roses, and lilies, and hyacinths; we still must confine them in the boxes, the pots, or the beds of some sort of parterre; we cannot give them the appearance of spontaneously growing from amongst weeds and briers. Here, in fine, if we have a mind to secure the cool shade and the convenient shelter of lofty trees, we can only plant an avenue, we cannot form a forest. And for that, since we admire, even to an excess, symmetry of lines and disposition in that production of art called a house, we should abhor these attributes in the same excess in that other avowed production of art, the immediate appendage of the former, and consequently the sharer in its purposes and character, namely, the garden, I do not understand. There is between the various divisions of the house and those of the grounds, this difference, that the first are more intended for repose, and the latter for exercise; that the first are under cover, and the latter exposed. The difference should make a corresponding difference in the nature of the materials, and in the size and delicacy of the forms; but why it should occasion on the one side an unqualified admission, and on the other, as unqualified an exclusion of those attributes of symmetry and correspondence of parts which may be equally produced in coarser as in finer materials, on a vaster as on a smaller scale, I cannot conceive. The outside of the house is exposed to the elements as well as the grounds; and why, while columns are thought invariably to look well at regular distances, trees should be thought invariably to look ill in regular rows, is what I cannot comprehend. Assuredly the difference is as great between the eruptions of Etna, or of any other volcano, and artificial fire-works, as it is between the falls of the Niagara or of any other river, and artificial water-works. Why, then, while we gaze with admiration on a rocket, should we behold with disgust a _jet-d’eau_? And why, while we are delighted with a rain of fiery sparks, should we be displeased with a shower of liquid diamonds, issuing from a beautiful vase, and again collected in as exquisite a basin? If the place be appropriate, if the hues be vivid, if the outlines be elegant, if the objects be varied and contrasted, in the name of wonder, how should, out of all these partial elements of positive, unmixed beauty, arise a whole positively ugly? No, there can only arise a whole as beautiful as the parts; and so, those travellers who have not allowed any narrow and exclusive theories to check or destroy their spontaneous feelings, must own they have thought many of the suspended gardens within Genoa, and of the splendid villas about Rome; so they have thought those striking oppositions of the rarest marbles to the richest verdure; those mixtures of statues, and vases, and balustrades, with cypresses, and pinasters, and bays; those distant hills seen through the converging lines of lengthened