By Thomas Hope.

What was, in the earlier times, the origin of the garden? The wish that certain esculent plants and fruits, which in the waste field and the wide forest are scattered at great distances, in small quantities, intermixed with useless vegetables and fruits, precarious in their appearance, and stinted in their growth, difficult to collect, and scarce worth the gathering, might in a nearer, a smaller, and a more accessible spot, be better secured, more abundantly produced, kept clearer of the noxious herbs and weeds which destroy their nutriment and impede their growth. This was, in its origin, the sole object of the entire garden; this, to the present hour, continues to be the principal purpose of that essential portion of the garden, devoted to the uses of the kitchen and the table.

In these parts of the garden then, which are destined immediately for the gratification, not of the eye, but merely of the palate, it is only in proportion as we more fully deviate from the desultory and confused dispositions of simple nature—firstly, by separating the different species of esculent plants, not only from their useless neighbors, but from each other; and secondly, by confining the vegetables thus classed in those symmetric and measured compartments, which enable us with greater ease to discover, to approach, and to improve each different species in the precise way, most congenial to its peculiar requisites, that we more fully attain that first of intellectual beauties, which, in every production, whether of nature or of art, resides in the exact correspondence between the end we propose and the means we employ. Nay, if it be true that contrast and variety of colors and of forms are amongst the most essential ingredients of visible beauty, we may say that even this species of sensible charm is greatly increased in the aspect of a country by the opposition to the more widely diffused, but more vague shades and outlines of the unsymmetrical surrounding landscape, offered by the more vivid hues and more distinct forms of the gay Mosaic work of nicely classed and symmetrized vegetables which clothe these select spots.

Even where the general unadorned scenery is as bold and majestic as in Switzerland, or as rich and luxuriant as in Sicily, the eye with rapture beholds the variety, and enjoys the relief from the vaster and sublimer features of rude Nature, offered by the professed art of a neat little patch of ground, whether field, orchard, or garden, symmetrically distributed. It looks like a small but rich gem—a topaz, an emerald, or a ruby, sparkling amidst vast heaps of ruder ore; or rather like a rich carpet, spread out over a corner of the valley. It appears thus incontrovertible, that in that part at least of the garden which is immediately intended for utility, we incidentally produce not only greater intellectual, but greater visible beauty, by not confining ourselves to the desultory forms of unguided Nature, but by admitting the more symmetric outlines of avowed art, and it therefore only remains to be inquired, whether in that other and different part of the artificial grounds, in later times added to the former, which is directly intended for beauty, and which we therefore call the pleasure-grounds, we shall really produce more beauty, intellectual or visible, or, in other words, more pleasure to the mind or eye, by only employing the powers of art in a covert and unavowed way; in still only preserving the closest resemblance to the interminable and irregular forms of mere nature, or by exhibiting her additional resources in a more open and avowed manner; in contrasting these more indeterminate and desultory features of pure nature, with some of those more determinate and compassed outlines, which, indeed, on a small scale, are already found in many of the spontaneous productions of Nature herself; but which on a more extended plan, are only displayed in the works of art. I say, more pleasures to the mind or eye; for the portion of the garden here alluded to, no less than the one before mentioned professes itself to be a piece of ground wrested from Nature’s dominion by the hand of man, for purposes to which Nature alone was inadequate; and thence contending that there is the least necessity or propriety in rendering this district, appropriated by art, a fac-simile of pure Nature, independent of any consideration of superior beauty which this imitation may offer to the eye or mind, and merely because, to form a garden, we use materials supplied by Nature—such as air, water, earth, and vegetables, would be absurd in the extreme. As well might we contend, that every house, built of stone should resemble a cavern, and every coat made of wool, a sheepskin. Every production of human industry whatsoever, must, if we trace it to its origin, arise out of one or more definite ingredients of pure nature; and unless, therefore, by the same rule, every production of human industry whatsoever be obliged everlastingly to continue wearing the less regular forms of those peculiar objects of nature, out of which it is wrought, we cannot with more justice arraign gardens in their capacity as aggregates of mere natural substances and productions, for assuming the artificial forms of a terrace or a jet-d’eau, an avenue or a quincunx, than we can condemn opera-dancers and figurantes, in their capacity of compounds of natural limbs and features, for exhibiting the artificial movements of the minuet and the gavot, the entrechat and the pas-grave.

If, then, the strict resemblance to the desultory forms of rude nature be not indispensably requisite in the artificial scenery of pleasure-grounds, on account of any invariable reasons of propriety or consistency, inherent in the very essence of such grounds, this resemblance of studious art to wild nature, in the gardens that adorn our habitations, can only be more eligible on account of some superior pleasure which it gives the eye and mind, either in consequence of certain general circumstances connected with the very nature of all imitation, or only in consequence of certain more restricted effects, solely and exclusively produced by this peculiar species of imitation; namely, of natural landscapes through artificial grounds.

Now, with regard to the former of these two considerations, I allow that a faithful imitation, even of a deformed original, is capable of affording great intellectual pleasure to the beholder, provided that imitation, like that displayed in painting and sculpture, be produced through dint of materials, or tools so different from those of which is composed the original imitated, as to evince in the imitator extraordinary ingenuity and powers; but the imitation of a natural landscape, through means of the very ingredients of all natural scenery; namely, air, earth, trees, and water, (and which imitation will in general offer greater truth in proportion as it is attained through greater neglect,) cannot possess that merit which consists in the overcoming of difficulties and the display of genius; unless, indeed, it be an imitation of such a species of wild scenery as is totally foreign to the genius of the locality in which it is produced; unless it consists in substituting mountains to plains, waterfalls to puddles, and precipices to flats; and in that case, on the contrary, the attempt at imitation will become so arduous as to threaten terminating in a total failure, by only offering, instead of a sublime and improved resemblance, a most paltry and mean caricature. Since, then, in a garden, the imitation of the less symmetric arrangements of rude nature can afford little or no peculiar gratification to the mind in their sole capacity as imitations, the question becomes restricted within a very narrow compass; and all that remains to be inquired into is, whether, in that garden, the exclusive admission of mere unsymmetric forms of simple nature, or their mixture with a certain proportion of the more symmetric forms of professed art, will give more intense and more varied pleasure to the eye? And, when thus stated, I should think the question would be nearly answered in the same way by every unprejudiced person. I should think it would be denied by none, that if, on the one hand, the most irregular habitation, still, through the very nature of its construction and purposes, must ever necessarily remain most obviously symmetric and formal; if not in its whole, at least in its various details, of doors, windows, steps, entablatures, etc., and if, on the other hand, as I take it, all beauty consists in that contrast, that variety, that distinctness of each of the different component parts of a whole, from the remaining parts, which renders each individually a relief to the remainder, combined with that harmony, that union of each of these different component parts of that whole with the remaining parts, which renders each a support to the remainder, and enables the eye and mind to glide over and compass the whole with rapidity and with ease, fewer striking features of beauty will be found in a garden, where, from the very threshold of the still ever symmetric mansion, one is launched in the most abrupt manner, into a scene wholly composed of the most unsymmetric and desultory forms of mere nature, totally out of character with those of that mansion; and where the same species of irregular and indeterminate forms, already prevailing at the very centre, extend, without break or relief, to the utmost boundaries of the grounds, than will be presented in another garden, where the cluster of highly-adorned and sheltered apartments that form the mansion, in the first instance, shoot out, as it were, into certain more or less extended ramifications of arcades, porticoes, terraces, parterres, treillages, avenues, and other such still splendid embellishments of art, calculated by their architectural and measured forms, at once to offer a striking and varied contrast with, and a dignified and comfortable transition to, the more undulating and rural features of the more extended, more distant, and more exposed boundaries; before, in the second instance, through a still further link, a still further continuance of this same gradation of hues and forms, these limits of the private domain are again made in their turn, by means of their less artificial and more desultory appearance, to blend equally harmoniously on the other side, with the still ruder outlines of the property of the public at large.

No doubt, that, among the very wildest scenes of unappropriated nature, there are some so grand, so magnificent, that no art can vie with, or can enhance their effect. Of this description are the towering rock, the tremendous precipice, the roaring cataract, even the dark, gloomy, impenetrable forest. Of such, let us take great care not to destroy, or to diminish the grandeur by paltry conceits or contrivances of art. But even these are such features as, from certain conditions unavoidably attendant on them, we would not wish to have permanently under our eyes and windows; or even if we wished it, could not transport within the narrow precincts which immediately surround the mansion. A gentleman’s country residence, situated in the way it ought to be, for health, for convenience, and for cheerfulness, can only have room in its immediate vicinity for the more concentrated beauties of art. In this narrow circle, if we wish for variety, for contrast, and for brokenness of levels, we can only seek it in arcades and in terraces, in steps, balustrades, regular slopes, parapets, and such like; we cannot find space for the rock and the precipice. Here, if we admire the fleeting motion, the brilliant transparency, the soothing murmur, the delightful coolness of the crystal stream, we must force it up in an erect jet-d’eau, or hurl it down in an abrupt cascade; we cannot admit so near us the winding torrent, dashed at wide intervals from rock to rock. Here, if we desire to collect the elegant forms, vivid colors, and varied fragrance of the choicest shrubs and plants, whether exotics, or only natives, oranges, magnolias, and rhododendrons, or 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 colonnades; those ranges of aloes and cactuses growing out of vases of granite and of porphyry, scarce more symmetric by art, than these plants are by nature; and, finally, all those other endless contrasts of regular and irregular forms, everywhere, each individually increasing its own charms, through their contrast with those of the other, exhibited in the countries, which we consider as the earliest schools, where beauty became an object of sedulous study.

But the truth is, that in our remoter climes, we carry every theory into the extremes. Once, that very symmetry and correspondence of parts of which a certain proportion ever has, to all refined ages and nations, ancient and modern, appeared a requisite feature of the more dressy and finished parts of the pleasure garden, prevailed in all English villas with so little selection, and at the same time, in such indiscreet profusion, as not only rendered the different parts insipid and monotonous with respect to each other, but the whole mass a most formal, unharmonious blotch with regard to the surrounding country. Surfeited at last with symmetry carried to excess, we have suddenly leaped into the other extreme. Dreading the faintest trace of the ancient regularity of outline as much as we dread the phantoms of those we once most loved, we have made our country residences look dropped from the clouds, in spots most unfitted to receive them; and, at the expense, not only of all beauty, but of all comfort, we have made the grounds appear as much out of harmony, viewed in one direction with the mansion, as they formerly were viewed in the opposite direction with the country at large. Through the total exclusion of all the variety, the relief, the sharpness, which, straight or spherical, or angular, or other determinate lines and forms might have given to unsymmetric and serpentining forms and surfaces, we have, without at all diminishing the appearance of art, (which in a garden can never be totally eradicated,) only succeeded in rendering that art of the most tame and monotonous description; like that languid and formal blank verse, which is equally divested of the force of poetry and the facility of prose. Nature, who, in her larger productions, is content with exhibiting the more vague beauties that derive from mere variety and play of hues and forms; Nature herself, in her smaller and more elaborate, and if I may so call them, choicer bits of every different reign, superadds those features of regular symmetry of colors and shapes, which not only form a more striking contrast with the more desultory modifications of her huger masses, but intrinsically in a smaller space, produces a greater effect than the former can display. Examine the radii of the snow-spangle, the facettes of the crystal, the petals of the flower, the capsules of the seed, the wings, the antennÆ, the rings, the stigmata of the insect and the butter-fly; nay, even in man and beast, the features of the face, and the configuration of the eye, and we shall find in all these more minute, more finished, and more centrical productions of the mineral, the vegetable, and the animal kingdoms, reigns the nicest symmetry of outline and correspondence of parts. And if art, which can only be founded upon, only spring out of nature; if art, I say, should ever only be considered as the further development of nature’s own principles, the complement of nature’s own designs, assuredly we best obey the views of nature, and best understand the purposes of art, when, leaving total irregularity to the more extended, more distant, and more neglected recesses of the park, we give some degree of symmetry to the smaller and nearer, and more studied divisions of the pleasure-ground. This principle of proportioning the regularity of the objects to their extent, the Greeks well understood. While in the Medici Venus the attitude of the body only displays the unsymmetric elegance of simple nature, the hair presents all the symmetry of arrangement of the most studious art; and unless this principle also become familiar among us there is great danger that unable to make the grounds harmonize with the mansion, we attempt to harmonize the mansion with the grounds, by converting that mansion itself into a den or a quarry.