id thicket?

_Mr Milestone._
You are right, Miss Graziosa: your taste is correct--perfectly
_en regle_. Now, here is the same place corrected--trimmed--polished
--decorated--adorned. Here sweeps a plantation, in that beautiful regular
curve: there winds a gravel walk: here are parts of the old wood, left in
these majestic circular clumps, disposed at equal distances with
wonderful symmetry: there are some single shrubs scattered in elegant
profusion: here a Portugal laurel, there a juniper; here a laurustinus,
there a spruce fir; here a larch, there a lilac; here a rhododendron,
there an arbutus. The stream, you see, is become a canal: the banks are
perfectly smooth and green, sloping to the water's edge: and there is
Lord Littlebrain, rowing in an elegant boat.

_Squire Headlong._
Magical, faith!

_Mr Milestone._
Here is another part of the grounds in its natural state. Here is a
large rock, with the mountain-ash rooted in its fissures, overgrown,
as you see, with ivy and moss; and from this part of it bursts a
little fountain, that runs bubbling down its rugged sides.

_Miss Tenorina._
O how beautiful! How I should love the melody of that miniature
cascade!

_Mr Milestone._
Beautiful, Miss Tenorina! Hideous. Base, common, and popular. Such a
thing as you may see anywhere, in wild and mountainous districts. Now,
observe the metamorphosis. Here is the same rock, cut into the shape
of a giant. In one hand he holds a horn, through which that little
fountain is thrown to a prodigious elevation. In the other is a
ponderous stone, so exactly balanced as to be apparently ready to fall
on the head of any person who may happen to be beneath[6.1]: and there
is Lord Littlebrain walking under it.

_Squire Headlong._
Miraculous, by Mahomet!

_Mr Milestone._
This is the summit of a hill, covered, as you perceive, with wood, and
with those mossy stones scattered at random under the trees.

_Miss Tenorina._
What a delightful spot to read in, on a summer's day! The air must be
so pure, and the wind must sound so divinely in the tops of those old
pines!

_Mr Milestone._
Bad taste, Miss Tenorina. Bad taste, I assure you. Here is the spot
improved. The trees are cut down: the stones are cleared away: this is
an octagonal pavilion, exactly on the centre of the summit: and there
you see Lord Littlebrain, on the top of the pavilion, enjoying the
prospect with a telescope.

_Squire H