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Edgar Allan Poe: The Landscape Garden
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Poe
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
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.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: The Landscape Garden
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN
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.
THE END
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