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Edgar Allan Poe: The Domain of Arnheim
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Poe
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
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 the
flowers of light.
The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of
dew.
That hung upon their azure leaves did shew
Like twinkling stars
that sparkle in the evening blue.
--Giles Fletcher
FROM his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison
along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I mean it
as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed born for the
purpose of foreshadowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and
Condorcet–of exemplifying by individual instance what has been deemed the
chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison I fancy
that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man's very nature lies some
hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An anxious examination of his
career has given 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 darkness and madness of all
thought 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 my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and
thus it is worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which
distinguished his life was, in great measure, 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 success of his life,
into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for those of pre-eminent
endowments. But it is by no means my object to pen an essay on happiness.
The ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few words. He admitted but four
elementary principles, or more strictly, conditions 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 is scarcely worth the name." He instanced the ecstasies of the
fox-hunter, and pointed to the tillers of the earth, the only people who, as
a class, can be fairly considered happier than others. His second condition
was the love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization, was the
contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of attainable happiness was
in proportion to the spirituality of this object.
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 acquisition of knowledge is less a
labor than an intuition and a necessity. 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 on the attainment of his
majority, 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 moral constitution
of those who are their objects.
It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison's coming of age,
there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This
gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no 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 of Ellison, who should be alive at the end of the
hundred years. Many 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 legislative act finally
obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations. This act, however, did not
prevent young Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first
birthday, 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 was Thelluson. I
first saw an account of this matter in the "Tour" of Prince Puckler Muskau,
who makes the sum inherited ninety millions of pounds, and justly observes
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, although a grossly
exaggerated one. The germ, and in fact, the commencement of the present
paper was published many years ago–previous to the issue of the first number
of Sue's admirable "Juif Errant," which may possibly have been suggested to
him by Muskau's account.
When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth inherited,
there were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal. The
magnitude and the immediate availability of the sum bewildered all who
thought on 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 intrigue–or aiming at ministerial
power–or purchasing increase of nobility–or collecting large museums of
virtu- or playing the munificent patron of letters, of science, of art–or
endowing, and bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But
for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the heir, these
objects and all ordinary objects were felt to afford too limited a field.
Recourse was had to figures, and these 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 of at least one-half of his fortune, as of
utterly superfluous opulence–enriching whole troops of his relatives by
division of his superabundance. To the nearest of these he did, in fact,
abandon the very unusual wealth which was his own before the
inheritance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his
mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to his friends. Nor
was I greatly astonished at the nature of his decision. In regard to
individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. In the possibility of
any improvement, properly so called, being effected by man himself in the
general condition of man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little faith.
Upon the whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back, in very
great measure, upon self.
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 fullest, if not the sole proper satisfaction of this
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 all his ethical
speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led him to believe that
the most advantageous at least, if not the sole legitimate field for the
poetic exercise, lies in the creation of novel moods of purely physical
loveliness. Thus it happened he became neither musician nor poet–if we use
this latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he
neglected to become either, merely in pursuance of his idea that in contempt
of ambition is to be found 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 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 seen–and that, unless through some series of accidents goading the
noblest order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never see-
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer domains of art, of
which the human nature is absolutely capable.
Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more
profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than
those which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become a
painter. Sculpture, although in its nature rigorously poetical was too
limited in its extent and consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much
of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which the
common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it capable of
expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest, the truest, and most
natural, if not altogether the most extensive province, had been
unaccountably neglected. No definition had spoken of the landscape-gardener
as of the poet; yet it seemed to my friend that the creation of the
landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most magnificent of
opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the display of
imagination in the endless combining of forms of novel beauty; the elements
to enter into combination being, by a vast superiority, the most glorious
which the earth could afford. In the multiform and multicolor of the flowers
and the trees, he recognised the most direct and energetic efforts of Nature
at physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of this
effort–or, more properly, in its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold
it on earth–he perceived that he should be employing the best means–laboring
to the greatest advantage–in the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as
poet, but of the august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the
poetic sentiment in man.
"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In his
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving what
has always seemed to me an enigma:–I mean the fact (which none but the
ignorant dispute) that no such combination of scenery exists in nature as
the painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed on the canvas 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 defy, individually, the
highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be attained on the
wide surface of the natural earth, from which an artistical eye, looking
steadily, will not find matter of offence in what is termed the
"composition" of the 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 portraiture, that here nature is to be
exalted or idealized rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach
the living and breathing beauty. 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 led 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 sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only
believes, but positively knows, that such and such apparently arbitrary
arrangements of matter constitute and alone constitute the true beauty. His
reasons, however, 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 he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions
by the voice of all his brethren. 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 would have suggested
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature
susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her susceptibility of
improvement at this one point, was a mystery I had been unable to solve. My
own thoughts on the subject had rested in the idea that the primitive
intention of nature would have so arranged the earth's surface as to have
fulfilled at all points man's sense of perfection in the beautiful, the
sublime, or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been
frustrated by the known geological disturbances–disturbances of form and
color–grouping, in the correction or allaying of which lies the soul of art.
The force of this idea was much weakened, however, by the necessity which it
involved of considering the disturbances abnormal and unadapted to any
purpose. It was Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He
thus explained:–Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the first
intention. We have then the primitive arrangement of the earth's surface
adapted to his blissful estate, as not existent but designed. The
disturbances were the preparations for his subsequently conceived deathful
condition.
"Now," said my friend, "what we regard as exaltation of the landscape may
be really such, as respects only the moral or human point of view. Each
alteration of the natural scenery may possibly effect a blemish in the
picture, if we can suppose this picture viewed at large–in mass–from some
point distant from the earth's surface, although not beyond the limits of
its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve a closely
scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general or more distantly
observed effect. There may be a class of beings, human once, but now
invisible to humanity, to whom, from afar, our disorder may seem order–our
unpicturesqueness picturesque, in a word, the earth-angels, for whose
scrutiny more especially than our own, and for whose death- refined
appreciation of the beautiful, may have been set in array by God the wide
landscape-gardens of the hemispheres."
In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a writer
on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have well treated his
theme:
"There are properly 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 healthy 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 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, every thing depends on the selection of a spot with
capabilities. What is said about detecting and bringing into practice nice
relations of size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses
of speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase quoted may
mean any thing, or nothing, and 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 negative merit suggested
appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue which consists in the
mere avoidance of vice appeals directly to the understanding, and can thus
be circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can
be apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies but to the merits of
denial–to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the critical art can
but suggest. We may be instructed to build a "Cato," but we are in vain told
how to conceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno." The thing done, however; 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 beauty.
"The author's observations on the artificial style," continued Ellison,
"are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to it
a great beauty. This is just; as also is the reference to the sense of human
interest. The principle expressed is incontrovertible–but there may be
something beyond it. There may be an object in keeping with the principle–an
object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed by individuals, yet
which, if attained, would lend a charm to the landscape-garden far
surpassing that which a sense of merely human interest could bestow. A poet,
having very unusual pecuniary resources, might, while retaining the
necessary idea of art or culture, or, as our author expresses it, of
interest, 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 the harshness or technicality of the
worldly 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 this art
is apparent to reflection only; in no respect has it the obvious force of a
feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty design to be one step
depressed–to be brought into something like harmony or consistency with the
sense of human art–to form an intermedium between the two:–let us imagine,
for example, a landscape whose combined vastness and definitiveness–whose
united beauty, magnificence, and strangeness, shall convey the idea of care,
or culture, or superintendence, on the part of beings superior, yet akin to
humanity–then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while the art
intervolved is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
nature–a nature which is not God, nor an emanation from God, but which still
is nature in the sense of the handiwork of the angels that hover between man
and God."
It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a vision such
as this–in the free exercise in the open air ensured by the personal
superintendence of his plans–in the unceasing object which these plans
afforded–in the high spirituality of the object–in the contempt of ambition
which it enabled him truly to feel–in the perennial springs with which it
gratified, without possibility of satiating, that one master passion of his
soul, the thirst for beauty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman,
not unwomanly, whose loveliness and love enveloped his existence in the
purple atmosphere of Paradise, that Ellison thought to find, and found,
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.
I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the
marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but am
disheartened by the difficulty of description, and hesitate between detail
and generality. Perhaps the better course will be to unite the two in their
extremes.
Mr. Ellison's first step regarded, of course, the choice of a locality,
and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point, when the luxuriant
nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his attention. In fact, he had made
up his mind for a voyage to the South Seas, when a night's reflection
induced him to abandon the idea. "Were I misanthropic," he said, "such a
locale would suit me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and
the difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm of
charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the composure but not the
depression of solitude. There must remain with me a certain control over the
extent and duration of my repose. There will be frequent hours in which I
shall need, too, the sympathy of the poetic in what I have done. Let me
seek, then, a spot not far from a populous city–whose vicinity, also, will
best enable me to execute my plans."
In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for several
years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand spots with which I
was enraptured he rejected without hesitation, for reasons which satisfied
me, in the end, that he was right. We came at length to an elevated
table-land of wonderful fertility and beauty, affording a panoramic prospect
very little less in extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison's opinion as
well as my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that mountain in all the
true elements of the picturesque.
"I am aware," said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after
gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an hour, "I know that here, in
my circumstances, nine-tenths of the most fastidious of men would rest
content. This panorama is indeed glorious, and I should rejoice in it but
for the excess of its glory. The taste of all the architects I have ever
known leads them, for the sake of 'prospect,' to put up buildings on
hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods, but
especially in that of extent, startles, excites–and then fatigues,
depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be better–for the constant
view nothing worse. And, in the constant view, the most objectionable phase
of grandeur is that of extent; the worst phase of extent, that of distance.
It is at war with the sentiment and with the sense of seclusion–the
sentiment and sense which we seek to humor in 'retiring to the country.' In
looking from the summit of a mountain we cannot help feeling abroad in the
world. The heart-sick avoid distant prospects as a pestilence."
It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our search that
we found a locality with which Ellison professed himself satisfied. It is,
of course, needless to say where was the locality. The late death of my
friend, in causing his domain to be thrown open to certain classes of
visiters, has given to Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not solemn
celebrity, similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree, to that
which so long distinguished Fonthill.
The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visiter left the city
in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores of a
tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed innumerable sheep, their white
fleeces spotting the vivid green of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of
cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became
merged in a sense of retirement–this again in a consciousness of solitude.
As the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow, the banks more and
more precipitous; and these latter were clothed in rich, more profuse, and
more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The stream took a
thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for
a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed
imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable
walls of foliage, a roof of ultramarine satin, and no floor–the keel
balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by
some accident having been turned upside down, floated in constant company
with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. The channel now
became a gorge–although the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it
merely because the language has no word which better represents the most
striking–not the most distinctive-feature of the scene. The character of
gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the shores; it
was lost altogether in their other traits. The walls of the ravine (through
which the clear water still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a
hundred and occasionally of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much
toward each other as, in a great measure, to shut out the light of day;
while the long plume-like moss which depended densely from the intertwining
shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of funereal gloom. The
windings became more frequent and intricate, and seemed often as if
returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all idea of
direction. He was, moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange.
The thought of nature still remained, but her character seemed to have
undergone modification, there was a weird symmetry, a thrilling uniformity,
a wizard propriety in these her works. Not a dead branch–not a withered
leaf–not a stray pebble–not a patch of the brown earth was anywhere visible.
The crystal water welled up against the clean granite, or the unblemished
moss, with a sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the
eye.
Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom
deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought it
suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very
considerable extent when compared with the width of the gorge. It was about
two hundred yards in diameter, and girt in at all points but one–that
immediately fronting the vessel as it entered–by hills equal in general
height to the walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly different
character. Their sides sloped from the water's edge at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to summit–not a
perceptible point escaping–in a drapery of the most gorgeous
flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the sea of
odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but so
transparent was the water that the bottom, which seemed to consist of a
thick mass of small round alabaster pebbles, was distinctly visible by
glimpses–that is to say, whenever the eye could permit itself not to see,
far down in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On
these latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The
impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness, warmth, color,
quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, daintiness, voluptuousness, and a
miraculous extremeness of culture that suggested dreams of a new race of
fairies, laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye
traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction with the
water to its vague termination amid the folds of overhanging cloud, it
became, indeed, difficult not to fancy a panoramic cataract of rubies,
sapphires, opals, and golden onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky.
The visiter, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the
ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun,
which he had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now
confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless
vista seen through another chasm–like rift in the hills.
But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and
descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in
vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat arise
high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is that of
an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the proud
grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of
satin-wood; but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden
to be of good cheer- that the fates will take care of him. The larger vessel
disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies apparently
motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what course to
pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the fairy bark. It
slowly swings itself around until its prow points toward the sun. It
advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight
ripples it creates seem to break about the ivory side in divinest
melody-seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing yet
melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager looks around
him in vain.
The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is
approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To the right
arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is observed,
however, that the trait of exquisite cleanness where the bank dips into the
water, still prevails. There is not one token of the usual river debris. To
the left the character of the scene is softer and more obviously artificial.
Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in a very gentle ascent, forming
a broad sward of grass of a texture resembling nothing so much as velvet,
and of a brilliancy of green which would bear comparison with the tint of
the purest emerald. This plateau varies in width from ten to three hundred
yards; reaching from the river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high, which
extends, in an infinity of curves, but following the general direction of
the river, until lost in the distance to the westward. This wall is of one
continuous rock, and has been formed by cutting perpendicularly the once
rugged precipice of the stream's southern bank, but no trace of the labor
has been suffered to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and is
profusely overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the
eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of the top and bottom lines of
the wall is fully relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height, growing
singly or in small groups, both along the plateau and in the domain behind
the wall, but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of the black
walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent extremities into the
water. Farther back within the domain, the vision is impeded by an
impenetrable screen of foliage.
These things are observed during the canoe's gradual approach to what I
have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to this, however, its
chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discovered to
the left–in which direction the wall is also seen to sweep, still following
the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot
penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to
the left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves.
The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and
here the shore opposite the wall is found to resemble that opposite the wall
in the straight vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and
covered with vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene.
Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the
voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a
gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately carved and
fretted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an
effulgence that seems to wreath the whole surrounding forest in flames. This
gate is inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the river at
right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of
the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall
following it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging
from the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door,
and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and
approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically expanded.
The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast
amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple mountains, whose bases are laved by
a gleaming river throughout the full extent of their circuit. Meantime the
whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of
entrancing melody; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor,–there
is a dream–like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees–bosky
shrubberies–flocks of golden and crimson birds–lily-fringed lakes- meadows
of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses–long intertangled
lines of silver streamlets–and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass
of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by miracle in
mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred oriels, minarets, and
pinnacles; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of
the Fairies, of the Genii and of the Gnomes.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: The Domain of Arnheim
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM
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 the
flowers of light.
The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of
dew.
That hung upon their azure leaves did shew
Like twinkling stars
that sparkle in the evening blue.
--Giles Fletcher
FROM his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison
along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I mean it
as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed born for the
purpose of foreshadowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and
Condorcet–of exemplifying by individual instance what has been deemed the
chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison I fancy
that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man's very nature lies some
hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An anxious examination of his
career has given 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 darkness and madness of all
thought 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 my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and
thus it is worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which
distinguished his life was, in great measure, 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 success of his life,
into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for those of pre-eminent
endowments. But it is by no means my object to pen an essay on happiness.
The ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few words. He admitted but four
elementary principles, or more strictly, conditions 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 is scarcely worth the name." He instanced the ecstasies of the
fox-hunter, and pointed to the tillers of the earth, the only people who, as
a class, can be fairly considered happier than others. His second condition
was the love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization, was the
contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of attainable happiness was
in proportion to the spirituality of this object.
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 acquisition of knowledge is less a
labor than an intuition and a necessity. 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 on the attainment of his
majority, 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 moral constitution
of those who are their objects.
It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison's coming of age,
there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This
gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no 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 of Ellison, who should be alive at the end of the
hundred years. Many 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 legislative act finally
obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations. This act, however, did not
prevent young Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first
birthday, 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 was Thelluson. I
first saw an account of this matter in the "Tour" of Prince Puckler Muskau,
who makes the sum inherited ninety millions of pounds, and justly observes
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, although a grossly
exaggerated one. The germ, and in fact, the commencement of the present
paper was published many years ago–previous to the issue of the first number
of Sue's admirable "Juif Errant," which may possibly have been suggested to
him by Muskau's account.
When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth inherited,
there were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal. The
magnitude and the immediate availability of the sum bewildered all who
thought on 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 intrigue–or aiming at ministerial
power–or purchasing increase of nobility–or collecting large museums of
virtu- or playing the munificent patron of letters, of science, of art–or
endowing, and bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But
for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the heir, these
objects and all ordinary objects were felt to afford too limited a field.
Recourse was had to figures, and these 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 of at least one-half of his fortune, as of
utterly superfluous opulence–enriching whole troops of his relatives by
division of his superabundance. To the nearest of these he did, in fact,
abandon the very unusual wealth which was his own before the
inheritance.
I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his
mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to his friends. Nor
was I greatly astonished at the nature of his decision. In regard to
individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. In the possibility of
any improvement, properly so called, being effected by man himself in the
general condition of man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little faith.
Upon the whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back, in very
great measure, upon self.
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 fullest, if not the sole proper satisfaction of this
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 all his ethical
speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led him to believe that
the most advantageous at least, if not the sole legitimate field for the
poetic exercise, lies in the creation of novel moods of purely physical
loveliness. Thus it happened he became neither musician nor poet–if we use
this latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he
neglected to become either, merely in pursuance of his idea that in contempt
of ambition is to be found 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 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 seen–and that, unless through some series of accidents goading the
noblest order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never see-
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer domains of art, of
which the human nature is absolutely capable.
Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more
profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than
those which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become a
painter. Sculpture, although in its nature rigorously poetical was too
limited in its extent and consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much
of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which the
common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it capable of
expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest, the truest, and most
natural, if not altogether the most extensive province, had been
unaccountably neglected. No definition had spoken of the landscape-gardener
as of the poet; yet it seemed to my friend that the creation of the
landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most magnificent of
opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the display of
imagination in the endless combining of forms of novel beauty; the elements
to enter into combination being, by a vast superiority, the most glorious
which the earth could afford. In the multiform and multicolor of the flowers
and the trees, he recognised the most direct and energetic efforts of Nature
at physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of this
effort–or, more properly, in its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold
it on earth–he perceived that he should be employing the best means–laboring
to the greatest advantage–in the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as
poet, but of the august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the
poetic sentiment in man.
"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In his
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving what
has always seemed to me an enigma:–I mean the fact (which none but the
ignorant dispute) that no such combination of scenery exists in nature as
the painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed on the canvas 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 defy, individually, the
highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be attained on the
wide surface of the natural earth, from which an artistical eye, looking
steadily, will not find matter of offence in what is termed the
"composition" of the 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 portraiture, that here nature is to be
exalted or idealized rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach
the living and breathing beauty. 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 led 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 sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only
believes, but positively knows, that such and such apparently arbitrary
arrangements of matter constitute and alone constitute the true beauty. His
reasons, however, 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 he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions
by the voice of all his brethren. 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 would have suggested
the identical emendation.
I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature
susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her susceptibility of
improvement at this one point, was a mystery I had been unable to solve. My
own thoughts on the subject had rested in the idea that the primitive
intention of nature would have so arranged the earth's surface as to have
fulfilled at all points man's sense of perfection in the beautiful, the
sublime, or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been
frustrated by the known geological disturbances–disturbances of form and
color–grouping, in the correction or allaying of which lies the soul of art.
The force of this idea was much weakened, however, by the necessity which it
involved of considering the disturbances abnormal and unadapted to any
purpose. It was Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He
thus explained:–Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the first
intention. We have then the primitive arrangement of the earth's surface
adapted to his blissful estate, as not existent but designed. The
disturbances were the preparations for his subsequently conceived deathful
condition.
"Now," said my friend, "what we regard as exaltation of the landscape may
be really such, as respects only the moral or human point of view. Each
alteration of the natural scenery may possibly effect a blemish in the
picture, if we can suppose this picture viewed at large–in mass–from some
point distant from the earth's surface, although not beyond the limits of
its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve a closely
scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general or more distantly
observed effect. There may be a class of beings, human once, but now
invisible to humanity, to whom, from afar, our disorder may seem order–our
unpicturesqueness picturesque, in a word, the earth-angels, for whose
scrutiny more especially than our own, and for whose death- refined
appreciation of the beautiful, may have been set in array by God the wide
landscape-gardens of the hemispheres."
In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a writer
on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have well treated his
theme:
"There are properly 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 healthy 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 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, every thing depends on the selection of a spot with
capabilities. What is said about detecting and bringing into practice nice
relations of size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses
of speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase quoted may
mean any thing, or nothing, and 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 negative merit suggested
appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue which consists in the
mere avoidance of vice appeals directly to the understanding, and can thus
be circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can
be apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies but to the merits of
denial–to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the critical art can
but suggest. We may be instructed to build a "Cato," but we are in vain told
how to conceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno." The thing done, however; 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 beauty.
"The author's observations on the artificial style," continued Ellison,
"are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to it
a great beauty. This is just; as also is the reference to the sense of human
interest. The principle expressed is incontrovertible–but there may be
something beyond it. There may be an object in keeping with the principle–an
object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed by individuals, yet
which, if attained, would lend a charm to the landscape-garden far
surpassing that which a sense of merely human interest could bestow. A poet,
having very unusual pecuniary resources, might, while retaining the
necessary idea of art or culture, or, as our author expresses it, of
interest, 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 the harshness or technicality of the
worldly 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 this art
is apparent to reflection only; in no respect has it the obvious force of a
feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty design to be one step
depressed–to be brought into something like harmony or consistency with the
sense of human art–to form an intermedium between the two:–let us imagine,
for example, a landscape whose combined vastness and definitiveness–whose
united beauty, magnificence, and strangeness, shall convey the idea of care,
or culture, or superintendence, on the part of beings superior, yet akin to
humanity–then the sentiment of interest is preserved, while the art
intervolved is made to assume the air of an intermediate or secondary
nature–a nature which is not God, nor an emanation from God, but which still
is nature in the sense of the handiwork of the angels that hover between man
and God."
It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a vision such
as this–in the free exercise in the open air ensured by the personal
superintendence of his plans–in the unceasing object which these plans
afforded–in the high spirituality of the object–in the contempt of ambition
which it enabled him truly to feel–in the perennial springs with which it
gratified, without possibility of satiating, that one master passion of his
soul, the thirst for beauty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman,
not unwomanly, whose loveliness and love enveloped his existence in the
purple atmosphere of Paradise, that Ellison thought to find, and found,
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.
I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the
marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but am
disheartened by the difficulty of description, and hesitate between detail
and generality. Perhaps the better course will be to unite the two in their
extremes.
Mr. Ellison's first step regarded, of course, the choice of a locality,
and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point, when the luxuriant
nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his attention. In fact, he had made
up his mind for a voyage to the South Seas, when a night's reflection
induced him to abandon the idea. "Were I misanthropic," he said, "such a
locale would suit me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and
the difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm of
charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the composure but not the
depression of solitude. There must remain with me a certain control over the
extent and duration of my repose. There will be frequent hours in which I
shall need, too, the sympathy of the poetic in what I have done. Let me
seek, then, a spot not far from a populous city–whose vicinity, also, will
best enable me to execute my plans."
In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for several
years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand spots with which I
was enraptured he rejected without hesitation, for reasons which satisfied
me, in the end, that he was right. We came at length to an elevated
table-land of wonderful fertility and beauty, affording a panoramic prospect
very little less in extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison's opinion as
well as my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that mountain in all the
true elements of the picturesque.
"I am aware," said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after
gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an hour, "I know that here, in
my circumstances, nine-tenths of the most fastidious of men would rest
content. This panorama is indeed glorious, and I should rejoice in it but
for the excess of its glory. The taste of all the architects I have ever
known leads them, for the sake of 'prospect,' to put up buildings on
hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods, but
especially in that of extent, startles, excites–and then fatigues,
depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be better–for the constant
view nothing worse. And, in the constant view, the most objectionable phase
of grandeur is that of extent; the worst phase of extent, that of distance.
It is at war with the sentiment and with the sense of seclusion–the
sentiment and sense which we seek to humor in 'retiring to the country.' In
looking from the summit of a mountain we cannot help feeling abroad in the
world. The heart-sick avoid distant prospects as a pestilence."
It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our search that
we found a locality with which Ellison professed himself satisfied. It is,
of course, needless to say where was the locality. The late death of my
friend, in causing his domain to be thrown open to certain classes of
visiters, has given to Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not solemn
celebrity, similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree, to that
which so long distinguished Fonthill.
The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visiter left the city
in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores of a
tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed innumerable sheep, their white
fleeces spotting the vivid green of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of
cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became
merged in a sense of retirement–this again in a consciousness of solitude.
As the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow, the banks more and
more precipitous; and these latter were clothed in rich, more profuse, and
more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The stream took a
thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for
a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed
imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable
walls of foliage, a roof of ultramarine satin, and no floor–the keel
balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by
some accident having been turned upside down, floated in constant company
with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. The channel now
became a gorge–although the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it
merely because the language has no word which better represents the most
striking–not the most distinctive-feature of the scene. The character of
gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of the shores; it
was lost altogether in their other traits. The walls of the ravine (through
which the clear water still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a
hundred and occasionally of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much
toward each other as, in a great measure, to shut out the light of day;
while the long plume-like moss which depended densely from the intertwining
shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm an air of funereal gloom. The
windings became more frequent and intricate, and seemed often as if
returning in upon themselves, so that the voyager had long lost all idea of
direction. He was, moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange.
The thought of nature still remained, but her character seemed to have
undergone modification, there was a weird symmetry, a thrilling uniformity,
a wizard propriety in these her works. Not a dead branch–not a withered
leaf–not a stray pebble–not a patch of the brown earth was anywhere visible.
The crystal water welled up against the clean granite, or the unblemished
moss, with a sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the
eye.
Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom
deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought it
suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very
considerable extent when compared with the width of the gorge. It was about
two hundred yards in diameter, and girt in at all points but one–that
immediately fronting the vessel as it entered–by hills equal in general
height to the walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly different
character. Their sides sloped from the water's edge at an angle of some
forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to summit–not a
perceptible point escaping–in a drapery of the most gorgeous
flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the sea of
odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but so
transparent was the water that the bottom, which seemed to consist of a
thick mass of small round alabaster pebbles, was distinctly visible by
glimpses–that is to say, whenever the eye could permit itself not to see,
far down in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On
these latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The
impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness, warmth, color,
quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, daintiness, voluptuousness, and a
miraculous extremeness of culture that suggested dreams of a new race of
fairies, laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye
traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction with the
water to its vague termination amid the folds of overhanging cloud, it
became, indeed, difficult not to fancy a panoramic cataract of rubies,
sapphires, opals, and golden onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky.
The visiter, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the
ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun,
which he had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now
confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless
vista seen through another chasm–like rift in the hills.
But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and
descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in
vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat arise
high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is that of
an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the proud
grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of
satin-wood; but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden
to be of good cheer- that the fates will take care of him. The larger vessel
disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies apparently
motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what course to
pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the fairy bark. It
slowly swings itself around until its prow points toward the sun. It
advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight
ripples it creates seem to break about the ivory side in divinest
melody-seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing yet
melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager looks around
him in vain.
The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is
approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To the right
arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is observed,
however, that the trait of exquisite cleanness where the bank dips into the
water, still prevails. There is not one token of the usual river debris. To
the left the character of the scene is softer and more obviously artificial.
Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in a very gentle ascent, forming
a broad sward of grass of a texture resembling nothing so much as velvet,
and of a brilliancy of green which would bear comparison with the tint of
the purest emerald. This plateau varies in width from ten to three hundred
yards; reaching from the river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high, which
extends, in an infinity of curves, but following the general direction of
the river, until lost in the distance to the westward. This wall is of one
continuous rock, and has been formed by cutting perpendicularly the once
rugged precipice of the stream's southern bank, but no trace of the labor
has been suffered to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and is
profusely overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the
eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of the top and bottom lines of
the wall is fully relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height, growing
singly or in small groups, both along the plateau and in the domain behind
the wall, but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of the black
walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent extremities into the
water. Farther back within the domain, the vision is impeded by an
impenetrable screen of foliage.
These things are observed during the canoe's gradual approach to what I
have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to this, however, its
chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discovered to
the left–in which direction the wall is also seen to sweep, still following
the general course of the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot
penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to
the left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves.
The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and
here the shore opposite the wall is found to resemble that opposite the wall
in the straight vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and
covered with vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene.
Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the
voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a
gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately carved and
fretted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an
effulgence that seems to wreath the whole surrounding forest in flames. This
gate is inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the river at
right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of
the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall
following it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging
from the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door,
and is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and
approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically expanded.
The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast
amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple mountains, whose bases are laved by
a gleaming river throughout the full extent of their circuit. Meantime the
whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of
entrancing melody; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor,–there
is a dream–like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees–bosky
shrubberies–flocks of golden and crimson birds–lily-fringed lakes- meadows
of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses–long intertangled
lines of silver streamlets–and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass
of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by miracle in
mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred oriels, minarets, and
pinnacles; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of
the Fairies, of the Genii and of the Gnomes.
THE END
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