To cater for an appetite so unexceptionable is surely not. beneath the dignity of art. And as it can be done without any great difficulty where the frontage of a place is towards an open country, it should always be taken among the established requirements. The ways of accomplishing it have been before enumerated. But it may be observed that a boundary fence which looks most like that which would form the division between one part of an estate and another, with such groups of trees and shrubs between the openings as would be placed to give a foreground to the distant view, even were there no separating fence behind them, will most favour the illusion, and enable the occupier to appropriate, as if it were his own, all that is beautiful in the general landscape. Even fences, sheds, cottages, &c., on the property thus surveyed, may often be got rid of by a few specimen plants, placed so as to cover or to diminish such divisions in it as would detract from the semblance of expanse and ownership.

21. Readers who have travelled with me thus far will have perceived that I have had occasion more than once to refer to Nature as the great school of landscape gardening. It may be worth while, then, specifically to inquire how far the imitation of nature is possible and right. I profess not to be of those who would carry this principle very far, or into minor matters. It is in her broader teachings, and general promptings, that materials should be gathered for practical use. And these, be it remembered, will be solely available in idealising and exalting art.

To regard a garden otherwise than as a work of art, would tend to a radical perversion of its nature. It is and must remain that which its proximity to the house alone enables it to be. No ingenuity can convert it into a forest glade or a glen. Nor is such a transformation to be wished for, were it possible, any more than that a dwelling should be transmuted into a hut, or a den, or a cave. A garden is for comfort, and convenience, and luxury, and use, as well as for making a beautiful picture. It is to express civilisation, and care, and design, and refinement. It is for the growth of choice flowers, and the preservation and culture of exotic trees and shrubs, with novel, and interesting, and curious habits, which could not be reared without the most assiduous guardianship and attention. In these respects, it is fundamentally different from all natural scenes.

Reflections such as these will make it plain that they who would imitate Nature in gardens must do so in another way than by copying her piecemeal. They ought, indeed, to be imitators, but not copyists, transcribing her spirit, and not her individual expressions, her general countenance or aspect, and not her particular features. An artist, be he a painter or a landscapegardener, or an amateur in either branch, should go to nature to study principles, gathering up snatches of scenery, and storing them in his memory or his portfolio for future adaptation and use. He should note all that pleases him, and endeavour to understand how and why it influences his mind. By thus filling his brain with numberless beautiful little pictures or images, and his intellect with the foundations and sources of pleasure in his art, he will come from nature doubly primed to give practical utterance to his imaginings, and prepared to embody in a composition the finer touches and more artistic and spiritual elements which he has collected from such a variety of sources. It is in this way that the imitation of nature will be but the ennobling of art; the airy elegance and flying graces of the one being engrafted on the more substantial characteristics of the other.

22. That beauty should be the ultimate aim of every operation in landscape gardening, may seem so self-evident a proposition, as almost to be calculated to excite a smile. It is one, however, which I must not fail to enforce. There may be different opinions as to what constitutes beauty, and of what ingredients it is made up, some affirming that its chief elements are those of form, and others that it consists solely in association. Without taking either view exclusively, I shall assume that it is to be found in both.

Most persons will be agreed, in the main, as to what is really beautiful, though almost every one will have some kinds of favouritism and prejudice. Considering the multitudinous forms of vegetable life, and the fact that all are endowed with more or less of attractiveness, I have often been struck with the narrowness of affection for plants which is commonly possessed; many people having a few favourite trees or shrubs, and proscribing nearly all others. I have been told of a celebrated landscapegardener who always kept the nurserymen's stock of two or three particular trees at the lowest ebb, and could never get

enough. And it is matter of gardening history, what thousands -probably millions-of his famous "locust-tree" Cobbett spread abroad throughout the country; although it is now well understood that, for all practical uses, the tree, if even it would yield any available timber, is very nearly, if not altogether, worthless.

But I cannot, and do not, profess to comprehend, why gentlemen should impoverish their plantations, and strip their gardens of the first element of beauty, by cultivating only a few particular species of plants, and not merely harbouring, but cherishing a dislike to all others. A garden or plantation denuded of half or three-fourths of its proper ornaments, is much in the same predicament as an individual with only a portion of his ordinary garments. It is imperfectly clothed, insufficiently furnished, weak in its expression of the beautiful.

Beauty of lines and forms is possibly less powerful than that of association; but it is more prevalent, and better apprehended by the mass. A wavy or undulating line has been styled the "line of beauty," and the assumption may be true, as far as it accounts that the most beautiful of lines. But in averring that there is no other line at all beautiful, it is of course far wide of the truth. Every one will acknowledge that the lines in a dove's body, when in full plumage, are exquisitely beautiful, and that a circle is one of the most pleasing of figures. But few, I should think, will deny that a cube possesses beauty, or that a triangle is not destitute of it. An avenue is the subject of universal admiration; and so is a long, straight road, that conducts up a gentle ascent, to a church, or other sufficiently dignified and commanding object. Still, an avenue to a common workhouse, as I have witnessed, loses its influence; and a long road, ending in nothing, may simply be a dreary blank.

The truth seems to be, that some kinds of lines require the accompaniments of fitness and association to render them interesting, while others have an inherent power of impressing men. A wavy line is the most truly graceful; it is the thing that imparts beauty of form to human beings and animals; it is indefinite, and awakens the idea of infinity, with its exhaustless stores for the imagination; and it is of the commonest occurrence in natural scenery. Hence, it may fairly be invested with the palm.

Beauty of form, in a work of art, is of a superior order to beauty of colour or embellishment. It betokens a deeper acquaintance with principles, a higher refinement, a finer-toned feeling. Colours are mere adventitious aids, and are always liable to fade or change; while floridness of ornament simply pleases the fancy, but rarely satisfies the mind, and soon satiates. Beauty of form is the most enduring.

The influence of this rule on all the adjuncts of gardening cannot be over-rated. It will affect the shape of the ground, the direction or curves and levels of the walks, the position and outlines of all the clumps and beds, and every sort of ornament that can be conceived of. It will be far more significant than mere costliness, or elaboration, or ingenuity. And it will extend as much to the proportions of a place, as to its individual elements.

Beauty of tint or tone, though inferior to that of form, is what must never be thrown entirely into the shade. Delicate colours are intrinsically the most beautiful. Shades of pink, or mixtures of pink and white, light blues, pale greens, straw-coloured yellows, the softest tones of crimson and vermilion, are the most expressive of beauty. All stronger colours may be rich, showy, and valuable in contrast, but they are less positively beautiful. None of them need be kept out of a place; though the above hints will be suggestive of what is most desirable, where the highest beauty is sought, and they may denote the colours which should be selected in painting either the exterior or the interior of buildings, fences, &c.

Nor do I seek at all to decry beauty of ornament and detail. It will, however, be necessary to keep in mind, that minuter beauties do not tell in or upon objects that have to be viewed from a distance, and that, in architectural forms, they are more fitted for internal than exterior decoration. A building that has to be entered should always be much more ornamented and enriched inside than it is without; and little delicate finishings, though highly expressive when in place, ought only to be put where they have to be closely examined, and near enough to the eye to be thoroughly scrutinised and appreciated.

The beauty of association is founded on the suggestion of pleasing ideas, such as fitness, harmony, poetry, or the awakening of images that have formerly delighted. It is

especially connected with anything aged,-with that in which our ancestors or family have borne a part, or in which we have personally shared. A tree or plant which we, our relatives, or some known and noted personage have planted, or reared, or tended; a summer-house that is rich in family or other ancient records, or in which we or those we love have thought, or studied, or felt much; a retired nook or secluded little garden, which the fair hands of the departed have, by their former ministrations, hallowed and rendered sacred; may all be abundantly fraught with the beauty of association.

By this benignant law man is linked at once to the material and the spiritual world; and the elements of a garden become pregnant with both poetry and history. The chords of the human heart are strung responsively to a variety of objects; and a sight, or a sound, or a scent, may at any moment waken their melody. Delicate perfumes, bursts of Nature's vernal music, gleams of gladdening sunshine after rain, may stir the shades of long-buried thoughts and emotions, and quicken them into new life with a thrilling power.

Practically, the beauty of association is hardly a thing to be aimed at or cultivated. It is an instinct which twines itself with our being, and makes its own existence known and felt. All that tends to excite or develop it may, however, be religiously fostered; for it is as beneficial as it is pleasurable, softening and humanising the heart, and refining the entire nature. And even in the newest places, where not a solitary vestige of human feelings or interests is found, every plant, to the lover of a garden, may soon acquire a little history of its own, and be the source of endless amusement, by personal trimming and training, and watering, and protecting; while a sentiment can easily be attached to particular spots, by dedicating them to the various affections, or virtues, or purposes, which adorn or illustrate human life. However unfortunate a disposition to allow plants to become overcrowded and spoil one another may be, one always augurs well of the heart, at least, of the individual who shows a peculiar sensitiveness about the removal or destruction of anything he has once cherished, and with which is swept away sensations and pleasures never to be recalled.

23. Having thus gone over the numerous principles which those who would lay out a garden will have to take into account,