Lebanon, but its boughs do not throw themselves out in that exact horizontal direction that those of the cedar of Lebanon do; they sweep down to the ground in a style of exquisite grace. Heavy, full of life, rich in hue as masses of chased silver, their effect, with their young cones sitting birdlike on them, is like that of some tree of heaven, or of some garden of poetic romance. Besides this superb tree, standing on its ample portion of lawn, there are here the evergreen ilex, hickory, white sassafras, scarlet and Ragland oaks, the tulip tree, the catalpa, the tupelo, the black American ash, &c. The effect of their fine growth, their varied hues and foliage, their fine sweeping branches, over the soft velvet turf, is charming, for trees display the effects of breeding and culture quite as much as horses, dogs, or men. A large elm not far from the house is pointed out as the one under which Thomson's alcove stood; this alcove has, however, been removed to the extremity of the grounds, and stands now under a large Spanish chestnut tree in the shrubbery. It is a simple wooden construction, with a plain back and two outward sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and boarded floor, so as to be readily removable altogether. It is kept well painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old small walnut table with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson. On the front of the alcove overhead, is painted on a white oval tablet— "Here Thomson sang The Seasons and their change." Within the alcove hang three loose boards, on which are painted the following inscriptions: 'Hail, Nature's Poet, whom she taught alone She lent her pencil, too, of wondrous power, To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower Fade in my Seasons, let them live in Thine. Till Nature sickens, and the Seasons die." F. B. "Within this pleasing retirement, Allured by the music of the nightingale, Which warbled in soft unison to the melody of his soul, And general though simple elegance, James Thomson. Sensitively alive to the beauties of Nature, Into his inimitable Seasons. Warmed with intense devotion To the Sovereign of the Universe, Its flame glowed through all his compositions. With the tenderest social sensibility, He never gave one moment's pain To any of his fellow-creatures, Save only by his death, which happened At this place on the 27th day of August, 1748." "Here Thomson dwelt. He, curious bard, examined every drop That glistens on the thorn; each leaf surveyed That Autumn from the rustling forest shakes, And marked its shape; and traced in the rude wind Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand A pencil, dipped in her own colours, placed, With which he ever faithful copies drew, Each feature in proportion just." On a brass tablet in the top of the table in the alcove is inscribed This table was the property of James Thomson, and always stood in this seat." Such is the state of the former residence of James Thomson at Richmond. Here, no doubt, he was visited by many of his literary cotemporaries, though it does not appear that he ever was by Pope, who was so near a neighbour. Old poets grow exclusive. As Wordsworth now-a-days says he reads no new poets, he leaves them to their cotemporaries-it is enough for him to stick to his old loves; so, in the correspondence of Pope, you find no further mention of Thomson, than that "Thomson and some other young men have published lately some creditable things;" and Gray, writing to one of his friends, says"Thomson has just published a poem called The Castle of Indolence,' which contains some good stanzas." The view down to the Thames, and over the country beyond, which he enjoyed, is now much obstructed by the walls, including part of the royal property, on which the queen has erected her laundry-sending, it seems, all the royal linen, from Windsor, the Isle of Wight, and elsewhere, to be washed and got up here, sufficiently, as one would think, near enough to the smoke of London. The vicinity of the royal washhouse certainly does not improve Lord Shaftesbury's residence here, especially as a tall, square, and most unsightly tower, most probably intended to carry the soot from the drying fires pretty high, overlooks his grounds. But it will not disturb the remains of the poet; and let us hope that the queen's linen will enjoy the benefit of all the Seasons, from this close neighbourhood. Thomson is buried in Richmond church, at the west end of the north aisle. There is a square brass tablet, well secured into the wall with ten large screws, bearing this inscription : "In the earth below this Tablet Are the remains of JAMES THOMSON, Author of the beautiful Poems entitled, The Seasons, Castle of Indolence, etc. etc. so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a admirers, in the year of our Lord 1792." "Father of light and life, thou Good Supreme ! O teach me what is good; teach me myself! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, Winter, p. 144. No poet of the same pretensions has been so much known through his residence as Shenstone. Without the Leasowes he would have been nothing. His elegies and pastorals would have lain on the dustiest of book-shelves, and his Schoolmistress, by far the best of his productions, would hardly have retained vitality enough to make herself noticeable in the crowd of poetical characters. The Leasowes was the chief work of Shenstone's life, and it is the chief means of that portion of immortality which he possesses. Into every quarter of the kingdom the fame of this little domain has penetrated. Nature there formed the grand substratum of his art, and nature is always beautiful. But I do confess, that in the Leasowes, I have always found so much-a-do about nothing; such a parade of miniature cascades, lakes, streams conveyed hither and thither; surprises in the disposition of woods and the turn of walks, with a seat placed here, and another there; with inscriptions, Latin and English; and piping Fauns fauning upon you in half a dozen places, that I have heartily wished myself out upon a good rough heath, with the winds blowing away the cobwebs of so many conceits from my brain. In the days of Shenstone there prevailed the falsest notions of life and poetry. If poetry be indeed "the eloquence of truth," as Campbell beautifully pronounced it; if great passions, great sentiments, great wrestlings with our destinies, and conflicts for the good of others,-if these constitute the sublimity of duty, and give occasion for the sublimity of poetry, how poor a delusion was that which led one to dream and drone in some fantastic retirement; to whimper over petty troubles, and waste the intellect on petty themes; exalting mole-hills into mountains, and the stings of a morbid selfishness into picturesque sorrows; when they should have been up and doing, dragging out to the light of day, like Crabbe, all the wretchedness and the wrong of social life, or breathing into the trumpet of a generous indignation the notes that rouse the world to a higher tone and task. The remarks of Dr. Johnson appear to me, in the case of Shenstone, who was amiable but trifling, as very just :-"Now was excited his delight in rural pleasures, and his ambition of rural elegance. He began from the time of occupying his own estate, to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters; which he did with such judgment, and such fancy, as made his little domain the envy of the great, and the admiration of the skilful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers. Whether to plant a walk in undulating curves, and to place a bench at every turn where there is an object to catch the view; to make water run where it will be heard, and to stagnate where it will be seen; to leave intervals where the eye will be pleased, and to thicken the plantation where there is something to be hidden, demand any great powers of mind, I will not inquire; perhaps a sullen and surly spectator may think such performances rather the sport than the business of human reason. But it must be at least confessed that to embellish the form of nature is an innocent amusement; and some praise must be allowed by the most supercilious observer, to him who does best what such multitudes are contending to do well." This seems to me the precise merit of Shenstone. He introduced a better taste in landscape gardening, though his taste was often questionable, and may be ranked with Browne and Kent. He was a man of taste rather than of genius, and may |