the seas, and the subterranean abyss obeyed his commands; the nymphs, the sylphs, and groves, acknowledged his jurisdiction. To do services to mankind was his greatest satisfaction; and no sooner was an infant brought into the world, than he appointed proper guardians to incite the rising mortal to virtue, or turn him from vice.

But, of all his favourites, none shared a greater degree of his affections than Zenim and Galhinda, two children descended from the race of kings, one the most sensible youth, the other the fairest girl of all Circassia. As they surpassed their companions in merit, the genius was resolved to supply them with an adequate proportion of happiness, and mutually bless them with each other. He inspired Zenim, as yet but a boy, with sentiments of courage, justice, and virtue. He adorned Galhinda with charms, that none could behold without the most ardent sensibility.

But, in order to render the education of both still more complete, the genius separated the young prince at the earliest period from the breast of his fond mother, to where he could have no commerce with the bewitching beauty of the opposite sex. A forest, remote from the habitations of men, became his retreat. Instructors, the most celebrated, were appointed both for his morals, exercises, and amusements. His mind was formed by the most prudent counsels, and tinctured with every science, without its vain subtleties, that only serve to discourage and perplex. Two sages, whose songs had often engaged the attention even of the genius of the woods, were particularly dear to him: those he heard with pleasure, while in the intervals of more serious study, they sung the actions of heroes, and the distresses of suffering virtue. Thus was his understanding formed by precepts, while the manly exercises gave strength and grace to his limbs, and in all these none could dispute with him the victory.

In every gesture, every look, something noble might be discovered, and all his conversation announced the hero. Sixteen years were expired, and as yet he was ignorant that there was a more beautiful part of the creation hitherto concealed from his view. Firnaz had imposed silence in this respect upon all his attendants; neither the voice of friendship, nor the lovebreathing lyre, had yet told him anything of the happiness of mutual love. While Zenim, thus unconscious of the power of beauty, grew up in solitude, and advanced in wisdom, Galhinda was formed by Firnaz himself to give perfect happiness. She had, by the orders of the genius, been shut up remote from men in a retired palace, where she passed the first years of innocence among companions almost as fair, and quite as harmless as she. Here she strayed among cool meadows, and refreshing streams, attended by twelve nymphs, as beautiful and fresh as the morning; her young heart was not as yet agitated with any desire, and virtue only had a power of giving her any emotions. She would, at proper intervals, descend from her palace of marble to a retired valley, and there with her lute, joined to the sweetness of her voice, celebrate the charms of piety, charity, content, and friendship. These were all the pleasures she knew, and even her dreams had never informed her that there were any still greater.

In the mean time, she approached that period when age has expanded every charm. Her desires seemed to increase with her years, and she found in her breast a chasm that friendship alone was not sufficient to supply. She chanced to wander near a glassy fountain: the polished surface reflected back her beauties. Surprised, she stood in silent contemplation of her charms. Strange!" cried she, "to what purpose are all these charms, or why have I been made thus lovely? The rose is beautiful, to obtain a place in my bosom; the violet sheds perfume for me only, but why am I thus fair! am I only formed beautiful in vain ?" It was thus the beautiful Galhinda reasoned with herself, while Firnaz, the guardian genius, concealed in a cloud, attended the soliloquy.

While Galhinda was thus agitated, Zenim felt not less strong, though equally inconceivable emotions. His brow, once so serene, resembled now the sun hid in clouds. He sought for solitude, and fled from his friends, who offered their company. Here he usually gave way to the torrent of his reflections, while Firnaz, his guardian, secretly and unobserved, watched all his uneasinesses, and enjoyed his perturbation. "Now," cried the genius, now will be the time to gratify their desires, and to make two of the most deserving objects on earth happy. With what rapture shall I not enjoy their mutual astonishment at first meeting each other! How refined a pleasure, that of being able to please!"

Thus saying, he flew upon the zephyr's wing to where Galhinda was enjoying a balmy slumber. A dream which had been produced by the genius, presented to her imagination the image of the prince. She fancied him searching the forest in pursuit of a lost friend with seeming inquietude. She seemed to fly; and, while he appeared to pursue, the illusion was dissolved by her awaking.

She had, in the mean time, been transported while she slept, with a rapidity swifter than thought, to the retreat of the young prince, and upon awaking, she perceived nothing but what was strange around. But what were her emotions, when she perceived approaching the very image that had been so lovely in her dream! She seemed quite disordered; and the prince himself suffered not less than she. Expression is unable to paint their circumstances at that juncture; their fears, their transports, can only be conceived by souls formed for tenderness and each other. In the mean time, Galhinda, incapable of resisting her natural timidity, modestly looked down, as if dazzled with his charms. The prince was absorbed in a succession of pleasingly painful ideas, yet found courage to approach the object of all his desires. He attempted to speak, but found his voice as if fled from him. He attempted to grasp her hand, while she gently repressed his temerity.

In this state of fear, desire, and mutual admiration they continued for some time, when Firnaz spread a shining light around them, and appearing before them under a celestial form, thus addressed the happiest lovers that ever added grace to humanity:-"Happy, happy mortals! in me behold the cause of your present felicity. Fate designed you for each other, and I charged myself with executing its decrees. Yet trust not to personal beauty alone for a continuance of your mutual passion; that love that is of long continuance must be founded truly in mutual esteem; that passion which deserves the name of love, must arise only from an union of those sentiments which form the basis of the soul. Lovers, formed for each other, are attracted to this happy union, even without perceiving the cause of this attraction. Let humanity teach you to turn a part of that regard you have for each other on those around you. Let not that virtue in which you have been early instructed, ever forsake you, and still continue to improve by the brightness of each other's example, till you have attained the perfection of the celestial flame."

Thus saying, Firnaz surrounded them with a cloud, and disappeared. But he left them as companions Wisdom, Joy, and Peace. Those tender lovers were still attended by that celestial guard, and the most distant posterity have learned to admire the fidelity and virtue of Zenim and Galhinda.

ESSAY XXVI.

THE HISTORY OF A POET'S GARDEN.

Or all men who form gay illusions of distant happiness, perhaps a poet is the most sanguine. Such is the ardour of his hopes, that they often are equal to actual enjoyment; and he feels more in expectance than actual fruition. I have often regarded a character of this kind with some degree of envy. A man possessed of such warm imagination commands all nature, and arrogates possessions of which the owner has a blunter relish. While life continues, the alluring prospect lies before him; he travels in the pursuit with confidence, and resigns it only with his last breath.

It is this happy confidence which gives life its true relish, and keeps up our spirits amidst every distress and disappointment. How much less would be done, if a man knew how little he can do! How wretched a creature would he be, if he saw the end as well as the beginning of his projects! He would have nothing left but to sit down in torpid despair, and exchange employment for actual calamity.

I was led into this train of thinking upon lately visiting the beautiful gardens of the late Mr. Shenstone; 2 who was himself a poet, and possessed of that warm imagination, which made him ever foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness. Could he but have foreseen the end of all his schemes, for whom he was improving, and what changes his designs were to undergo, he would have scarcely amused his innocent life with what, for several years, employed him in a most harmless manner, and abridged his scanty fortune. As the progress of this improvement is a true picture of sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up my imagination, which, while I walked pensively along, suggested the following Reverie.

As I was turning my back upon a beautiful piece of water enlivened with cascades and rock-work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a prattling brook, the Genius of the Place appeared before me, but more resembling the God of Time, than him more peculiarly appointed to the care of gardens. Instead of shears he bore a scythe; and he appeared rather with the implements of husbandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having remembered this place in its pristine beauty, I could not help condoling with him on its present ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many alterations which had been made, and all for the worse; of the many shades which had been taken away, of the bowers that were destroyed by neglect, and the hedgerows that were spoiled by clipping. The Genius with a sigh received my condolement, and assured me, that he was equally a martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and rusticity. Seeing me desirous of knowing farther, he went on :

From "The Westminster Magazine, or the Pantheon of Taste," (vol. i. p. 2, 8vo. 1773), "printed for W. Goldsmith, No. 24, Pater-noster Row ;" introduced into the volume of Essays published in 1797 by Isaac Reed, and included by Percy in the "Miscellaneous Works" of 1801. Nos. xxvii. and xxviii. are from the same magazine. 2 "The Leasowes," a ferme ornée between Birmingham and Hagley, of great beauty, but which Shenstone was too poor to support. The poet, however, was in advance of his age as a landscape gardener, though now (1854) few traces remain of his skill in directing nature. I have heard Mr. Rogers (the poet) speak most highly of the beauty of "The Leasowes," as he in his youth remembered the ferme ornée.

"You see, in the place before you, the paternal inheritance of a poet; and to a man content with little, fully sufficient for his subsistence: but a strong imagination and a long acquaintance with the rich are dangerous foes to contentment. Our poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved to prepare for its future enjoyment; and set about converting a place of profit into a scene of pleasure. This he at first supposed could be accomplished at a small expense; and he was willing for a while to stint his income, to have an opportunity of displaying his taste. The improvement in this manner went forward; one beauty attained, led him to wish for some other; but he still hoped that every emendation would be the last. It was now, therefore, found that the improvement exceeded the subsidy, that the place was grown too large and too fine for the inhabitant. But that pride which was once exhibited could not retire: the garden was made for the owner, and though it was become unfit for him, he could not willingly resign it to another. Thus the first idea of its beauties contributing to the happiness of his life, was found unfaithful; so that, instead of looking within for satisfaction, he began to think of having recourse to the praises of those who came to visit his improvement.

"In consequence of this hope, which now took possession of his mind, the gardens were opened to the visits of every stranger; and the country flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers of his taste left by no means such strong marks of their applause, as the envious did of their malignity. All the windows of his temples, and the walls of his retreats, were impressed with the characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obscenity; his hedges were broken, his statues and urns defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was now, therefore, necessary to shut up the gardens once more, and to deprive the public of that happiness which had before ceased to be his own.

"In this situation the poet continued for a time in the character of a jealous lover, fond of the beauty he keeps, but unable to supply the extravagance of every demand. The garden by this time was completely grown and finished; the marks of art were covered up by the luxuriance of nature; the winding walks were grown dark; the brook assumed a natural sylvage; and the rocks were covered with moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and his garden was obliged to be sold for the benefit of those who had contributed to its embellishment.

"The beauties of the place had now for some time been celebrated as well in prose as in verse; and all men of taste wished for so envied a spot, where every urn was marked with the poet's pencil, and every walk awakened genius and meditation. The first purchaser was one Mr. Truepenny, a buttonmaker, who was possessed of three thousand pounds, and was willing also to be possessed of taste and genius.

"As the poet's ideas were for the natural wildness of the landscape, the button-maker's were for the more regular productions of art. He conceived,

perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button to be of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will, he employed the shears to some purpose; he clipped up the hedges, cut down the gloomy walks, made vistas upon the stables and hog-sties, and showed his friends that a man of taste should always be doing.

"The next candidate for taste and genius was a Captain of a ship, who bought the garden because the former possessor could find nothing more to mend; but unfortunately he had taste too. His great passion lay in building, in making Chinese temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the place before had an appearance of retirement and inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled air; every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or a temple; the improvement was converted into a little city,

and it only wanted inhabitants to give it the air of a village in the East Indies.

"In this manner, in less than ten years, the improvement has gone through the hands of as many proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and to show their taste too. As the place had received its best finishing from the hand of the first possessor, so every innovator only lent a hand to do mischief. Those parts which were obscure, have been enlightened; those walks which led naturally, have been twisted into serpentine windings. The colour of the flowers of the field is not more various than the variety of tastes that have been employed here, and all in direct contradiction to the original aim of the first improver. Could the original possessor but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would he look upon his favourite spot again! He would scarcely recollect a Dryad or a Wood-nymph of his former acquaintance, and might perhaps find himself as much a stranger in his own plantation, as in the deserts of Siberia."

ESSAY XXVII.1

A COMPARISON BETWEEN LAUGHING AND SENTIMENTAL COMEDY.

THE theatre, like all other amusements, has its fashions and its prejudices; and when satiated with its excellence, mankind begin to mistake change for improvement. For some years tragedy was the reigning entertainment; but of late it has entirely given way to comedy, and our best efforts are now exerted in these lighter kinds of composition. The pompous train, the swelling phrase, and the unnatural rant, are displaced for that natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of which all are judges, because all have sat for the picture.

But, as in describing nature it is presented with a double face, either of mirth or sadness, our modern writers find themselves at a loss which chiefly to copy from; and it is now debated, whether the exhibition of human distress is likely to afford the mind more entertainment than that of human absurdity?

Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture of the frailties of the lower part of mankind, to distinguish it from tragedy, which is an exhibition of the misfortunes of the great. When comedy therefore ascends to produce the characters of princes or generals upon the stage, it is out of its walk, since low life and middle life are entirely its object. The principal question therefore is, whether in describing low or middle life, an exhibition of its follies be not preferable to a detail of its calamities? Or, in other words, which deserves the preference-the weeping sentimental comedy, so much in fashion at present, or the laughing and even low comedy, which seems to have been last exhibited by Vanbrugh and Cibber? 2

If we apply to authorities, all the great masters in the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their rule is, that as tragedy displays the calamities of the great, so comedy should excite our laughter, by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lower part of mankind. Boileau,

1 From "The Westminster Magazine" for 1773, (vol. i. p. 4), introduced into the volume of "Essays," published in 1797 by Isaac Reed, and included by Percy in the "Miscellaneous Works" of 1801.

2 "The undertaking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw the piece in its various stages, always thought it so."GOLDSMITH: Dedication to Dr. Johnson of "She Stoops to Conquer."