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 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 [column 2:]
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
pre-eminent 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
ecstacies 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 [page 162:] 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 connections, 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.*
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 [column 2:] 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
that 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 [page 163:] 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,
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 [column 2:] 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, [page 164:] 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 handi-work 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 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
Stäel.EDGAR A. POE.
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