*

I was led into this train of thinking upon lately visiting the beautiful gardens of the late Mr. Shenstone, who was himself a poet, and possessed of that warm imagination, which made him ever foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness. Could he but have foreseen the end of all his schemes, for whom he was improving, and what changes his designs were to undergo, he would have scarcely amused his innocent life with what for several years employed him in a most harmless manner, and abridged his scanty fortune. As the progress of this improvement is a true picture of sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up my imagination, which, while I walked pensively along, suggested the following reverie.

As I was turning my back upon a beautiful piece of water enlivened with cascades and rock-work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a prattling brook, the genius of the place appeared before me, but more resembling the god of time, than him more peculiarly appointed to the care of gardens. Instead of sheers he bore a scythe; and he appeared rather with the implements of husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having remembered this place in its pristine beauty, I could not help condoling with him on its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many alterations, which had been made, and all for the worse; of the many shades, which had been taken away, of the bowers that were destroyed by neglect, and the hedge-rows, that were spoiled by clipping. The genius with a sigh received my condolement, and assured me that he was equally a martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and rusticity. Seeing me desirous of knowing further, he

went on:

* 1773.

"You see, in the place before you, the paternal ❝inheritance of a poet; and to a man content with "little, fully sufficient for his subsistence: but a "strong imagination, and a long acquaintance with "the rich, are dangerous foes to contentment. Our "poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved "to prepare for its future enjoyment; and set about "converting a place of profit into a scene of pleasure. "This he at first supposed could be accomplished at ❝ a small expense; and he was willing for a while to "stint his income, to have an opportunity of display

ing his taste. The improvement in this manner "went forward; one beauty attained, led him to wish "for some other; but he still hoped that every emen"dation would be the last. It was now therefore found, "that the improvement exceeded the subsidy, that "the place was grown too large and too fine for the "inhabitant. But that pride which was once exhi"bited, could not retire; the garden was made for "the owner, and though it was become unfit for him, "he could not willingly resign it to another. Thus "the first idea of its beauties contributing to the hap"piness of his life, was found unfaithful; so that in"stead of looking within for satisfaction, he began to "think of having recourse to the praises of those who 66 came to visit his improvement.

"In consequence of this hope, which now took "possession of his mind, the gardens were opened "to the visits of every stranger; and the country "flocked round, to walk, to criticise, to admire, "and to do mischief. He soon found that the ad"mirers of his taste left by no means such strong "marks of their applause, as the envious did of their "malignity. All the windows of his temples, "and the walls of his retreats, were impressed with "the characters of profaneness, ignorance, and

"obscenity; his hedges were broken, his statues and

urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was "now, therefore, necessary to shut up the gardens (( once more, and to deprive the public of that happiness, which had before ceased to be his own.

"In this situation the poet continued for a time in "the character of a jealous lover, fond of the beauty "he keeps, but unable to supply the extravagance of 66 every demand. The garden by this time was com"pletely grown and finished; the marks of art were "covered up by the luxuriance of nature; the wind"ing walks were grown dark; the brook assumed a "natural sylvage; and the rocks were covered with 66 moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the "beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, "and his garden was obliged to be sold for the bene. "fit of those, who had contributed to its embellish❝ment.

"The beauties of the place had now for some "time been celebrated as well in prose as in verse; ❝and all men of taste wished for so envied a spot, "where every urn was marked with the poet's pen"cil, and every walk awakened genius and medi"tation. The first purchaser was one Mr. True66 penny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three "thousand pounds, and was willing also to be possess❝ed of taste and genius.

"As the poet's ideas were for the natural wildness " of the landscape, the button-maker's were for the "more regular production of art. He conceived "perhaps that as it is a beauty in a button to be ❝of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought "to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will, he "employed the sheers to some purpose; he clipped "up the hedges, cut down the gloomy walks, made

vistos upon the stables and hog-sties, and showed "his friends that a man of taste should always be ❝doing.

"The next candidate for taste and genius was a "captain of a ship, who bought the garden because "the former possessor could find nothing more to "mend; but unfortunately he had taste too. His "great passion lay in building, in making Chinese "temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the "place before had an appearance of retirement and "inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled air; "every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or "a temple; the improvement was converted into a "little city, and it only wanted inhabitants to give it "the air of a village in the East-Indies.

"In this manner, in less than ten years, the im"provement has gone through the hands of as many "proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and "to show their taste too. As the place had received "its best finishing from the hand of the first posses

sor, so every innovator only lent a hand to do mis"chief. Those parts which were obscure, have been "enlightened; those walks, which led naturally, have "been twisted into serpentine windings. The co"lour of the flowers of the field is not more various "than the variety of tastes, that have been employed "here, and all in direct contradiction to the original

aim of the first improver. Could the original pos"sessor but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would "he look upon his favourite spot again! he would "scarcely recollect a dryad or a wood-nymph of his "former acquaintance, and might perhaps find him"self as much a stranger in his own plantation, as in "the deserts of Siberia."

.

ESSAY XXII.

THE Theatre, like all other amusements, has its fashions and its prejudices; and when satiated with its excellence, mankind begin to mistake change for improvement. For some years Tragedy was the reigning entertainment; but of late it has entirely given way to Comedy, and our best efforts are now exerted in these lighter kinds of composition. The pompous train, the swelling phrase, and the unnatural rant, are displayed for that natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of which all are judges, because all have sat for the picture.

But as in describing Nature, it is presented with a double face, either of mirth or sadness, our modern writers find themselves at a loss which chiefly to copy from; and it is now debated, whether the exhibition of human distress is likely to afford the mind more entertainment than that of human absurdity?

Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture of the frailties of the lower part of mankind, to distinguish it from Tragedy, which is an exhibition of the misfortunes of the great. When Comedy therefore ascends to produce the characters of princes or generals upon the stage, it is out of its walk, since low life and middle life are entirely its object. The principal question therefore is, whether in describing low or middle life, an exhibition of its follies be not preferable to a detail of its calamities? Or, in other words, which deserves the preference? The weeping sentimental Comedy, so much in fashion at present *, or the laughing and even low

* 1773.