It is indeed some comfort, that while Taste and Genius happen to be
very false and impotent in most of the fine arts, they are not so in
all. The arts of Gardening particularly, and the elegant plan of
a farm, have of late years displayed themselves in a few spots to
greater advantage in England, than perhaps ever before in any part
of Europe. This is indeed very far from being universal; and some
gardens, admired and celebrated still, are so smoothly regular, so
over-planted, and so crowded with affected, impertinent, ridiculous
ornaments of temples, ruins, pyramids, obelisks, statues, and a
thousand other contemptible whims, that a continuation of the same
ground in its rude natural state, is infinitely more delightful. You
must often have seen fine situations ruined with costly pretences to
_improvement_. The most noble and romantic situation of any gardens
I have seen, is near Chepstow; and the gentleman who possesses
that delightful spot, has shewn great judgment and a true taste, in
meddling so little with Nature where she wanted so little help.
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