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delightful enclos’d Garden, whose Wall was studded with Obelisks at regular Intervals, as well as great carv’d Balls and white heraldick Beasts, all fashion’d of Stone. Within the wall’d Garden was a Bow’r, smelling more sweetly of Flow’rs than anything in Mr. Milton’s Paradise. To pull this down was truly like pulling down Eden, and Lord Bellars must needs be our Lucifer, luring us out of this Garden in the Name of Fashion.
    “Milord,” said the Poet to Lord Bellars, o’er our light country Supper of Broth, Bread, and fresh-churn’d Butter, Pudding with Suet and Raisins, and finally Cheese for Dessert, follow’d by Lisbon Oranges, Muscadine Grapes, Prunes of Tours, and Pears of Rousselet—“Milord, there is nothing more repugnant to the Eye than the Mathematical Exactness and crimping Stiffness of the Gardens of our Ancestors. We must venture, rather, to paint a Landscape out of living Material, as Salvator Rosa, Gaspard Poussin, and Claude Lorrain painted the most romantick Prospects upon willing Canvas.”
    “Romantick, Sir? Do you use that Term which means ‘all that is wild, unrestrain’d, and absurd in Nature’?”
    “Nay, Milord,” says the Poet, “I mean the Passion for Things of a Natural Kind, where neither Art nor the Caprice of Man hath spoil’d their genuine Order but rather reform’d ’em closer to the Heart’s Desire. I speak of the Beauties of rude Rocks, mossy Caverns, flowing Rivulets, and rolling Waters…. I speak of enchanted Bow’rs, silver Streams, opening Avenues, rising Mounts, and glitt’ring Grottoes alive with the Sounds of running Water, like the classical Nymphaeum of Old, the very Haunt of the Muses.”
    I must confess I was impress’d by this beauteous Flow of Words and in my Mind’s Eye began to see an enchanted Garden, despite my previous Reluctance to suffer any Change at Lymeworth.
    “Pray, Sir,” I askt the Poet (who was sitting on my Right, and had i’faith often allow’d his Eyes to wander downward towards my Bosom, which, notwithstanding the Modesty Piece Lady Bellars had caus’d me to wear, was still quite visible), “describe your Grotto for us, for Lord Bellars hath told us ’tis one of the Wonders of the World, and if I am not mistaken, he means to build one here at Lymeworth, when the new House hath been erected according to the Plans of Mr. Kent and Mr. Campbell.”
    “It gives me great Joy,” says the Bard, “to describe my Grotto to a Young Lady of your surpassing Beauty; for Harmony is all in Nature, and what greater Harmony could there be than to describe one beauteous Marvel of Nature for the Ears of another.”
    I blusht crimson at this gallant Compliment whilst Mary glower’d at me across the Table and Lord Bellars glow’d with Pride (or perhaps ’twas Lust), and Lady Bellars toy’d idly with a Muscadine Grape.
    “My Dear,” he continu’d, “’tis the very Maze of Fancy, a subterranean Chamber, craggy and mysterious as if Nature herself had made it, finish’d with Shells interspers’d with Pieces of Looking Glass in angular Forms, and in the Ceiling is a Star of the same Material, from which, when a Lamp of an orbicular Figure of thin Alabaster is hung in the Middle, a thousand pointed Rays glitter, and are reflected o’er the Place. Connected to this Grotto by a narrower Passage are two Porches with Niches and Seats—one facing towards the Thames, made ingeniously of smooth Stones, and the other rough with Shells, Flints, and Iron Ore, like the Cave of the Muses itself. The Bottom is pav’d with simple Pebbles so as not to distract the Eye from the little open Temple it leads to, which is wholly compos’d of Cockle Shells in the rustick Manner, and agrees not ill with the constant dripping Murmur, which lends the whole aquatick Idea to the Place. It wants nothing to compleat it, my dear Fanny, but a Statue of you, in the Garb of a Nymph—or perhaps, if my Eyes do not deceive me about your Natural Beauty, in no