am desirous to know whether all France has any thing to equal
Wenbourne-Hill.

And yet, Aby, I find it is impossible to please every body. You know
what continual improvements I have been making, for these last twenty
years; for you have superintended them all. I have planted one year,
and grubbed up the next; built, and pulled down; dug, and filled up
again; removed hills, and sent them back to their old stations; and all
from a determination to do whatever could be done. And now, I believe,
there are no grounds in all England so wooded and shut in as those of
Wenbourne-Hill; notwithstanding its situation on a very commanding
eminence. We are surrounded by coppices, groves, espaliers, and
plantations. We have excluded every vulgar view of distant hills,
intervening meadows, and extensive fields; with their insignificant
green herbage, yellow lands, and the wearisome eternal waving of
standing corn.

And yet, Aby, after having done all this, comes me Sir Alexander
Evergreen, and very freely tells me that we have spoiled
Wenbourne-Hill, buried ourselves in gloom and darkness, and shut out
the finest prospects in all England! Formerly the hall could be seen by
travellers from the road, and we ourselves had the village church in
view, all of which we have now planted out of sight! Very true: but,
instead of the parish steeple, have we not steeples of our own in every
direction? And, instead of the road, with the Gloucestershire hills and
lessening clouds in perspective, have we not the cedar quincunx? Yet
see the curse of obstinacy and want of taste! Would you think it, Aby?
Of this Sir Alexander complains!

It is in vain to tell him that we are now all within ourselves; that