its most conspicuous feature, Payne Knight put up a series of irregular planks, now ascending and now descending, to the infinite danger of the passenger, and thus left a warning to what extravagancies a man of talent and undoubted taste* may be betrayed by a false theory.

We have never seen any blunder of like magnitude in recent days, but there is much diversity of practice, as well as confusion of thought, as to the amount of dressing' which nature requires or admits in the grounds of a country seat. No strict rules can be laid down. The degree of roughness and wildness that may be tolerated must be regulated by the nearness to the house and the general character of the scenery; but, above all, the error (not an uncommon one) should be avoided of placing the prettinesses of the flower garden in combination with the bolder features of nature. Geranium beds encased in rustic basket-work should not be found straggling into wild woods, nor reposing at the foot of romantic rocks. Price contrasts a trim approach' designed by Brown's followers with a wild lane such as we might expect to find occupied by gipsies boiling their kettle. This is not fair. The trimness he describes does indeed resemble the smugness of a cockney villa, but his picturesque lane would make but a sorry approach to an opulent mansion. The most difficult problem which the landscape gardener has to solve, is how to reconcile the wildness of nature and the smoothness of cultivation and habitation? The only principle which can be laid down is not to force nature into forms not her own, to leave her bolder and grander features uninjured, and to remove petty roughnesses which remind us only of her own decay or man's neglect. In the lane as described (p. 25), it would probably be right to respect the old trees and the high banks, but assuredly the edge of the road ought to be clearly defined, nor should its centre be disfigured with patches of grass.

If on the banks of an ornamental piece of water a tree should gradually sink, or rudely be blown by the wind into the stream, it should instantly be removed. Let no friend armed with a sketchbook persuade us that it is 'picturesque.' Even granting that in itself it is so (which in most such cases may boldly be denied), the wind-fall carries with it the sentiment of desolation and neglect, and is directly at variance with the associations which ought to belong to the place. For a similar reason, withered trees should generally be removed. Decayed oaks may be so majestic and so venerable, that even in their ruin it may be advisable to

Men are no more consistent in their taste than in their moral character. Payne Knight's judgment of the Elgin Marbles proves he was no judge of art; but in many respects it cannot be denied he had real taste.

retain them, or dead trees may occasionally stand in some position so striking that it may be right to let them keep their place.

It is a misfortune, as we think, when fine ruins stand in immediate juxta-position with a dwelling-house. At Hardwicke, in Derbyshire, the massive remains of the Old Hall rise close to the beautiful and fantastic Italo-Jacobaan structure, which its foundress, Lady Shrewsbury, meant for an Italian villa. At Newstead Abbey, the ruined church of the best period of English Gothic adjoins the noble mansion which has been formed out of the conventual buildings. In such cases there is nothing to be done. The sentiment of ruin and of opulence, it is true, are brought into painful contact; but the imagination is in a great measure reconciled by the obvious impossibility of the proprietor's either abandoning his dwelling or destroying his ruin. What, however, shall we say of the absurdity of our predecessors, who built a ruin as a pleasing prospect from the drawing-room windows? The mock ruin, in spite of all receipts that could be given for manufacturing ruins, always betrayed its artificial origin, but in fact it was more tolerable as the caprice of misguided taste than as the genuine and melancholy record of decadence and decay.

Having said so much of the arbitrary and accidental associations which are common to all, it may not be quite superfluous to caution the improver against those which may be peculiar to himself-such as the unreasonable dislike or liking for particular objects and combinations-certain assumptions which he has never examined, but has always acted on, such as that oaks must be preferred to all other trees-that yews and cedars are sacred -that thorn trees and fruit trees cannot be cut down. It would surprise those who have no practical acquaintance with the difficulties of this kind, which a professional man has incessantly to encounter in his intercourse with his clients, by how very trivial and frivolous motives the most important changes in the most important designs have been made, and we may add, the most expensive undertakings have been marred.

It would have led us too far, and into a different branch of our subject, if we had attempted to discuss the rules of picturesque composition. We have assumed them as granted-and in truth it is rather as to their application than their principles that there exists any difference of opinion. They have been derived, like the rules of literary criticism, from observation of the practice of the greatest masters. The amateur landscape gardener would do well to study them. If they do not serve to guide him, they will be a stumbling-block to perplex him. When he once comprehends them he need have no misgiving in applying them,

with this only caution, that while the painter has to produce a single composition, he has to produce a gallery-a series-each one of which must harmonise with its predecessor. Whatever offends against this rule turns an English into a Chinese garden.

In many instances it would have been more satisfactory to illustrate our meaning by examples. It would have given us pleasure to pay our tribute of admiration to some creations of modern times, which may be ranked with the best efforts of Italian gardening in its best days; and it would have given point to our censures to notice instances where we conceive that our rules have been infringed. But we have purposely refrained; we cannot permit ourselves to consider private grounds and gardens as published works,' because the liberality of their owners makes them accessible to the public.

6

ART. VII.-1. Zoological Sketches, made for the Zoological Society of London, from Animals in their Vivarium in the Regent's Park. By Joseph Wolf. Edited, with Notes, by D. W. Mitchell, B.A., F.L.S., Secretary to the Society. London. 1856. 2. A Popular Guide to the Gardens of the Zoological Society of London. By D. W. Mitchell. London. 1855.

3. The Aquarium: an Unveiling of the Wonders of the Deep Sea. By Philip Henry Gosse, A.L.S. London. 1854.

то O furnish every possible link in the grand procession of organised life, is the aim of the science of zoology. Its professors have explored the wilds of Africa, and have penetrated far into the interior of South America; have endured the last extremities of hunger and thirst to catch some curious hummingbird; have been consumed by fevers to the very socket of life, in order to pin an unknown beetle, or to procure some rare and gorgeous-coloured fly. The passion for this science seems to have long dwelt in the English race: our love of field-sports, and keen relish of rural life, coupled with a habit of minute observation, have all had a tendency to foster an acquaintance with the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, and scarcely a village but boasts of some follower of White or Waterton. This taste we carry with us to our vast colonial possessions, and to that chain of military posts whose morning guns echo round the world. With such splendid opportunities for observing and collecting animals, we have succeeded in gathering together a menagerie which is by far the first in existence, and which includes typical forms of most living things-from the chimpanzee, in whose face

and

and structure we trace the last step but one of the highest form of mammal, to the zoophyte, which shakes hands with the vegetable world.

Ancient Rome, it is true, in her degenerate days witnessed vaster collections of animals, and saw hippopotami, ostriches, and giraffes, together with the fiercer carnivora, turned by hundreds into the arena. But how different the spirit with which they were collected! With the debased and profligate Roman emperors the only object of these bloody shows was to gratify the brutal appetite of their people for slaughter; with us the intention is to display the varying wonders of creation.

Most of our readers in the full flush of summer have leaned over the balustrade of the carnivora terrace. From this elevated situation the whole plan of the south side of the grounds is exposed. To his right, fringing a still pool whose translucent waters mirror them as they stand, the spectator sees the collection of storks and cranes: more immediately in front of him softly tread the llamas and alpacas-the beasts of burthen of the New World: farther, again, we see the deer in their paddocks, and beyond the sedgy pools of the water-fowl, set in the midst of graceful shrubberies which close the Gardens in from the landscape of the Regent's Park. Passing over to the northern side of the terrace he sees the eagle aviary, tenanted by its royal and solitary-looking occupants; the otters swimming their merry round, and perchance the seal flapping beside his pool; while the monkeys, with incredible rapidity and constant chatter, swing and leap about their wire enclosure. Immediately beneath him the Polar bears pace to and fro, or, swaying their heads, walk backwards with a firmness which a lord chamberlain might study with advantage; and close at hand the long neck of the ship of the desert' is seen sailing out from the gateway of the pretty clock-house. That the dread monarch of the forest and the other great cats' are beneath his feet, he is made aware by angry growls and the quivering sound of shaken iron bars, as the keeper goes round with his daily beef-barrow. No one can help feeling a certain sense of strangeness at seeing these creatures of all climes scattered amid a flourishing garden-to witness beasts, ensanguined in tooth and claw, impatiently pacing to and fro between banks of scarlet geraniums or beds brilliant with the countless blooms of early dahlias-or, still more oddly, to witness birds of prey which love to career in the storm surrounded by monthly roses. Had it been possible to have given each class of bird and animal its appropriate vegetation, it would doubtless have been preferable; but such an arrangement was manifestly impossible.

Descending

Descending from this general survey, the long row of dens which run below the terrace on either side are the first to attract the visitor's attention. Before this terrace was constructed in 1840 the larger carnivora were cooped up in what is now the reptile-house. The early dens of the establishment form a good example of the difficulty Englishmen experience in suiting themselves to altered circumstances. On the first formation of the Gardens the Society seems to have taken for its model some roving Menagerie, as many of the houses of the beasts were nothing better than caravans dismounted from their wheels, and the managers encamped their collection in a fashion little more permanent than Wombwell would have done upon a village green. It was speedily found that the health of the felidæ suffered materially from their close confinement, which did not even admit of the change of air experienced in the travelling caravan. In fact, the lions, tigers, leopards, and pumas, did not live on an average more than twenty-four months. To remedy this state of things the terrace dens were constructed, and, rushing from one extreme to the other, tropical animals were left exposed to the full rigour of winter. The drifting rain fell upon their hair, and they were exposed in cold, wet weather to a temperature which even man, who ranges from the torrid zone to the arctic circle, could not resist unprotected. The consequences were manifested in the increase of inflammatory lung diseases, and it is now found necessary to protect the dens by matting and artificial heat from the extreme cold and damp of the winter months. In the summer the exposure suits them admirably, and it must be confessed that the tigers look only too fat and comfortable. One of the most interesting cages is that which contains a family party, consisting of the mastiff with the lion and his mate. They were brought up together from cub-hood, and agree to a marvel; though the dog would prove little more than a mouthful for either of his noble-looking companions. Visitors express a vast deal of sympathy for him, and fancy that the lion is only saving him up, as the Giant did Jack, for a future feast. But their sympathy, we believe, is thrown away. 'Lion' has always maintained the ascendancy he assumed when a pup, and any rough handling on the part of his huge playfellows is immediately resented by his flying at their noses. Although the dog is allowed to come out of the den every morning, he shows a great disinclination to leave his old friends. It is, however, thought advisable to separate them at feeding-time. Both the lion and lioness are of English birth, and it is singular that out of the great number that have been born in the Society's Garden full fifty per cent. have come into the world with cleft palates, and