th all
their decorations of art, and all their luxuries of hot-houses,
graperies, pineries, ice-houses, temples, grottoes, hermitages, and
other fancies, with which power hopes to cheat itself into enjoyment,
as an apology for its insatiable monopolies.

The inefficacy of wealth to raise man above his cares and mortal
feelings has, however, of late years been so honestly conceded, that
the rich have begun, at least in external appearance, to assume the
condition of the poor. Hence, few of those mansions are built, or even
restored, on whose gloomy character I have been remarking; and our
proudest nobility now condescend to inhabit the cheerful, though
humble, Cottage. They find, or by their practices they seem to prove
they have found, that the nearest approach to happiness, is the
nearest approach to the humility of poverty! The thatched roof--the
tiny flower-garden--the modest wicket--the honey-suckle bower--the
cleanly dairy--the poultry yard--the dove-cote--the piggery--and the
rabbit-pen,--comprehended under the names of the _Ferme Ornee_, or
_Cottage Ornee_, now constitute the favourite establishments of those
who found so few comforts in marble porticoes, in walls hung with the
works of the Gobelins or the Italian school, in retinues of servants,
and extensive parks. What a concession of pride--what a homage
rendered to nature--what a consolation to discontented poverty--what a
warning to inconsiderate ambition!

Yet our taste ought to be governed by our reason and our wants. Large
families require large houses; it is therefore the business of good
taste to combine capacity with cheerfulness. Nothing, at the same
time, within the sphere of human enjoyment, equals the delight
afforded by well-planned garden-grounds; and it is consequently the
duty of the artist to unite these with the cheerful family mansion.
Here, then, begin the obtrusion, and the alledged necessity of those
boundary walls, against which I have been protesting. No such
thing--such walls, thanks to the genius and good taste of a #Pilton#,
are become unnecessary. We may now, without walls, have secure
boundaries--we may keep out trespassers without excluding the fresh
air--and we may circumscribe our limits without diminishing our
external prospects. In that case, how different in appearance would be
this village of Roehampton--how much more tolerable to its
residents--how far more healthy--and how enchanting to strangers,--if,
instead of monot