ribing his grotto--but it also bursts forth in many passages
throughout his works--and in his celebrated _Guardian_ (No. 173), which
attacks, with the keenest wit, "our study to recede from nature," in our
giants made out of yews, and lavender pigs with sage growing in their
bellies. His epistle to Lord Burlington confirms the charms he felt in
studying nature. Mr. Mason, in a note to his English Garden, says, "I
had before called Bacon the prophet, and Milton, the herald of true
taste in gardening. The former, because, in developing the constituent
properties of a princely garden, he had largely expatiated upon that
adorned natural wildness which we now deem the essence of the art. The
latter, on account of his having made this natural wildness the leading
idea in his exquisite description of Paradise. I here call Addison,
_Pope_, Kent, &c. the champions of this true taste." As Mr. Mason has
added an _&c._, may we not add to these respected names, that of honest
old Bridgman? It was the determination of Lord Byron (had his life been
longer spared), to have erected, at his own expence, a monument to
Pope.[79] We can gather even from his rapid and hurried "Letter on the
Rev. W. L. Bowles's Strictures," his attachment to the high name of
Pope:--"If Lucretius had not been spoiled by the Epicurean system, we
should have had a far superior poem to any now in existence. As mere
poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then has ruined it? His
ethics. Pope has not this defect; his moral is as pure as his poetry is
glorious."--"Pope's charities were his own, and they were noble and
extensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant."--"I have loved and
honoured the fame and name of that illustrious and unrivalled man, far
more than my own paltry renown, and the trashy jingle of the crowd of
schools and upstarts, who pretend to rival, or even surpass him. Sooner
than a single leaf should be torn from _his_ laurel, it were better that
all which these men, and that I, as one of their set, have ever
written, should

Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam, or Soho."

"The most _perfect_ of our poets, and the purest of our moralists."--"He
is the _moral_ poet of all civilization; and, as such, let us hope that
he will one day be the national poet of mankind. He is the only poet
that never shocks; the only poet whose _faultlessness_ has been made his
reproach. Cast your eye over his product