beneath enshrined the Tuscan Venus stands And beauty's queen the beauteous scene commands: The fond beholder sees with glad surprize, Streams glisten, lawns appear, and forests rise— Here through thick shades alternate buildings break, There through the borders steals the silver lake, A soft variety delights the soul, And harmony resulting crowns the whole.

Congreve in his Letter in verse addressed to Lord Cobham asks him to

Tell how his pleasing Stowe employs his time.

It would seem that the proprietor of Stowe took particular interest in the disposition of the water on his grounds. Congreve enquires

Or dost thou give the winds afar to blow Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe, And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes, To turn the level lawns to liquid plains? To raise the creeping rills from humble beds And force the latent spring to lift their heads, On watery columns, capitals to rear, That mix their flowing curls with upper air?

* * * * *

Or slowly walk along the mazy wood To meditate on all that's wise and good.

The line:—

To turn the level lawn to liquid plains—

Will remind the reader of Pope's

Lo! Cobham comes and floats them with a lake—

And it might be thought that Congreve had taken the hint from the bard of Twickenham if Congreve's poem had not preceded that of Pope. The one was published in 1729, the other in 1731.

Cowper is in the list of poets who have alluded to "Cobham's groves" and Pope's commemoration of them.

And Cobham's groves and Windsor's green retreats When Pope describes them have a thousand sweets.

"Magnificence and splendour," says Mr. Whately, the author of Observations on Modern Gardening, "are the characteristics 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 fountains, and temples dedicated to several deities; the resort of distant nations and the object of veneration to half the heathen world: the pomp is, at Stowe, blended with beauty; and the place is equally distinguished by its amenity and grandeur." Horace Walpole speaks of its "visionary enchantment." "I have been strolling about in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire, from garden to garden," says Pope in one of his letters, "but still returning to Lord Cobham's with fresh satisfaction."[021]

The grounds at Stowe, until the year 1714, were laid out in the old formal style. Bridgeman then commenced the improvements and Kent subsequently completed them.

Stowe is now, I believe, in the possession of the Marquis of Chandos, son of the Duke of Buckingham. It is melancholy to state that the library, the statues, the furniture, and even some of the timber on the estate, were sold in 1848 to satisfy the creditors of the Duke.

Pope was never tired of improving his own grounds. "I pity you, Sir," said a friend to him, "because you have now completed every thing belonging to your gardens."[022] "Why," replied Pope, "I really shall be at a loss for the diversion I used to take in carrying out and finishing things: I have now nothing left me to do but to add a little ornament or two along the line of the Thames." I dare say Pope was by no means so near the end of his improvements as he and his friend imagined. One little change in a garden is sure to suggest or be followed by another. Garden-improvements are "never ending, still beginning." The late Dr. Arnold, the famous schoolmaster, writing to a friend, says—"The garden is a constant source of amusement to us both (self and wife); there are always some little alterations to be made, some few spots where an additional shrub or two would be ornamental, something coming into blossom; so that I can always delight to go round and see how things are going on." A garden is indeed a scene of continual change. Nature, even without the aid of the gardener, has "infinite variety," and supplies "a perpetual feast of nectared sweets where no crude surfeit reigns."

Spence reports Pope to have said: "I have sometimes had an idea of planting an old gothic cathedral in trees. Good large poplars, with their white stems, cleared of boughs to a proper height would serve very well for the columns, and might form the different aisles or peristilliums, by their different distances and heights. These would look very well near, and the dome rising all in a proper tuft in the middle would look well at a distance." This sort of verdant architecture would perhaps have a pleasing effect, but it is rather too much in the artificial style, to be quite consistent with Pope's own idea of landscape-gardening. And there are other trees that would form a nobler natural cathedral than the formal poplar. Cowper did not think of the poplar, when he described a green temple-roof.

How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems.

Almost the only traces of Pope's garden that now remain are the splendid Spanish chesnut-trees and some elms and cedars planted by the poet himself. A space once laid out in winding walks and beautiful shrubberies is now a potatoe field! The present proprietor, Mr. Young, is a wholesale tea-dealer. Even the bones of the poet, it is said, have been disturbed. The skull of Pope, according to William Howitt, is now in the private collection of a phrenologist! The manner in which it was obtained, he says, is this:—On some occasion of alteration in the church at Twickenham, or burial of some one in the same spot, the coffin of Pope was disinterred, and opened to see the state of the remains. By a bribe of L50 to the Sexton, possession of the skull was obtained for one night; another skull was then returned instead of the poet's.

It has been stated that the French term Ferme Ornee was first used in England by Shenstone. It exactly expressed the character of his grounds. Mr. Repton said that he never strolled over the scenery of the Leasowes without lamenting the constant disappointment to which Shenstone exposed himself by a vain attempt to unite the incompatible objects of ornament and profit. "Thus," continued Mr. Repton, "the poet lived under the continual mortification of disappointed hope, and with a mind exquisitely sensible, he felt equally the sneer of the great man at the magnificence of his attempt and the ridicule of the farmer at the misapplication of his paternal acres." The "sneer of the great man." is perhaps an allusion to what Dr. Johnson says of Lord Lyttelton:—that he "looked with disdain" on "the petty State" of his neighbour. "For a while," says Dr. Johnson, "the inhabitants of Hagley affected to tell their acquaintance of the little fellow that was trying to make himself admired; but when by degrees the Leasowes forced themselves into notice, they took care to defeat the curiosity which they could not suppress, by conducting their visitants perversely to inconvenient points of view, and introducing them at the wrong end of a walk to detect a deception; injuries of which Shenstone would heavily complain." Mr. Graves, the zealous friend of Shenstone, indignantly denies that any of the Lyttelton family had evinced so ungenerous a feeling towards the proprietor of the Leasowes who though his "empire" was less "spacious and opulent" had probably a larger share of true taste than even the proprietor of Hagley, the Lyttelton domain—though Hagley has been much, and I doubt not, deservedly, admired.[023]

Dr. Johnson states that Shenstone's expenses were beyond his means,— that he spent his estate in adorning it—that at last the clamours of creditors "overpowered the lamb's bleat and the linnet's song; and that his groves were haunted by beings very different from fauns and fairies." But this is gross exaggeration. Shenstone was occasionally, indeed, in slight pecuniary difficulties, but he could always have protected himself from the intrusion of the myrmidons of the law by raising money on his estate; for it appears that after the payment of all his debts, he left legacies to his friends and annuities to his servants.

Johnson himself is the most scornful of the critics upon Shenstone's rural pursuits. "The pleasure of Shenstone," says the Doctor, "was all in his eye: he valued what he valued merely for its looks. Nothing raised his indignation more than to ask if there were any fishes in his water." Dr. Johnson would have seen no use in the loveliest piece of running water in the world if it had contained nothing that he could masticate! Mrs. Piozzi says of him, "The truth is, he hated to hear about prospects and views, and laying out grounds and taste in gardening." "That was the best garden," he said, "which produced most roots and fruits; and that water was most to be prized which contained most fish." On this principle of the valuelessness of those pleasures which enter the mind through the eye, Dr. Johnson should have blamed the lovers of painting for dwelling with such fond admiration on the canvas of his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds. In point of fact, Dr. Johnson had no more sympathy with the genius of the painter or the musician than with that of the Landscape gardener, for he had neither an eye nor an ear for Art. He wondered how any man could be such a fool as to be moved to tears by music, and observed, that, "one could not fill one's belly with hearing soft murmurs or looking at rough cascades." No; the loveliness of nature does not satisfy the thirst and hunger of the body, but it does satisfy the thirst and hunger of the soul. No one can find wheaten bread or wine or venison or beef or plum-pudding or turtle-soup in mere sounds and sights, however exquisite—neither can any one find such substantial diet within the boards of a book—no not even on the pages of Shakespeare, or even those of the Bible itself,—but men can find in sweet music and lovely scenery and good books something infinitely more precious than all the wine, venison, beef, or plum-pudding, or turtle-soup that could be swallowed during a long life by the most craving and capacious alderman of London! Man is of a dual nature: he is not all body. He has other and far higher wants and enjoyments than the purely physical—and these nobler appetites are gratified by the charms of nature and the creations of inspired genius.

Dr. Johnson's gastronomic allusions to nature recal the old story of a poet pointing out to a utilitarian friend some white lambs frolicking in a meadow. "Aye," said, the other, "only think of a quarter of one of them with asparagus and mint sauce!" The story is by some supposed to have had a Scottish origin, and a prosaic North Briton is made to say that the pretty little lambs, sporting amidst the daisies and buttercups, would "mak braw pies."

A profound feeling for the beautiful is generally held to be an essential quality in the poet. It is a curious fact, however, that there are some who aspire to the rank of poet, and have their claims allowed, who yet cannot be said to be poetical in their nature—for how can that nature be, strictly speaking, poetical which denies the sentiment of Keats, that

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever?

Both Scott and Byron very earnestly admired Dr. Johnson's "London" and "The Vanity of Human Wishes." Yet the sentiments just quoted from the author of those productions are far more characteristic of a utilitarian philosopher than of one who has been endowed by nature with

The vision and the faculty divine,

and made capable, like some mysterious enchanter, of

Clothing the palpable and the familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn.

Crabbe, also a prime favorite with the authors of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and Childe Harold, is recorded by his biographer—his own son—to have exhibited "a remarkable indifference to all the proper objects of taste;" to have had "no real love for painting, or music, or architecture or for what a painter's eye considers as the beauties of landscape." "In botany, grasses, the most useful but the least ornamental, were his favorites." "He never seemed to be captivated with the mere beauty of natural objects or even to catch any taste for the arrangement of his specimens. Within, the house was a kind of scientific confusion; in the garden the usual showy foreigners gave place to the most scarce flowers, especially to the rarer weeds, of Britain; and were scattered here and there only for preservation. In fact he neither loved order for its own sake nor had any very high opinion of that passion in others."[024] Lord Byron described Crabbe to be

Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

What! was he a better painter of nature than Shakespeare? The truth is that Byron was a wretched critic, though a powerful poet. His praises and his censures were alike unmeasured.

His generous ardor no cold medium knew.

He seemed to recognize no great general principles of criticism, but to found all his judgments on mere prejudice and passion. He thought Cowper "no poet," pronounced Spenser "a dull fellow," and placed Pope above Shakespeare. Byron's line on Crabbe is inscribed on the poet's tombstone at Trowbridge. Perhaps some foreign visitor on reading the inscription may be surprized at his own ignorance when he learns that it is not the author of Macbeth and Othello that he is to regard as the best painter of nature that England has produced, but the author of the Parish Register and the Tales of the Hall. Absurd and indiscriminate laudations of this kind confound all intellectual distinctions and make criticism ridiculous. Crabbe is unquestionably a vigorous and truthful writer, but he is not the best we have, in any sense of the word.

Though Dr. Johnson speaks so contemptuously of Shenstone's rural pursuits, he could not help acknowledging that when the poet began "to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks and to wind his waters," he did all this with such judgment and fancy as "made his little domain the envy of the great and the admiration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers."

Mason, in his English Garden, a poem once greatly admired, but now rarely read, and never perhaps with much delight, does justice to the taste of the Poet of the Leasowes.

Nor, Shenstone, thou Shalt pass without thy meed, thou son of peace! Who knew'st, perchance, to harmonize thy shades Still softer than thy song; yet was that song Nor rude nor inharmonious when attuned To pastoral plaint, or tale of slighted love.

English pleasure-gardens have been much imitated by the French. Viscomte Girardin, at his estate of Ermenonville, dedicated an inscription in amusing French-English to the proprietor of the Leasowes—

THIS PLAIN STONE TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE; IN HIS WRITINGS HE DISPLAYED A MIND NATURAL; AT LEASOWES HE LAID ARCADIAN GREENS RURAL.

The Viscomte, though his English composition was so quaint and imperfect, was an elegant writer in his own language, and showed great taste and skill in laying out his grounds. He had visited England, and carefully studied our modern style of gardening. He had personally consulted Shenstone, Mason, Whateley and other English authors on subjects of rural taste. He published an eloquent description of his own estate. His famous friend Rousseau wrote the preface to it. The book was translated into English. Rousseau spent his last days at Ermenonville and was buried there in what is called The Isle of Poplars. The garden is now in a neglected state, but the tomb of Rousseau remains uninjured, and is frequently visited by the admirers of his genius.

"Dr. Warton," says Bowles, "mentions Milton and Pope as the poets to whom English Landscape is indebted, but he forgot poor Shenstone." A later writer, however, whose sympathy for genius communicates such a charm to all his anecdotes and comments in illustration of the literary character, has devoted a chapter of his Curiosities of Literature to a notice of the rural tastes of the proprietor of the Leasowes. I must give a brief extract from it.

"When we consider that Shenstone, in developing his fine pastoral ideas in the Leasowes, educated the nation into that taste for landscape-gardening, which has become the model of all Europe, this itself constitutes a claim on the gratitude of posterity. Thus the private pleasures of a man of genius may become at length those of a whole people. The creator of this new taste appears to have received far less notice than he merited. The name of Shenstone does not appear in the Essay on Gardening, by Lord Orford; even the supercilious Gray only bestowed a ludicrous image on these pastoral scenes, which, however, his friend Mason has celebrated; and the genius of Johnson, incapacitated by nature to touch on objects of rural fancy, after describing some of the offices of the landscape designer, adds, that 'he will not inquire whether they demand any great powers of mind.' Johnson, however, conveys to us his own feelings, when he immediately expresses them under the character of 'a sullen and surly speculator.' The anxious life of Shenstone would indeed have been remunerated, could he have read the enchanting eulogium of Whateley on the Leasowes; which, said he, 'is a perfect picture of his mind—simple, elegant and amiable; and will always suggest a doubt whether the spot inspired his verse, or whether in the scenes which he formed, he only realised the pastoral images which abound in his songs.' Yes! Shenstone had been delighted could he have heard that Montesquieu, on his return home, adorned his 'Chateau Gothique, mais orne de bois charmans, don't j'ai pris l'idee en Angleterre;' and Shenstone, even with his modest and timid nature, had been proud to have witnessed a noble foreigner, amidst memorials dedicated to Theocritus and Virgil, to Thomson and Gesner, raising in his grounds an inscription, in bad English, but in pure taste, to Shenstone himself; for having displayed in his writings 'a mind natural,' and in his Leasowes 'laid Arcadian greens rural;' and recently Pindemonte has traced the taste of English gardening to Shenstone. A man of genius sometimes receives from foreigners, who are placed out of the prejudices of his compatriots, the tribute of posterity!"

"The Leasowes," says William Howitt, "now belongs to the Atwood family; and a Miss Atwood resides there occasionally. But the whole place bears the impress of desertion and neglect. The house has a dull look; the same heavy spirit broods over the lawns and glades: And it is only when you survey it from a distance, as when approaching Hales-Owen from Hagley, that the whole presents an aspect of unusual beauty."

Shenstone was at least as proud of his estate of the Leasowes as was Pope of his Twickenham Villa—perhaps more so. By mere men of the world, this pride in a garden may be regarded as a weakness, but if it be a weakness it is at least an innocent and inoffensive one, and it has been associated with the noblest intellectual endowments. Pitt and Fox and Burke and Warren Hastings were not weak men, and yet were they all extremely proud of their gardens. Every one, indeed, who takes an active interest in the culture and embellishment of his garden, finds his pride in it and his love for it increase daily. He is delighted to see it flourish and improve beneath his care. Even the humble mechanic, in his fondness for a garden, often indicates a feeling for the beautiful, and a genial nature. If a rich man were openly to boast of his plate or his equipages, or a literary man of his essays or his sonnets, as lovers of flowers boast of their geraniums or dahlias or rhododendrons, they would disgust the most indulgent hearer. But no one is shocked at the exultation of a gardener, amateur or professional, when in the fulness of his heart he descants upon the unrivalled beauty of his favorite flowers:

'Plants of his hand, and children of his care.'

"I have made myself two gardens," says Petrarch, "and I do not imagine that they are to be equalled in all the world. I should feel myself inclined to be angry with fortune if there were any so beautiful out of Italy." "I wish," says poor Kirke White writing to a friend, "I wish you to have a taste of these (rural) pleasures with me, and if ever I should live to be blessed with a quiet parsonage, and another great object of my ambition—a garden, I have no doubt but we shall be for some short intervals at least two quite contented bodies." The poet Young, in the latter part of his life, after years of vain hopes and worldly struggles, gave himself up almost entirely to the sweet seclusion of a garden; and that peace and repose which cannot be found in courts and political cabinets, he found at last

In sunny garden bowers Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And buds and bells with changes mark the hours.

He discovered that it was more profitable to solicit nature than to flatter the great.

For Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.

People of a poetical temperament—all true lovers of nature—can afford, far better than more essentially worldly beings, to exclaim with Thomson.

I care not Fortune what you me deny, You cannot bar me of free Nature's grace, You cannot shut the windows of the sky Through which Aurora shows her brightening face: You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns and living streams at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave:— Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

The pride in a garden laid out under one's own directions and partly cultivated by one's own hand has been alluded to as in some degree unworthy of the dignity of manhood, not only by mere men of the world, or silly coxcombs, but by people who should have known better. Even Sir William Temple, though so enthusiastic about his fruit-trees, tells us that he will not enter upon any account of flowers, having only pleased himself with seeing or smelling them, and not troubled himself with the care of them, which he observes "is more the ladies part than the men's." Sir William makes some amends for this almost contemptuous allusion to flowers in particular by his ardent appreciation of the use of gardens and gardening in general. He thus speaks of their attractions and advantages: "The sweetness of the air, the pleasantness of the smell, the verdure of plants, the cleanness and lightness of food, the exercise of working or walking, but above all, the exemption from cares and solicitude, seem equally to favor and improve both contemplation and health, the enjoyment of sense and imagination, and thereby the quiet and ease of the body and mind." Again: "As gardening has been the inclination of kings and the choice of philosophers, so it has been the common favorite of public and private men, a pleasure of the greatest and the care of the meanest; and indeed an employment and a possession for which no man is too high or too low." This is just and liberal; though I can hardly help still feeling a little sore at Sir William's having implied in the passage previously quoted, that the care of flowers is but a feminine occupation. As an elegant amusement, it is surely equally well fitted for all lovers of the beautiful, without reference to their sex.

It is not women and children only who delight in flower-gardens. Lord Bacon and William Pitt and the Earl of Chatham and Fox and Burke and Warren Hastings—all lovers of flowers—were assuredly not men of frivolous minds or of feminine habits. They were always eager to exhibit to visitors the beauty of their parterres. In his declining years the stately John Kemble left the stage for his garden. That sturdy English yeoman, William Cobbett, was almost as proud of his beds of flowers as of the pages of his Political Register. He thus speaks of gardening:

"Gardening is a source of much greater profit than is generally imagined; but, merely as an amusement or recreation it is a thing of very great value. It is not only compatible with but favorable to the study of any art or science; it is conducive to health by means of the irresistible temptation which it offers to early rising; to the stirring abroad upon one's legs, for a man may really ride till he cannot walk, sit till he cannot stand, and lie abed till he cannot get up. It tends to turn the minds of youth from amusements and attachments of a frivolous and vicious nature, it is a taste which is indulged at home; it tends to make home pleasant, and to endear to us the spot on which it is our lot to live,—and as to the expenses attending it, what are all these expenses compared with those of the short, the unsatisfactory, the injurious enjoyment of the card-table, and the rest of those amusements which are sought from the town." Cobbett's English Gardener.

"Other fine arts," observes Lord Kames, "may be perverted to excite irregular and even vicious emotions: but gardening, which inspires the purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to promote every good affection. The gaiety and harmony of mind it produceth, inclining the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to others, and to make them happy as he is himself, tend naturally to establish in him a habit of humanity and benevolence."

Every thoughtful mind knows how much the face of nature has to do with human happiness. In the open air and in the midst of summer-flowers, we often feel the truth of the observation that "a fair day is a kind of sensual pleasure, and of all others the most innocent." But it is also something more, and better. It kindles a spiritual delight. At such a time and in such a scene every observer capable of a religious emotion is ready to exclaim—

Oh! there is joy and happiness in every thing I see, Which bids my soul rise up and bless the God that blesses me

Anon.

The amiable and pious Doctor Carey of Serampore, in whose grounds sprang up that dear little English daisy so beautifully addressed by his poetical proxy, James Montgomery of Sheffield, in the stanzas commencing:—

Thrice welcome, little English flower! My mother country's white and red—

was so much attached to his Indian garden, that it was always in his heart in the intervals of more important cares. It is said that he remembered it even upon his death-bed, and that it was amongst his last injunctions to his friends that they should see to its being kept up with care. He was particularly anxious that the hedges or railings should always be in such good order as to protect his favorite shrubs and flowers from the intrusion of Bengalee cattle.

A garden is a more interesting possession than a gallery of pictures or a cabinet of curiosities. Its glories are never stationary or stale. It has infinite variety. It is not the same to-day as it was yesterday. It is always changing the character of its charms and always increasing them in number. It delights all the senses. Its pleasures are not of an unsocial character; for every visitor, high or low, learned or illiterate, may be fascinated with the fragrance and beauty of a garden. But shells and minerals and other curiosities are for the man of science and the connoisseur. And a single inspection of them is generally sufficient: they never change their aspect. The Picture-Gallery may charm an instructed eye but the multitude have little relish for human Art, because they rarely understand it:—while the skill of the Great Limner of Nature is visible in every flower of the garden even to the humblest swain.

It is pleasant to read how the wits and beauties of the time of Queen Anne used to meet together in delightful garden-retreats, 'like the companies in Boccaccio's Decameron or in one of Watteau's pictures.' Ritchings Lodge, for instance, the seat of Lord Bathurst, was visited by most of the celebrities of England, and frequently exhibited bright groups of the polite and accomplished of both sexes; of men distinguished for their heroism or their genius, and of women eminent for their easy and elegant conversation, or for gaiety and grace of manner, or perfect loveliness of face and form—all in harmonious union with the charms of nature. The gardens at Ritchings were enriched with Inscriptions from the pens of Congreve and Pope and Gay and Addison and Prior. When the estate passed into the possession of the Earl of Hertford, his literary lady devoted it to the Muses. "She invited every summer," says Dr. Johnson, "some poet into the country to hear her verses and assist her studies." Thomson, who praises her so lavishly in his "Spring," offended her ladyship by allowing her too clearly to perceive that he was resolved not to place himself in the dilemma of which Pope speaks so feelingly with reference to other poetasters.

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I, Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish and an aching head.

But though "the bard more fat than bard beseems" was restive under her ladyship's "poetical operations," and too plainly exhibited a desire to escape the infliction, preferring the Earl's claret to the lady's rhymes, she should have been a little more generously forgiving towards one who had already made her immortal. It is stated, that she never repeated her invitation to the Poet of the Seasons, who though so impatient of the sound of her tongue when it "rolled" her own "raptures," seems to have been charmed with her at a distance—while meditating upon her excellencies in the seclusion of his own study. The compliment to the Countess is rather awkwardly wedged in between descriptions of "gentle Spring" with her "shadowing roses" and "surly Winter" with his "ruffian blasts." It should have commenced the poem.

O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts With unaffected grace, or walk the plain, With innocence and meditation joined In soft assemblage, listen to my song, Which thy own season paints; when nature all Is blooming and benevolent like thee.

Thomson had no objection to strike off a brief compliment in verse, but he was too indolent to keep up in propria persona an incessant fire of compliments, like the bon bons at a Carnival. It was easier to write her praises than listen to her verses. Shenstone seems to have been more pliable. He was personally obsequious, lent her recitations an attentive ear, and was ever ready with the expected commendation. It is not likely that her ladyship found much, difficulty in collecting around her a crowd of critics more docile than Thomson and quite as complaisant as Shenstone. Let but a Countess

Once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens, how the style refines!

Though Thomson's first want on his arrival in London from the North was a pair of shoes, and he lived for a time in great indigence, he was comfortable enough at last. Lord Lyttleton introduced him to the Prince of Wales (who professed himself the patron of literature) and when his Highness questioned him about the state of his affairs, Thomson assured him that they "were in a more poetical posture than formerly." The prince bestowed upon the poet a pension of a hundred pounds a year, and when his friend Lord Lyttleton was in power his Lordship obtained for him the office of Surveyor General of the Leeward Islands. He sent a deputy there who was more trustworthy than Thomas Moore's at Bermuda. Thomson's deputy after deducting his own salary remitted his principal three hundred pounds per annum, so that the bard 'more fat than bard beseems' was not in a condition to grow thinner, and could afford to make his cottage a Castle of Indolence. Leigh Hunt has versified an anecdote illustrative of Thomson's luxurious idleness. He who could describe "Indolence" so well, and so often appeared in the part himself,

Slippered, and with hands, Each in a waistcoat pocket, (so that all Might yet repose that could) was seen one morn Eating a wondering peach from off the tree.

A little summer-house at Richmond which Thomson made his study is still preserved, and even some articles of furniture, just as he left them.[025] Over the entrance is erected a tablet on which is the following inscription:

HERE THOMSON SANG THE SEASONS AND THEIR CHANGE.

Thomson was buried in Richmond Church. Collins's lines to his memory, beginning

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

are familiar to all readers of English poetry.

Richmond Hill has always been the delight not of poets only but of painters. Sir Joshua Reynolds built a house there, and one of the only three landscapes which seem to have survived him, is a view from the window of his drawing-room. Gainsborough was also a resident in Richmond. Richmond gardens laid out or rather altered by Brown, are now united with those of Kew.

Savage resided for some time at Richmond. It was the favorite haunt of Collins, one of the most poetical of poets, who, as Dr. Johnson says, "delighted to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens." Wordsworth composed a poem upon the Thames near Richmond in remembrance of Collins. Here is a stanza of it.

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames, that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now fair river! come to me; O glide, fair stream for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Thomson's description of the scenery of Richmond Hill perhaps hardly does it justice, but the lines are too interesting to be omitted.

Say, shall we wind Along the streams? or walk the smiling mead? Or court the forest-glades? or wander wild Among the waving harvests? or ascend, While radiant Summer opens all its pride, Thy hill, delightful Shene[026]? Here let us sweep The boundless landscape now the raptur'd eye, Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send, Now to the sister hills[027] that skirt her plain, To lofty Harrow now, and now to where Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow In lovely contrast to this glorious view Calmly magnificent, then will we turn To where the silver Thames first rural grows There let the feasted eye unwearied stray, Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat, And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks, Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd, With her the pleasing partner of his heart, The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay, And polish'd Cornbury woos the willing Muse Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt In Twit nam's bowers, and for their Pope implore The healing god[028], to loyal Hampton's pile, To Clermont's terrass'd height, and Esher's groves; Where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd By the soft windings of the silent Mole, From courts and senates Pelham finds repose Enchanting vale! beyond whate'er the Muse Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung! O vale of bliss! O softly swelling hills! On which the Power of Cultivation lies, And joys to see the wonders of his toil.

The Revd. Thomas Maurice wrote a poem entitled Richmond Hill, but it contains nothing deserving of quotation after the above passage from Thomson. In the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers the labors of Maurice are compared to those of Sisyphus

So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves Dull Maurice, all his granite weight of leaves.

Towards the latter part of the last century the Empress of Russia (Catherine the Second) expressed in a French letter to Voltaire her admiration of the style of English Gardening.[029] "I love to distraction," she writes, "the present English taste in gardening. Their curved lines, their gentle slopes, their pieces of water in the shape of lakes, their picturesque little islands. I have a great contempt for straight lines and parallel walks. I hate those fountains which torture water into forms unknown to nature. I have banished all the statues to the vestibules and to the galleries. In a word English taste predominates in my plantomanie."[030]

I omitted when alluding to those Englishmen in past times who anticipated the taste of the present day in respect to laying out grounds, to mention the ever respected name of John Evelyn, and as all other writers before me, I believe, who have treated upon gardening, have been guilty of the same oversight, I eagerly make his memory some slight amends by quoting the following passage from one of his letters to his friend Sir Thomas Browne.

"I might likewise hope to refine upon some particulars, especially concerning the ornaments of gardens, which I shall endeavor so to handle as that they may become useful and practicable, as well as magnificent, and that persons of all conditions and faculties, which delight in gardens, may therein encounter something for their owne advantage. The modell, which I perceive you have seene, will aboundantly testifie my abhorrency of those painted and formal projections of our cockney gardens and plotts, which appeare like gardens of past-board and marchpane, and smell more of paynt then of flowers and verdure; our drift is a noble, princely, and universal Elysium, capable of all the amoenities that can naturally be introduced into gardens of pleasure, and such as may stand in competition with all the august designes and stories of this nature, either of antient or moderne tymes; yet so as to become useful and significant to the least pretences and faculties. We will endeavour to shew how the air and genious of gardens operat upon humane spirits towards virtue and sanctitie: I mean in a remote, preparatory and instrumentall working. How caves, grotts, mounts, and irregular ornaments of gardens do contribute to contemplative and philosophicall enthusiasme; how elysium, antrum, nemus, paradysus, hortus, lucus, &c., signifie all of them rem sacram it divinam; for these expedients do influence the soule and spirits of men, and prepare them for converse with good angells; besides which, they contribute to the lesse abstracted pleasures, phylosophy naturall; and longevitie: and I would have not onely the elogies and effigie of the antient and famous garden heroes, but a society of the paradisi cultores persons of antient simplicity, Paradisean and Hortulan saints, to be a society of learned and ingenuous men, such as Dr. Browne, by whome we might hope to redeeme the tyme that has bin lost, in pursuing Vulgar Errours, and still propagating them, as so many bold men do yet presume to do."

The English style of landscape-gardening being founded on natural principles must be recognized by true taste in all countries. Even in Rome, when art was most allowed to predominate over nature, there were occasional instances of that correct feeling for rural beauty which the English during the last century and a half have exhibited more conspicuously than other nations. Atticus preferred Tully's villa at Arpinum to all his other villas; because at Arpinum, Nature predominated over art. Our Kents and Browns[031] never expressed a greater contempt, than was expressed by Atticus, for all formal and artificial decorations of natural scenery.

The spot where Cicero's villa stood, was, in the time of Middleton, possessed by a convent of monks and was called the Villa of St. Dominic. It was built, observes Mr. Dunlop, in the year 1030, from the fragments of the Arpine Villa!

Art, glory, Freedom, fail—but Nature still is fair.

"Nothing," says Mr. Kelsall, "can be imagined finer than the surrounding landscape. The deep azure of the sky, unvaried by a single cloud—Sora on a rock at the foot of the precipitous Appennines—both banks of the Garigliano covered with vineyards—the fragor aquarum, alluded to by Atticus in his work De Legibus—the coolness, the rapidity and ultramarine hue of the Fibrenus—the noise of its cataracts—the rich turquoise color of the Liris—the minor Appennines round Arpino, crowned with umbrageous oaks to the very summits—present scenery hardly elsewhere to be equalled, certainly not to be surpassed, even in Italy."

This description of an Italian landscape can hardly fail to charm the imagination of the coldest reader; but after all, I cannot help confessing to so inveterate a partiality for dear old England as to be delighted with the compliment which Gray, the poet, pays to English scenery when he prefers it to the scenery of Italy. "Mr. Walpole," writes the poet from Italy, "says, our memory sees more than our eyes in this country. This is extremely true, since for realities WINDSOR or RICHMOND HILL is infinitely preferable to ALBANO or FRESCATI."

Sir Walter Scott, with all his patriotic love for his own romantic land, could not withhold his tribute to the loveliness of Richmond Hill,—its "unrivalled landscape" its "sea of verdure."

"They" (The Duke of Argyle and Jeanie Deans) "paused for a moment on the brow of a hill, to gaze on the unrivalled landscape it presented. A huge sea of verdure, with crossing and intersecting promontories of massive and tufted groves was tenanted by numberless flocks and herds which seemed to wander unrestrained and unbounded through the rich pastures. The Thames, here turreted with villas, and there garlanded with forests, moved on slowly and placidly, like the mighty monarch of the scene, to whom all its other beauties were but accessaries, and bore on its bosom an hundred barks and skiffs whose white sails and gaily fluttering pennons gave life to the whole." The Heart of Mid-Lothian.

It must of course be admitted that there are grander, more sublime, more varied and extensive prospects in other countries, but it would be difficult to persuade me that the richness of English verdure could be surpassed or even equalled, or that any part of the world can exhibit landscapes more truly lovely and loveable, than those of England, or more calculated to leave a deep and enduring impression upon the heart. Mr. Kelsall speaks of an Italian sky "uncovered by a single cloud," but every painter and poet knows how much variety and beauty of effect are bestowed upon hill and plain and grove and river by passing clouds; and even our over-hanging vapours remind us of the veil upon the cheek of beauty; and ever as the sun uplifts the darkness the glory of the landscape seems renewed and freshened. It would cheer the saddest heart and send the blood dancing through the veins, to behold after a dull misty dawn, the sun break out over Richmond Hill, and with one broad light make the whole landscape smile; but I have been still more interested in the prospect when on a cloudy day the whole "sea of verdure" has been swayed to and fro into fresher life by the fitful breeze, while the lights and shadows amidst the foliage and on the lawns have been almost momentarily varied by the varying sky. These changes fascinate the eye, keep the soul awake, and save the scenery from the comparatively monotonous character of landscapes in less varying climes. And for my own part, I cordially echo the sentiment of Wordsworth, who when conversing with Mrs. Hemans about the scenery of the Lakes in the North of England, observed: "I would not give up the mists that spiritualize our mountains for all the blue skies of Italy."

Though Mrs. Stowe, the American authoress already quoted as one of the admirers of England, duly appreciates the natural grandeur of her own land, she was struck with admiration and delight at the aspect of our English landscapes. Our trees, she observes, "are of an order of nobility and they wear their crowns right kingly." "Leaving out of account," she adds, "our mammoth arboria, the English Parks have trees as fine and effective as ours, and when I say their trees are of an order of nobility, I mean that they (the English) pay a reverence to them such as their magnificence deserves."

Walter Savage Landor, one of the most accomplished and most highly endowed both by nature and by fortune of our living men of letters, has done, or rather has tried to do, almost as much for his country in the way of enriching its collection of noble trees as Evelyn himself. He laid out L70,000 on the improvement of an estate in Monmouthshire, where he planted and fenced half a million of trees, and had a million more ready to plant, when the conduct of some of his tenants, who spitefully uprooted them and destroyed the whole plantation, so disgusted him with the place, that he razed to the ground the house which had cost him L8,000, and left the country. He then purchased a beautiful estate in Italy, which is still in possession of his family. He himself has long since returned to his native land. Landor loves Italy, but he loves England better. In one of his Imaginary Conversations he tells an Italian nobleman:

"The English are more zealous of introducing new fruits, shrubs and plants, than other nations; you Italians are less so than any civilized one. Better fruit is eaten in Scotland than in the most fertile and cultivated parts of your peninsula. As for flowers, there is a greater variety in the worst of our fields than in the best of your gardens. As for shrubs, I have rarely seen a lilac, a laburnum, a mezereon, in any of them, and yet they flourish before almost every cottage in our poorest villages."

"We wonder in England, when we hear it related by travellers, that peaches in Italy are left under the trees for swine; but, when we ourselves come into the country, our wonder is rather that the swine do not leave them for animals less nice."

Landor acknowledges that he has eaten better pears and cherries in Italy than in England, but that all the other kinds of fruitage in Italy appeared to him unfit for dessert.

The most celebrated of the private estates of the present day in England is Chatsworth, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire. The mansion, called the Palace of the Peak, is considered one of the most splendid residences in the land. The grounds are truly beautiful and most carefully attended to. The elaborate waterworks are perhaps not in the severest taste. Some of them are but costly puerilities. There is a water-work in the form of a tree that sends a shower from every branch on the unwary visitor, and there are snakes that spit forth jets upon him as he retires. This is silly trifling: but ill adapted to interest those who have passed their teens; and not at all an agreeable sort of hospitality in a climate like that of England. It is in the style of the water-works at Versailles, where wooden soldiers shoot from their muskets vollies of water at the spectators.[032]

It was an old English custom on certain occasions to sprinkle water over the company at a grand entertainment. Bacon, in his Essay on Masques, seems to object to getting drenched, when he observes that "some sweet odours suddenly coming forth, without any drops falling, are in such a company as there is steam and heat, things of great pleasure and refreshment." It was a custom also of the ancient Greeks and Romans to sprinkle their guests with fragrant waters. The Gascons had once the same taste: "At times," says Montaigne, "from the bottom of the stage, they caused sweet-scented waters to spout upwards and dart their thread to such a prodigious height, as to sprinkle and perfume the vast multitudes of spectators." The Native gentry of India always slightly sprinkle their visitors with rose-water. It is flung from a small silver utensil tapering off into a sort of upright spout with a pierced top in the fashion of that part of a watering pot which English gardeners call the rose.

The finest of the water-works at Chatsworth is one called the Emperor Fountain which throws up a jet 267 feet high. This height exceeds that of any fountain in Europe. There is a vast Conservatory on the estate, built of glass by Sir Joseph Paxton, who designed and constructed the Crystal Palace. His experience in the building of conservatories no doubt suggested to him the idea of the splendid glass edifice in Hyde Park. The conservatory at Chatsworth required 70,000 square feet of glass. Four miles of iron tubing are used in heating the building. There is a broad carriage way running right through the centre of the conservatory.[033] This conservatory is peculiarly rich in exotic plants of all kinds, collected at an enormous cost. This most princely estate, contrasted with the little cottages and cottage-gardens in the neighbourhood, suggested to Wordsworth the following sonnet.

CHATSWORTH.

Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy tent Of the wild Peak, where new born waters glide Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide As in a dear and chosen banishment With every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried! Yet he whose heart in childhood gave his troth To pastoral dales, then set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, That not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favored life, may honour both.

The two noblest of modern public gardens in England are those at Kensington and Kew. Kensington Gardens were begun by King William the III, but were originally only twenty-six acres in extent. Queen Anne added thirty acres more. The grounds were laid out by the well-known garden-designers, London and Wise.[034] Queen Caroline, who formed the Serpentine River by connecting several detached pieces of water into one, and set the example of a picturesque deviation from the straight line,[035] added from Hyde Park no less than three hundred acres which were laid out by Bridgeman. This was a great boon to the Londoners. Horace Walpole says that Queen Caroline at first proposed to shut up St. James's Park and convert it into a private garden for herself, but when she asked Sir Robert Walpole what it would cost, he answered—"Only three Crowns." This changed her intentions.

The reader of Pope will remember an allusion to the famous Ring in Hyde Park. The fair Belinda was sometimes attended there by her guardian Sylphs:

The light militia of the lower sky.

They guarded her from 'the white-gloved beaux,'

These though unseen are ever on the wing, Hang o'er the box, and hover o'er the Ring.

It was here that the gallantries of the "Merry Monarch" were but too often exhibited to his people. "After dinner," says the right garrulous Pepys in his journal, "to Hyde Parke; at the Parke was the King, and in another Coach, Lady Castlemaine, they greeting one another at every turn."

The Gardens at Kew "Imperial Kew," as Darwin styles it, are the richest in the world. They consist of one hundred and seventy acres. They were once private gardens, and were long in the possession of Royalty, until the accession of Queen Victoria, who opened the gardens to the public and placed them under the control of the Commissioners of Her Majesty's Woods and Forests, "with a view of rendering them available to the general good."

She hath left you all her walks, Her private arbors and new planted orchards On this side Tiber. She hath left them you And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.

They contain a large Palm-house built in 1848.[036] The extent of glass for covering the building is said to be 360,000 square feet. My Mahomedan readers in Hindostan, (I hope they will be numerous,) will perhaps be pleased to hear that there is an ornamental mosque in these gardens. On each of the doors of this mosque is an Arabic inscription in golden characters, taken from the Koran. The Arabic has been thus translated:—

LET THERE BE NO FORCE IN RELIGION. THERE IS NO OTHER GOD EXCEPT THE DEITY. MAKE NOT ANY LIKENESS UNTO GOD.

The first sentence of the translation is rather ambiguously worded. The sentiment has even an impious air: an apparent meaning very different from that which was intended. Of course the original text means, though the English translator has not expressed that meaning—"Let there be no force used in religion."

When William Cobbett was a boy of eleven years of age he worked in the garden of the Bishop of Winchester at Farnham. Having heard much of Kew gardens he resolved to change his locality and his master. He started off for Kew, a distance of about thirty miles, with only thirteen pence in his pocket. The head gardener at Kew at once engaged his services. A few days after, George the Fourth, then Prince of Wales, saw the boy sweeping the lawns, and laughed heartily at his blue smock frock and long red knotted garters. But the poor gardener's boy became a public writer, whose productions were not exactly calculated to excite the merriment of princes.

Most poets have a painter's eye for the disposition of forms and colours. Kent's practice as a painter no doubt helped to make him what he was as a landscape-gardener. When an architect was consulted about laying out the grounds at Blenheim he replied, "you must send for a landscape-painter:" he might have added—"or a poet."

Our late Laureate, William Wordsworth, exhibited great taste in his small garden at Rydal Mount. He said of himself—very truly though not very modestly perhaps,—but modesty was never Wordsworth's weakness—that nature seemed to have fitted him for three callings—that of the poet, the critic on works of art, and the landscape-gardener. The poet's nest—(Mrs. Hemans calls it 'a lovely cottage-like building'[037])—is almost hidden in a rich profusion of roses and ivy and jessamine and virginia-creeper. Wordsworth, though he passionately admired the shapes and hues of flowers, knew nothing of their fragrance. In this respect knowledge at one entrance was quite shut out. He had possessed at no time of his life the sense of smell. To make up for this deficiency, he is said (by De Quincey) to have had "a peculiar depth of organic sensibility of form and color."

Mr. Justice Coleridge tells us that Wordsworth dealt with shrubs, flower-beds and lawns with the readiness of a practised landscape-gardener, and that it was curious to observe how he had imparted a portion of his taste to his servant, James Dixon. In fact, honest James regarded himself as a sort of Arbiter Elegantiarum. The master and his servant often discussed together a question of taste. Wordsworth communicated to Mr. Justice Coleridge how "he and James" were once "in a puzzle" about certain discolored spots upon the lawn. "Cover them with soap-lees," said the master. "That will make the green there darker than the rest," said the gardener. "Then we must cover the whole." "That will not do," objects the gardener, "with reference to the little lawn to which you pass from this." "Cover that," said the poet. "You will then," replied the gardener, "have an unpleasant contrast with the foliage surrounding it."

Pope too had communicated to his gardener at Twickenham something of his own taste. The man, long after his master's death, in reference to the training of the branches of plants, used to talk of their being made to hang "something poetical".

It would have grieved Shakespeare and Pope and Shenstone had they anticipated the neglect or destruction of their beloved retreats. Wordsworth said, "I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them. This little wild flower, Poor Robin, is here constantly courting my attention and exciting what may be called a domestic interest in the varying aspect of its stalks and leaves and flowers." I hope no Englishman meditating to reside on the grounds now sacred to the memory of a national poet will ever forget these words of the poet or treat his cottage and garden at Rydal Mount as some of Pope's countrymen have treated the house and grounds at Twickenham.[038] It would be sad indeed to hear, after this, that any one had refused to spare the Poor Robins and wild geraniums of Rydal Mount. Miss Jewsbury has a poem descriptive of "the Poet's Home." I must give the first stanza:—

WORDSWORTH'S COTTAGE.

Low and white, yet scarcely seen Are its walls of mantling green; Not a window lets in light But through flowers clustering bright, Not a glance may wander there But it falls on something fair; Garden choice and fairy mound Only that no elves are found; Winding walk and sheltered nook For student grave and graver book, Or a bird-like bower perchance Fit for maiden and romance.

Another lady-poet has poured forth in verse her admiration of

THE RESIDENCE OF WORDSWORTH.

Not for the glory on their heads Those stately hill-tops wear, Although the summer sunset sheds Its constant crimson there: Not for the gleaming lights that break The purple of the twilight lake, Half dusky and half fair, Does that sweet valley seem to be A sacred place on earth to me.

The influence of a moral spell Is found around the scene, Giving new shadows to the dell, New verdure to the green. With every mountain-top is wrought The presence of associate thought, A music that has been; Calling that loveliness to life, With which the inward world is rife.

His home—our English poet's home— Amid these hills is made; Here, with the morning, hath he come, There, with the night delayed. On all things is his memory cast, For every place wherein he past, Is with his mind arrayed, That, wandering in a summer hour, Asked wisdom of the leaf and flower.

L.E.L.

The cottage and garden of the poet are not only picturesque and delightful in themselves, but from their position in the midst of some of the finest scenery of England. One of the writers in the book entitled 'The Land we Live in' observes that the bard of the mountains and the lakes could not have found a more fitting habitation had the whole land been before him, where to choose his place of rest. "Snugly sheltered by the mountains, embowered among trees, and having in itself prospects of surpassing beauty, it also lies in the midst of the very noblest objects in the district, and in one of the happiest social positions. The grounds are delightful in every respect; but one view—that from the terrace of moss-like grass—is, to our thinking, the most exquisitely graceful in all this land of beauty. It embraces the whole valley of Windermere, with hills on either side softened into perfect loveliness."

Eustace, the Italian tourist, seems inclined to deprive the English of the honor of being the first cultivators of the natural style in gardening, and thinks that it was borrowed not from Milton but from Tasso. I suppose that most genuine poets, in all ages and in all countries, when they give full play to the imagination, have glimpses of the truly natural in the arts. The reader will probably be glad to renew his acquaintance with Tasso's description of the garden of Armida. I shall give the good old version of Edward Fairfax from the edition of 1687. Fairfax was a true poet and wrote musically at a time when sweetness of versification was not so much aimed at as in a later day. Waller confessed that he owed the smoothness of his verse to the example of Fairfax, who, as Warton observes, "well vowelled his lines."

THE GARDEN OF ARMIDA.

When they had passed all those troubled ways, The Garden sweet spread forth her green to shew; The moving crystal from the fountains plays; Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new, Sunshiny hills, vales hid from Phoebus' rays, Groves, arbours, mossie caves at once they view, And that which beauty most, most wonder brought, No where appear'd the Art which all this wrought.

So with the rude the polished mingled was, That natural seem'd all and every part, Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass, And imitate her imitator Art: Mild was the air, the skies were clear as glass, The trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest's smart, But ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes, This springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms.

The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide, Beside the young, the old and ripened fig, Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side; The apples new and old grew on one twig, The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide, That bended underneath their clusters big; The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour, There purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour.

The joyous birds, hid under green-wood shade, Sung merry notes on every branch and bow, The wind that in the leaves and waters plaid With murmer sweet, now sung and whistled now; Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made: And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low; Thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art, The wind in this strange musick bore his part.

With party-coloured plumes and purple bill, A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill, Her leden was like humane language true; So much she talkt, and with such wit and skill, That strange it seemed how much good she knew; Her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear, Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.

The gently budding rose (quoth she) behold, That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams, Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold In their dear leaves, and less seen, fairer seems, And after spreads them forth more broad and bold, Then languisheth and dies in last extreams, Nor seems the same, that decked bed and bower Of many a lady late, and paramour.

So, in the passing of a day, doth pass The bud and blossom of the life of man, Nor ere doth flourish more, but like the grass Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale and wan: O gather then the rose while time thou hast, Short is the day, done when it scant began; Gather the rose of love, while yet thou may'st Loving be lov'd; embracing, be embrac'd.

He ceas'd, and as approving all he spoke, The quire of birds their heav'nly tunes renew, The turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke, The fowls to shades unseen, by pairs withdrew; It seem'd the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak, And all the gentle trees on earth that grew, It seem'd the land, the sea, and heav'n above, All breath'd out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love.

Godfrey of Bulloigne

I must place near the garden of Armida, Ariosto's garden of Alcina. "Ariosto," says Leigh Hunt, "cared for none of the pleasures of the great, except building, and was content in Cowley's fashion, with "a small house in a large garden." He loved gardening better than he understood it, was always shifting his plants, and destroying the seeds, out of impatience to see them germinate. He was rejoicing once on the coming up of some "capers" which he had been visiting every day, to see how they got on, when it turned out that his capers were elder trees!"

THE GARDEN OF ALCINA.

'A more delightful place, wherever hurled, Through the whole air, Rogero had not found; And had he ranged the universal world, Would not have seen a lovelier in his round, Than that, where, wheeling wide, the courser furled His spreading wings, and lighted on the ground Mid cultivated plain, delicious hill, Moist meadow, shady bank, and crystal rill;

'Small thickets, with the scented laurel gay, Cedar, and orange, full of fruit and flower, Myrtle and palm, with interwoven spray, Pleached in mixed modes, all lovely, form a bower; And, breaking with their shade the scorching ray, Make a cool shelter from the noon-tide hour. And nightingales among those branches wing Their flight, and safely amorous descants sing.

'Amid red roses and white lilies there, Which the soft breezes freshen as they fly, Secure the cony haunts, and timid hare, And stag, with branching forehead broad and high. These, fearless of the hunter's dart or snare, Feed at their ease, or ruminating lie; While, swarming in those wilds, from tuft or steep, Dun deer or nimble goat disporting leap.'

Rose's Orlando Furioso.

Spenser's description of the garden of Adonis is too long to give entire, but I shall quote a few stanzas. The old story on which Spenser founds his description is told with many variations of circumstance and meaning; but we need not quit the pages of the Faerie Queene to lose ourselves amidst obscure mythologies. We have too much of these indeed even in Spenser's own version of the fable.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

Great enimy to it, and all the rest That in the Gardin of Adonis springs, Is wicked Time; who with his scythe addrest Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things, And all their glory to the ground downe flings, Where they do wither and are fowly mard He flyes about, and with his flaggy wings Beates downe both leaves and buds without regard, Ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard.

* * * * *

But were it not that Time their troubler is, All that in this delightful gardin growes Should happy bee, and have immortall blis: For here all plenty and all pleasure flowes; And sweete Love gentle fitts emongst them throwes, Without fell rancor or fond gealosy. Franckly each paramour his leman knowes, Each bird his mate; ne any does envy Their goodly meriment and gay felicity.

There is continual spring, and harvest there Continuall, both meeting at one tyme: For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare. And with fresh colours decke the wanton pryme, And eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme, Which seeme to labour under their fruites lode: The whiles the ioyous birdes make their pastyme Emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode, And their trew loves without suspition tell abrode.

Right in the middest of that Paradise There stood a stately mount, on whose round top A gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise, Whose shady boughes sharp steele did never lop, Nor wicked beastes their tender buds did crop, But like a girlond compassed the hight, And from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop, That all the ground, with pretious deaw bedight, Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight.

And in the thickest covert of that shade There was a pleasaunt arber, not by art But of the trees owne inclination made, Which knitting their rancke braunches part to part, With wanton yvie-twine entrayld athwart, And eglantine and caprifole emong, Fashioned above within their inmost part, That neither Phoebus beams could through them throng, Nor Aeolus sharp blast could worke them any wrong.

And all about grew every sort of flowre, To which sad lovers were transformde of yore, Fresh Hyacinthus, Phoebus paramoure And dearest love; Foolish Narcisse, that likes the watry shore; Sad Amaranthus, made a flowre but late, Sad Amaranthus, in whose purple gore Me seemes I see Amintas wretched fate, To whom sweet poet's verse hath given endlesse date.

Fairie Queene, Book III. Canto VI.

I must here give a few stanzas from Spenser's description of the Bower of Bliss

In which whatever in this worldly state Is sweet and pleasing unto living sense, Or that may dayntiest fantasy aggrate Was poured forth with pleantiful dispence.

The English poet in his Fairie Queene has borrowed a great deal from Tasso and Ariosto, but generally speaking, his borrowings, like those of most true poets, are improvements upon the original.

THE BOWER OF BLISS.

There the most daintie paradise on ground Itself doth offer to his sober eye, In which all pleasures plenteously abownd, And none does others happinesse envye; The painted flowres; the trees upshooting hye; The dales for shade; the hilles for breathing-space; The trembling groves; the christall running by; And that which all faire workes doth most aggrace, The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

One would have thought, (so cunningly the rude[039] And scorned partes were mingled with the fine,) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine; So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify; So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine; So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This Gardin to adorn with all variety.

And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny that the silver flood Through every channel running one might see; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes.

* * * * *

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, To read what manner musicke that mote bee; For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters all agree:

The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; Th' angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall; The waters fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.

The Faerie Queene, Book II. Canto XII.

Every school-boy has heard of the gardens of the Hesperides. The story is told in many different ways. According to some accounts, the Hesperides, the daughters of Hesperus, were appointed to keep charge of the tree of golden apples which Jupiter presented to Juno on their wedding day. A hundred-headed dragon that never slept, (the offspring of Typhon,) couched at the foot of the tree. It was one of the twelve labors of Hercules to obtain possession of some of these apples. He slew the dragon and gathered three golden apples. The gardens, according to some authorities, were situated near Mount Atlas.

Shakespeare seems to have taken Hesperides to be the name of the garden instead of that of its fair keepers. Even the learned Milton in his Paradise Regained, (Book II) talks of the ladies of the Hesperides, and appears to make the word Hesperides synonymous with "Hesperian gardens." Bishop Newton, in a foot-note to the passage in "Paradise Regained," asks, "What are the Hesperides famous for, but the gardens and orchards which they had bearing golden fruit in the western Isles of Africa." Perhaps after all there may be some good authority in favor of extending the names of the nymphs to the garden itself. Malone, while condemning Shakespeare's use of the words as inaccurate, acknowledges that other poets have used it in the same way, and quotes as an instance, the following lines from Robert Greene:—

Shew thee the tree, leaved with refined gold, Whereon the fearful dragon held his seat, That watched the garden called the Hesperides.

Robert Greene.

For valour is not love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?

Love's Labour Lost.

Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touched For death-like dragons here affright thee hard.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre.

Milton, after the fourth line of his Comus, had originally inserted, in his manuscript draft of the poem, the following description of the garden of the Hesperides.

THE GARDEN OF THE HESPERIDES

Amid the Hesperian gardens, on whose banks Bedewed with nectar and celestial songs Eternal roses grow, and hyacinth, And fruits of golden rind, on whose fair tree The scaly harnessed dragon ever keeps His uninchanted eye, around the verge And sacred limits of this blissful Isle The jealous ocean that old river winds His far extended aims, till with steep fall Half his waste flood the wide Atlantic fills; And half the slow unfathomed Stygian pool But soft, I was not sent to court your wonder With distant worlds and strange removed climes Yet thence I come and oft from thence behold The smoke and stir of this dim narrow spot

Milton subsequently drew his pen through these lines, for what reason is not known. Bishop Newton observes, that this passage, saved from intended destruction, may serve as a specimen of the truth of the observation that

Poets lose half the praise they should have got Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Waller.

As I have quoted in an earlier page some unfavorable allusions to Homer's description of a Grecian garden, it will be but fair to follow up Milton's picture of Paradise, and Tasso's garden of Armida, and Ariosto's Garden of Alcina, and Spenser's Garden of Adonis and his Bower of Bliss, with Homer's description of the Garden of Alcinous. Minerva tells Ulysses that the Royal mansion to which the garden of Alcinous is attached is of such conspicuous grandeur and so generally known, that any child might lead him to it;

For Phoeacia's sons Possess not houses equalling in aught The mansion of Alcinous, the king.

I shall give Cowper's version, because it may be less familiar to the reader than Pope's, which is in every one's hand.

THE GARDEN OF ALCINOUS

Without the court, and to the gates adjoined A spacious garden lay, fenced all around, Secure, four acres measuring complete, There grew luxuriant many a lofty tree, Pomgranate, pear, the apple blushing bright, The honeyed fig, and unctuous olive smooth. Those fruits, nor winter's cold nor summer's heat Fear ever, fail not, wither not, but hang Perennial, while unceasing zephyr breathes Gently on all, enlarging these, and those Maturing genial; in an endless course. Pears after pears to full dimensions swell, Figs follow figs, grapes clustering grow again Where clusters grew, and (every apple stripped) The boughs soon tempt the gatherer as before. There too, well rooted, and of fruit profuse, His vineyard grows; part, wide extended, basks In the sun's beams; the arid level glows; In part they gather, and in part they tread The wine-press, while, before the eye, the grapes Here put their blossoms forth, there gather fast Their blackness. On the garden's verge extreme Flowers of all hues[040] smile all the year, arranged With neatest art judicious, and amid The lovely scene two fountains welling forth, One visits, into every part diffused, The garden-ground, the other soft beneath The threshold steals into the palace court Whence every citizen his vase supplies.

Homer's Odyssey, Book VII.

The mode of watering the garden-ground, and the use made of the water by the public—

Whence every citizen his vase supplies—

can hardly fail to remind Indian and Anglo-Indian readers of a Hindu gentleman's garden in Bengal.

Pope first published in the Guardian his own version of the account of the garden of Alcinous and subsequently gave it a place in his entire translation of Homer. In introducing the readers of the Guardian to the garden of Alcinous he observes that "the two most celebrated wits of the world have each left us a particular picture of a garden; wherein those great masters, being wholly unconfined and pointing at pleasure, may be thought to have given a full idea of what seemed most excellent in that way. These (one may observe) consist entirely of the useful part of horticulture, fruit trees, herbs, waters, &c. The pieces I am speaking of are Virgil's account of the garden of the old Corycian, and Homer's of that of Alcinous. The first of these is already known to the English reader, by the excellent versions of Mr. Dryden and Mr. Addison."

I do not think our present landscape-gardeners, or parterre-gardeners or even our fruit or kitchen-gardeners can be much enchanted with Virgil's ideal of a garden, but here it is, as "done into English," by John Dryden, who describes the Roman Poet as "a profound naturalist," and "a curious Florist."

THE GARDEN OF THE OLD CORYCIAN.

I chanc'd an old Corycian swain to know, Lord of few acres, and those barren too, Unfit for sheep or vines, and more unfit to sow: Yet, lab'ring well his little spot of ground, Some scatt'ring pot-herbs here and there he found, Which, cultivated with his daily care And bruis'd with vervain, were his frugal fare. With wholesome poppy-flow'rs, to mend his homely board: For, late returning home, he supp'd at ease, And wisely deem'd the wealth of monarchs less: The little of his own, because his own, did please. To quit his care, he gather'd, first of all, In spring the roses, apples in the fall: And, when cold winter split the rocks in twain, And ice the running rivers did restrain, He stripp'd the bear's foot of its leafy growth, And, calling western winds, accus'd the spring of sloth He therefore first among the swains was found To reap the product of his labour'd ground, And squeeze the combs with golden liquor crown'd His limes were first in flow'rs, his lofty pines, With friendly shade, secur'd his tender vines. For ev'ry bloom his trees in spring afford, An autumn apple was by tale restor'd He knew to rank his elms in even rows, For fruit the grafted pear tree to dispose, And tame to plums the sourness of the sloes With spreading planes he made a cool retreat, To shade good fellows from the summer's heat

Virgil's Georgics, Book IV.

An excellent Scottish poet—Allan Ramsay—a true and unaffected describer of rural life and scenery—seems to have had as great a dislike to topiary gardens, and quite as earnest a love of nature, as any of the best Italian poets. The author of the "Gentle Shepherd" tells us in the following lines what sort of garden most pleased his fancy.

ALLAN RAMSAY'S GARDEN.

I love the garden wild and wide, Where oaks have plum-trees by their side, Where woodbines and the twisting vine Clip round the pear tree and the pine Where mixed jonquils and gowans grow And roses midst rank clover grow Upon a bank of a clear strand, In wrimplings made by Nature's hand Though docks and brambles here and there May sometimes cheat the gardener's care, Yet this to me is Paradise, Compared with prim cut plots and nice, Where Nature has to Act resigned, Till all looks mean, stiff and confined.