by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)
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.*
* An incident similar in outline to the one here imagined, occurred, not very long ago, in England. The name of the fortunate heir (who still lives,) is Thelluson. I first saw an account of this matter in the "Tour" of Prince Puckler Muskau. He makes the sum received ninety millions of pounds, and observes, with much force, that, "in the contemplation of so vast a sum, and of the services, to which it might be applied, there is something even of the sublime." To suit the views of this article, I have followed the Prince's statement- a grossly exaggerated one, no doubt.
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 sublime.
"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 afford- 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
Stael.