The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER
No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.
I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}
When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
his superabundance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
capable.
Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.
In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
well treated this theme.
“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
evidence of care and human interest.”
“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will
understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling
the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never
so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends
upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in
respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice
relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of
speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which
guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style
of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and
incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or
miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of
genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains
to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which
consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier
merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be
apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the
excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.
Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are
told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus
Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive
Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,
and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists
of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the
“Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”
continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of
pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is
just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally
so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is
incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.
There may be an object in full keeping with the principle
suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in
possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm
to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a
merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of
very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining
the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his
designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey
the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in
bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of
interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness
and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in
the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent
the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to
reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.
Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be
harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape
whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and
magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or
superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin
to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while
the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but
which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of
the angels that hover between man and God.”
It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical
embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the
open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in
the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in
the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of
ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,
lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted
wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from
the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of
positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De
Staël.
The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER
No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.
With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.
I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}
When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
his superabundance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
capable.
Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.
“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.
In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
well treated this theme.
“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
evidence of care and human interest.”
“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will
understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling
the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never
so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends
upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in
respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice
relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of
speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which
guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style
of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and
incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or
miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of
genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains
to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which
consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier
merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be
apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the
excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.
Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are
told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus
Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive
Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,
and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists
of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the
“Our author’s observations on the artificial style of gardening,”
continued Mr. Ellison, “are less objectionable. ‘A mixture of
pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.’ This is
just, and the reference to the sense of human interest is equally
so. I repeat that the principle here expressed, is
incontrovertible; but there may be something even beyond it.
There may be an object in full keeping with the principle
suggested—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily in
possession of mankind, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm
to the landscape-garden immeasurably surpassing that which a
merely human interest could bestow. The true poet possessed of
very unusual pecuniary resources, might possibly, while retaining
the necessary idea of art or interest or culture, so imbue his
designs at once with extent and novelty of Beauty, as to convey
the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be seen that, in
bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of
interest or design, while relieving his work of all the harshness
and technicality of Art. In the most rugged of wildernesses—in
the most savage of the scenes of pure Nature—there is apparent
the art of a Creator; yet is this art apparent only to
reflection; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.
Now, if we imagine this sense of the Almighty Design to be
harmonized in a measurable degree, if we suppose a landscape
whose combined strangeness, vastness, definitiveness, and
magnificence, shall inspire the idea of culture, or care, or
superintendence, on the part of intelligences superior yet akin
to humanity—then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while
the Art is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
Nature—a Nature which is not God, nor an emanation of God, but
which still is Nature, in the sense that it is the handiwork of
the angels that hover between man and God.”
It was in devoting his gigantic wealth to the practical
embodiment of a vision such as this—in the free exercise in the
open air, which resulted from personal direction of his plans—in
the continuous and unceasing object which these plans afforded—in
the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of
ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,
lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted
wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from
the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of
positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De
Staël.