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leaves fall and flowers fade, great people are found in their country seats. Look!—that is Montfort Court! A place of regal magnificence, so far as extent of pile and amplitude of domain could satisfy the pride of ownership, or inspire the visitor with the respect due to wealth and power. An artist could have made nothing of it. The Sumptuous everywhere—the Picturesque nowhere. The House was built in the reign of George I., when first commenced that horror of the Beautiful, as something in bad taste, which, agree ably to our natural love of progress, progressively advanced through the reigns of succeeding Georges. An enormous façade—in dull brown brick—two wings and a centre, with double flights of steps to the hall door from the carriage-sweep. No trees allowed to grow too near the house; in front, a stately flat with stone balustrades. But wherever the eye turned there was nothing to be seen but park—miles upon miles of park—not a cornfield in sight—not a roof-tree—not a spire—only those lata silentia—still widths of turf, and, somewhat thinly scattered and afar, those groves of giant trees. The whole prospect so vast and so monotonous that it never tempted you to take a walk. No close-neighboring poetic thicket into which to plunge, uncertain whither you would emerge; no devious stream to follow. The very deer, fat and heavy, seemed bored by pastures it would take them a week to traverse. People of moderate wishes and modest wishes and modest fortunes never envied Montfort Court; they admired it—they were proud to say they had seen it. But never did they say,

Not so, very—very great people!—they rather coveted than admired, Those oak-trees so large, yet so undecayed—that