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rected by the gardener's shears; compare this garden, 

 so extolled, with a primitive forest of the New World 

 with its giant trees, its tall grasses, its deep vegetation, 

 its thousand buds of a thousand hues, its broad 

 avenues, where light and shadow play only upon 

 the verdure, its wild harmonies, its great rivers 

 which drift along islands of flowers, its stupendous 

 waterfalls, over which hover rainbows. We will 

 not say. Where is the magnificence? Where is the 

 grandeur? Where is the beauty? But simply, 

 Where is the order? Where is the disorder? 



"In one, fountains, imprisoned, or diverted from 

 their course, gush from petrified Gods, only to stag- 

 nate : trees are transplanted from their native soil, torn 

 away from their climate and forced to submit to the 

 grotesque caprices of the shears and line: in a word 

 natural order everywhere contradicted, inverted, 

 upset, destroyed. In the other on the contrary, 

 all obeys an unchangeable law, in all a God seems to 

 dwell. Drops of water follow their course and form 

 rivers, which will form seas: seeds choose their soil 

 and produce a forest. The very bramble is beautiful 

 there. Again we ask, where is the order? Choose 

 then between the masterpiece of gardening and the 

 work of nature ; between what is conventionally beau- 

 tiful, and what is beautiful without rule ; between an 

 artificial literature and an original poesy. " 



There is much truth in these words as well as ex- 

 travagance. Victor Hugo is thinking too much of 



