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 shears 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 hedgerows 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 farther, he went on :

'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 imagina'tion, 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 enjoy'ment, 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

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'of displaying 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 emendation '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 exhibited 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 happiness of his life, was found 'unfaithful; so that, instead of looking within for satisfaction, he began to think of having recourse to the praises of those who came to visit his Improve'ment.

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'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 criticize, to admire, and to do mischief. He soon found that the admirers 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.

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'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 every ' demand. The garden by this time was completely grown and finished; the marks of art were covered up 'by the luxuriance of nature; the winding walks were

'grown dark; the brook assumed a natural sylvage; ' and the rocks were covered with 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 benefit of those who had contributed to its ' embellishment.

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 'turn was marked with the poet's pencil, and every 'walk awakened genius and meditation. The first pur'chaser was one Mr. Truepenny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three thousand pounds, and was willing 'also to be possessed 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 productions 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 shears to some pur'pose; he clipped up the hedges, cut down the gloomy 'walks, made vistas 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 un'fortunately 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.

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In this manner, in less than ten years, the Improve'ment 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 possessor, so every innovator 'only lent a hand to do mischief. Those parts which 'were obscure, have been enlightened; those walks 'which led naturally, have been twisted into serpentine 'windings. The colour 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 'possessor 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 himself 'as much a stranger in his own plantation as in the deserts of Siberia.'

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SENTIMENTAL COMEDY

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 displaced 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 [1773], or the laughing and even low comedy which seems to have been last exhibited by Vanbrugh and Cibber?

If we apply to authorities, all the great masters in the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their rule is, that as tragedy displays the calamities of the great, so comedy should excite our laughter by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower part of mankind. Boileau, one of the best modern critics, asserts that comedy will not admit of tragic distress:

Le comique, ennemi des soupirs et des pleurs,
N'admet point dans ses vers de tragiques douleurs.

Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation in nature, as the distresses of the mean by no means affect us so strongly as the calamities of the great. When tragedy exhibits to us some great man fallen from his height, and struggling with want and adversity, we feel his situation in the same manner as we suppose he himself must feel, and our pity is increased in proportion to the height from whence he fell. On the contrary, we do not so strongly