Chapter VIII: Part 8

My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they
are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was
a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall
not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I
was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round
two or three times, d—d my eyes for “a skreeking little
spalpeen,” and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the
bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A
bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty
an organ of order as one shall see on a summer’s day. Hence that
positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the
distinguished man of business that I am.

If there is any thing on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your
geniuses are all arrant asses—the greater the genius the greater
the ass—and to this rule there is no exception whatever.
Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius,
any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of
pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into
some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at
variance with the “fitness of things,” and having no business
whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell
these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations.
If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a
manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any
of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer,
or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a
lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physician—any thing out of the
usual way—you may set him down at once as a genius, and then,
according to the rule-of-three, he’s an ass.

Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man.
My day-book and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are
well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of
accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock.
Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with
the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least
indebted, upon this score, to my exceedingly weak-minded parents,
who, beyond doubt, would have made an arrant genius of me at
last, if my guardian angel had not come, in good time, to the
rescue. In biography the truth is every thing, and in
autobiography it is especially so—yet I scarcely hope to be
believed when I state, however solemnly, that my poor father put
me, when I was about fifteen years of age, into the
counting-house of what be termed “a respectable hardware and
commission merchant doing a capital bit of business!” A capital
bit of fiddlestick! However, the consequence of this folly was,
that in two or three days, I had to be sent home to my
button-headed family in a high state of fever, and with a most
violent and dangerous pain in the sinciput, all around about my
organ of order. It was nearly a gone case with me then—just
touch-and-go for six weeks—the physicians giving me up and all
that sort of thing. But, although I suffered much, I was a
thankful boy in the main. I was saved from being a “respectable
hardware and commission merchant, doing a capital bit of
business,” and I felt grateful to the protuberance which had been
the means of my salvation, as well as to the kindhearted female
who had originally put these means within my reach.

The most of boys run away from home at ten or twelve years of
age, but I waited till I was sixteen. I don’t know that I should
have gone even then, if I had not happened to hear my old mother
talk about setting me up on my own hook in the grocery way. The
grocery way!—only think of that! I resolved to be off forthwith,
and try and establish myself in some decent occupation, without
dancing attendance any longer upon the caprices of these
eccentric old people, and running the risk of being made a genius
of in the end. In this project I succeeded perfectly well at the
first effort, and by the time I was fairly eighteen, found myself
doing an extensive and profitable business in the Tailor’s
Walking-Advertisement line.

I was enabled to discharge the onerous duties of this profession,
only by that rigid adherence to system which formed the leading
feature of my mind. A scrupulous method characterized my actions
as well as my accounts. In my case it was method—not money—which
made the man: at least all of him that was not made by the tailor
whom I served. At nine, every morning, I called upon that
individual for the clothes of the day. Ten o’clock found me in
some fashionable promenade or other place of public amusement.
The precise regularity with which I turned my handsome person
about, so as to bring successively into view every portion of the
suit upon my back, was the admiration of all the knowing men in
the trade. Noon never passed without my bringing home a customer
to the house of my employers, Messrs. Cut & Comeagain. I say this
proudly, but with tears in my eyes—for the firm proved themselves
the basest of ingrates. The little account, about which we
quarreled and finally parted, cannot, in any item, be thought
overcharged, by gentlemen really conversant with the nature of
the business. Upon this point, however, I feel a degree of proud
satisfaction in permitting the reader to judge for himself. My
bill ran thus:

_Messrs. Cut & Comeagain, Merchant Tailors. To Peter Proffit, Walking Advertiser,_ Drs.

July 10. to promenade, as usual and customer brought home $00 25 July 11. To do do do 25 July 12. To one lie, second class; damaged black cloth sold for invisible green 25 July 13. To one lie, first class, extra quality and size; recommended milled satinet as broadcloth, 75 July 20. To purchasing bran new paper shirt collar or dickey, to set off gray Petersham 02 Aug. 15. To wearing double-padded bobtail frock, (thermometer 106 in the shade) 25 Aug. 16. Standing on one leg three hours, to show off new-style strapped pants at 12 1/2 cents per leg per hour 37½ Aug. 17. To promenade, as usual, and large customer brought (fat man) 50 Aug. 18. To do do (medium size) 25 Aug. 19. To do do (small man and bad pay) 6 TOTAL $2 95½

The item chiefly disputed in this bill was the very moderate
charge of two pennies for the dickey. Upon my word of honor, this
was not an unreasonable price for that dickey. It was one of the
cleanest and prettiest little dickeys I ever saw; and I have good
reason to believe that it effected the sale of three Petershams.
The elder partner of the firm, however, would allow me only one
penny of the charge, and took it upon himself to show in what
manner four of the same sized conveniences could be got out of a
sheet of foolscap. But it is needless to say that I stood upon
the principle of the thing. Business is business, and should be
done in a business way. There was no system whatever in swindling
me out of a penny—a clear fraud of fifty per cent—no method in
any respect. I left at once the employment of Messrs. Cut &
Comeagain, and set up in the Eye-Sore line by myself—one of the
most lucrative, respectable, and independent of the ordinary
occupations.

My strict integrity, economy, and rigorous business habits, here
again came into play. I found myself driving a flourishing trade,
and soon became a marked man upon “Change.” The truth is, I never
dabbled in flashy matters, but jogged on in the good old sober
routine of the calling—a calling in which I should, no doubt,
have remained to the present hour, but for a little accident
which happened to me in the prosecution of one of the usual
business operations of the profession. Whenever a rich old hunks
or prodigal heir or bankrupt corporation gets into the notion of
putting up a palace, there is no such thing in the world as
stopping either of them, and this every intelligent person knows.
The fact in question is indeed the basis of the Eye-Sore trade.
As soon, therefore, as a building-project is fairly afoot by one
of these parties, we merchants secure a nice corner of the lot in
contemplation, or a prime little situation just adjoining, or
tight in front. This done, we wait until the palace is half-way
up, and then we pay some tasty architect to run us up an
ornamental mud hovel, right against it; or a Down-East or Dutch
Pagoda, or a pig-sty, or an ingenious little bit of fancy work,
either Esquimau, Kickapoo, or Hottentot. Of course we can’t
afford to take these structures down under a bonus of five
hundred per cent upon the prime cost of our lot and plaster. Can
we? I ask the question. I ask it of business men. It would be
irrational to suppose that we can. And yet there was a rascally
corporation which asked me to do this very thing—this very thing!
I did not reply to their absurd proposition, of course; but I
felt it a duty to go that same night, and lamp-black the whole of
their palace. For this the unreasonable villains clapped me into
jail; and the gentlemen of the Eye-Sore trade could not well
avoid cutting my connection when I came out.

The Assault-and-Battery business, into which I was now forced to
adventure for a livelihood, was somewhat ill-adapted to the
delicate nature of my constitution; but I went to work in it with
a good heart, and found my account here, as heretofore, in those
stern habits of methodical accuracy which had been thumped into
me by that delightful old nurse—I would indeed be the basest of
men not to remember her well in my will. By observing, as I say,
the strictest system in all my dealings, and keeping a
well-regulated set of books, I was enabled to get over many
serious difficulties, and, in the end, to establish myself very
decently in the profession. The truth is, that few individuals,
in any line, did a snugger little business than I. I will just
copy a page or so out of my Day-Book; and this will save me the
necessity of blowing my own trumpet—a contemptible practice of
which no high-minded man will be guilty. Now, the Day-Book is a
thing that don’t lie.

“Jan. 1.—New Year’s Day. Met Snap in the street, groggy.
Mem—he’ll do. Met Gruff shortly afterward, blind drunk. Mem—he’ll
answer, too. Entered both gentlemen in my Ledger, and opened a
running account with each.

“Jan. 2.—Saw Snap at the Exchange, and went up and trod on his
toe. Doubled his fist and knocked me down. Good!—got up again.
Some trifling difficulty with Bag, my attorney. I want the
damages at a thousand, but he says that for so simple a knock
down we can’t lay them at more than five hundred. Mem—must get
rid of Bag—no system at all.

“Jan. 3.—Went to the theatre, to look for Gruff. Saw him sitting
in a side box, in the second tier, between a fat lady and a lean
one. Quizzed the whole party through an opera-glass, till I saw
the fat lady blush and whisper to G. Went round, then, into the
box, and put my nose within reach of his hand. Wouldn’t pull
it—no go. Blew it, and tried again—no go. Sat down then, and
winked at the lean lady, when I had the high satisfaction of
finding him lift me up by the nape of the neck, and fling me over
into the pit. Neck dislocated, and right leg capitally
splintered. Went home in high glee, drank a bottle of champagne,
and booked the young man for five thousand. Bag says it’ll do.

“Feb. 15.—Compromised the case of Mr. Snap. Amount entered in
Journal—fifty cents—which see.

“Feb. 16.—Cast by that ruffian, Gruff, who made me a present of
five dollars. Costs of suit, four dollars and twenty-five cents.
Nett profit,—see Journal,—seventy-five cents.”

Now, here is a clear gain, in a very brief period, of no less
than one dollar and twenty-five cents—this is in the mere cases
of Snap and Gruff; and I solemnly assure the reader that these
extracts are taken at random from my Day-Book.

It’s an old saying, and a true one, however, that money is
nothing in comparison with health. I found the exactions of the
profession somewhat too much for my delicate state of body; and,
discovering, at last, that I was knocked all out of shape, so
that I didn’t know very well what to make of the matter, and so
that my friends, when they met me in the street, couldn’t tell
that I was Peter Proffit at all, it occurred to me that the best
expedient I could adopt was to alter my line of business. I
turned my attention, therefore, to Mud-Dabbling, and continued it
for some years.

The worst of this occupation is, that too many people take a
fancy to it, and the competition is in consequence excessive.
Every ignoramus of a fellow who finds that he hasn’t brains in
sufficient quantity to make his way as a walking advertiser, or
an eye-sore prig, or a salt-and-batter man, thinks, of course,
that he’ll answer very well as a dabbler of mud. But there never
was entertained a more erroneous idea than that it requires no
brains to mud-dabble. Especially, there is nothing to be made in
this way without method. I did only a retail business myself, but
my old habits of system carried me swimmingly along. I selected
my street-crossing, in the first place, with great deliberation,
and I never put down a broom in any part of the town but that. I
took care, too, to have a nice little puddle at hand, which I
could get at in a minute. By these means I got to be well known
as a man to be trusted; and this is one-half the battle, let me
tell you, in trade. Nobody ever failed to pitch me a copper, and
got over my crossing with a clean pair of pantaloons. And, as my
business habits, in this respect, were sufficiently understood, I
never met with any attempt at imposition. I wouldn’t have put up
with it, if I had. Never imposing upon any one myself, I suffered
no one to play the possum with me. The frauds of the banks of
course I couldn’t help. Their suspension put me to ruinous
inconvenience. These, however, are not individuals, but
corporations; and corporations, it is very well known, have
neither bodies to be kicked nor souls to be damned.

I was making money at this business when, in an evil moment, I
was induced to merge it in the Cur-Spattering—a somewhat
analogous, but, by no means, so respectable a profession. My
location, to be sure, was an excellent one, being central, and I
had capital blacking and brushes. My little dog, too, was quite
fat and up to all varieties of snuff. He had been in the trade a
long time, and, I may say, understood it. Our general routine was
this:—Pompey, having rolled himself well in the mud, sat upon end
at the shop door, until he observed a dandy approaching in bright
boots. He then proceeded to meet him, and gave the Wellingtons a
rub or two with his wool. Then the dandy swore very much, and
looked about for a boot-black. There I was, full in his view,
with blacking and brushes. It was only a minute’s work, and then
came a sixpence. This did moderately well for a time;—in fact, I
was not avaricious, but my dog was. I allowed him a third of the
profit, but he was advised to insist upon half. This I couldn’t
stand—so we quarrelled and parted.

I next tried my hand at the Organ-Grinding for a while, and may
say that I made out pretty well. It is a plain, straightforward
business, and requires no particular abilities. You can get a
music-mill for a mere song, and to put it in order, you have but
to open the works, and give them three or four smart raps with a
hammer. It improves the tone of the thing, for business purposes,
more than you can imagine. This done, you have only to stroll
along, with the mill on your back, until you see tanbark in the
street, and a knocker wrapped up in buckskin. Then you stop and
grind; looking as if you meant to stop and grind till doomsday.
Presently a window opens, and somebody pitches you a sixpence,
with a request to “Hush up and go on,” etc. I am aware that some
grinders have actually afforded to “go on” for this sum; but for
my part, I found the necessary outlay of capital too great to
permit of my “going on” under a shilling.

At this occupation I did a good deal; but, somehow, I was not
quite satisfied, and so finally abandoned it. The truth is, I
labored under the disadvantage of having no monkey—and American
streets are so muddy, and a Democratic rabble is so obstrusive,
and so full of demnition mischievous little boys.

I was now out of employment for some months, but at length
succeeded, by dint of great interest, in procuring a situation in
the Sham-Post. The duties, here, are simple, and not altogether
unprofitable. For example:—very early in the morning I had to
make up my packet of sham letters. Upon the inside of each of
these I had to scrawl a few lines on any subject which occurred
to me as sufficiently mysterious—signing all the epistles Tom
Dobson, or Bobby Tompkins, or anything in that way. Having folded
and sealed all, and stamped them with sham postmarks—New Orleans,
Bengal, Botany Bay, or any other place a great way off—I set out,
forthwith, upon my daily route, as if in a very great hurry. I
always called at the big houses to deliver the letters, and
receive the postage. Nobody hesitates at paying for a
letter—especially for a double one—people are such fools—and it
was no trouble to get round a corner before there was time to
open the epistles. The worst of this profession was, that I had
to walk so much and so fast; and so frequently to vary my route.
Besides, I had serious scruples of conscience. I can’t bear to
hear innocent individuals abused—and the way the whole town took
to cursing Tom Dobson and Bobby Tompkins was really awful to
hear. I washed my hands of the matter in disgust.

My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I
have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and,
really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has
become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for
relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought
before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The
Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having
passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all
with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a
premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate
succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the
word “tails” for “heads.” This amendment was so obviously proper,
that the House concurred in it nem. con.

As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole
estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only
afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they
fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that
I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so
indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a
legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have
discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force
three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the
animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have
the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself,
therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country-seat on
the Hudson.

THE LANDSCAPE GARDEN

The garden like a lady fair was cut
That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;
The azure fields of heaven were ’sembled right
In a large round set with flow’rs of light:
The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew
That hung upon their azure leaves, did show
Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the ev’ning blue.
—GILES FLETCHER

No more remarkable man ever lived than my friend, the young
Ellison. He was remarkable in the entire and continuous profusion
of good gifts ever lavished upon him by fortune. From his cradle
to his grave, a gale of the blandest prosperity bore him along.
Nor do I use the word Prosperity in its mere wordly or external
sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom
I speak, seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the wild
doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet—of
exemplifying, by individual instance, what has been deemed the
mere chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of
Ellison, I fancy, that I have seen refuted the dogma—that in
man’s physical and spiritual nature, lies some hidden principle,
the antagonist of Bliss. An intimate and anxious examination of
his career, has taught me to understand that, in general, from
the violation of a few simple laws of Humanity, arises the
Wretchedness of mankind; that, as a species, we have in our
possession the as yet unwrought elements of Content,—and that
even now, in the present blindness and darkness of all idea on
the great question of the Social Condition, it is not impossible
that Man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly
fortuitous conditions, may be happy.

With opinions such as these was my young friend fully imbued; and
thus is it especially worthy of observation that the
uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was in great
part the result of preconcert. It is, indeed evident, that with
less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then, stands so
well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found
himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary successes of his
life, into the common vortex of Unhappiness which yawns for those
of preeminent endowments. But it is by no means my present object
to pen an essay on Happiness. The ideas of my friend may be
summed up in a few words. He admitted but four unvarying laws, or
rather elementary principles, of Bliss. That which he considered
chief, was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one
of free exercise in the open air. “The health,” he said,
“attainable by other means than this is scarcely worth the name.”
He pointed to the tillers of the earth—the only people who, as a
class, are proverbially more happy than others—and then he
instanced the high ecstasies of the fox-hunter. His second
principle was the love of woman. His third was the contempt of
ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he
held that, other things being equal, the extent of happiness was
proportioned to the spirituality of this object.

I have said that Ellison was remarkable in the continuous
profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by Fortune. In personal
grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of that
order to which the attainment of knowledge is less a labor than a
necessity and an intuition. His family was one of the most
illustrious of the empire. His bride was the loveliest and most
devoted of women. His possessions had been always ample; but,
upon the attainment of his one and twentieth year, it was
discovered that one of those extraordinary freaks of Fate had
been played in his behalf which startle the whole social world
amid which they occur, and seldom fail radically to alter the
entire moral constitution of those who are their objects. It
appears that about one hundred years prior to Mr. Ellison’s
attainment of his majority, there had died, in a remote province,
one Mr. Seabright Ellison. This gentlemen had amassed a princely
fortune, and, having no very immediate connexions, conceived the
whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a century after
his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes
of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest
of blood, bearing the name Ellison, who should be alive at the
end of the hundred years. Many futile attempts had been made to
set aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character
rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government
was aroused, and a decree finally obtained, forbidding all
similar accumulations. This act did not prevent young Ellison,
upon his twenty-first birth-day, from entering into possession,
as the heir of his ancestor, Seabright, of a fortune of four
hundred and fifty millions of dollars. {*1}

When it had become definitely known that such was the enormous
wealth inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to
the mode of its disposal. The gigantic magnitude and the
immediately available nature of the sum, dazzled and bewildered
all who thought upon the topic. The possessor of any appreciable
amount of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a
thousand things. With riches merely surpassing those of any
citizen, it would have been easy to suppose him engaging to
supreme excess in the fashionable extravagances of his time; or
busying himself with political intrigues; or aiming at
ministerial power; or purchasing increase of nobility, or
devising gorgeous architectural piles; or collecting large
specimens of Virtu; or playing the munificent patron of Letters
and Art; or endowing and bestowing his name upon extensive
institutions of charity. But, for the inconceivable wealth in the
actual possession of the young heir, these objects and all
ordinary objects were felt to be inadequate. Recourse was had to
figures; and figures but sufficed to confound. It was seen, that
even at three per cent, the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred
thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and
twenty-five thousand per month; or thirty-six thousand, nine
hundred and eighty-six per day, or one thousand five hundred and
forty-one per hour, or six and twenty dollars for every minute
that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition was thoroughly
broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some who even
conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself forthwith of at
least two-thirds of his fortune as of utterly superfluous
opulence; enriching whole troops of his relatives by division of
his superabundance.

I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made
up his mind upon a topic which had occasioned so much of
discussion to his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the
nature of his decision. In the widest and noblest sense, he was a
poet. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august
aims, the supreme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment.
The proper gratification of the sentiment he instinctively felt
to lie in the creation of novel forms of Beauty. Some
peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of
his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism the
whole cast of his ethical speculations; and it was this bias,
perhaps, which imperceptibly led him to perceive that the most
advantageous, if not the sole legitimate field for the exercise
of the poetic sentiment, was to be found in the creation of novel
moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened that he
became neither musician nor poet; if we use this latter term in
its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he became
neither the one nor the other, in pursuance of an idea of his
which I have already mentioned—the idea, that in the contempt of
ambition lay one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not, indeed, possible that while a high order of
genius is necessarily ambitious, the highest is invariably above
that which is termed ambition? And may it not thus happen that
many far greater than Milton, have contentedly remained “mute and
inglorious?” I believe the world has never yet seen, and that,
unless through some series of accidents goading the noblest order
of mind into distasteful exertion, the world will never behold,
that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
productions of Art, of which the human nature is absolutely
capable.

Mr. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man
lived more profoundly enamored both of Music and the Muse. Under
other circumstances than those which invested him, it is not
impossible that he would have become a painter. The field of
sculpture, although in its nature rigidly poetical, was too
limited in its extent and in its consequences, to have occupied,
at any time, much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all
the provinces in which even the most liberal understanding of the
poetic sentiment has declared this sentiment capable of
expatiating. I mean the most liberal public or recognized
conception of the idea involved in the phrase “poetic sentiment.”
But Mr. Ellison imagined that the richest, and altogether the
most natural and most suitable province, had been blindly
neglected. No definition had spoken of the Landscape-Gardener, as
of the poet; yet my friend could not fail to perceive that the
creation of the Landscape-Garden offered to the true muse the
most magnificent of opportunities. Here was, indeed, the fairest
field for the display of invention, or imagination, in the
endless combining of forms of novel Beauty; the elements which
should enter into combination being, at all times, and by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In
the multiform of the tree, and in the multicolor of the flower,
he recognized the most direct and the most energetic efforts of
Nature at physical loveliness. And in the direction or
concentration of this effort, or, still more properly, in its
adaption to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth, he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to
the greatest advantage—in the fulfilment of his destiny as Poet.

“Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it upon earth.”
In his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much
towards solving what has always seemed to me an enigma. I mean
the fact (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such
combinations of scenery exist in Nature as the painter of genius
has in his power to produce. No such Paradises are to be found in
reality as have glowed upon the canvass of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a
defect or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the
component parts may exceed, individually, the highest skill of
the artist, the arrangement of the parts will always be
susceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be
attained, from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will
not find matter of offence, in what is technically termed the
composition of a natural landscape. And yet how unintelligible is
this! In all other matters we are justly instructed to regard
Nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from competition.
Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism
which says, of sculpture or of portraiture, that “Nature is to be
exalted rather than imitated,” is in error. No pictorial or
sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more
than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it
gladdens our daily path. Byron, who often erred, erred not in
saying, I’ve seen more living beauty, ripe and real, than all the
nonsense of their stone ideal. In landscape alone is the
principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it
is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has induced
him to pronounce it true throughout all the domains of Art.
Having, I say, felt its truth here. For the feeling is no
affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute
demonstrations, than the sentiment of his Art yields to the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter, or form,
constitute, and alone constitute, the true Beauty. Yet his
reasons have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for
a more profound analysis than the world has yet seen, fully to
investigate and express them. Nevertheless is he confirmed in his
instinctive opinions, by the concurrence of all his compeers. Let
a composition be defective; let an emendation be wrought in its
mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be submitted to
every artist in the world; by each will its necessity be
admitted. And even far more than this, in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity will suggest
the identical emendation.

I repeat that in landscape arrangements, or collocations alone,
is the physical Nature susceptible of “exaltation” and that,
therefore, her susceptibility of improvement at this one point,
was a mystery which, hitherto I had been unable to solve. It was
Mr. Ellison who first suggested the idea that what we regarded as
improvement or exaltation of the natural beauty, was really such,
as respected only the mortal or human point of view; that each
alteration or disturbance of the primitive scenery might possibly
effect a blemish in the picture, if we could suppose this picture
viewed at large from some remote point in the heavens. “It is
easily understood,” says Mr. Ellison, “that what might improve a
closely scrutinized detail, might, at the same time, injure a
general and more distantly observed effect.” He spoke upon this
topic with warmth: regarding not so much its immediate or obvious
importance (which is little), as the character of the conclusions
to which it might lead, or of the collateral propositions which
it might serve to corroborate or sustain. There might be a class
of beings, human once, but now to humanity invisible, for whose
scrutiny and for whose refined appreciation of the beautiful,
more especially than for our own, had been set in order by God
the great landscape-garden of the whole earth.

In the course of our discussion, my young friend took occasion to
quote some passages from a writer who has been supposed to have
well treated this theme.

“There are, properly,” he writes, “but two styles of
landscape-gardening, the natural and the artificial. One seeks to
recall the original beauty of the country, by adapting its means
to the surrounding scenery; cultivating trees in harmony with the
hills or plain of the neighboring land; detecting and bringing
into practice those nice relations of size, proportion and color
which, hid from the common observer, are revealed everywhere to
the experienced student of nature. The result of the natural
style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defects
and incongruities—in the prevalence of a beautiful harmony and
order, than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles.
The artificial style has as many varieties as there are different
tastes to gratify. It has a certain general relation to the
various styles of building. There are the stately avenues and
retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed
old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic
Gothic or English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said
against the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a
mixture of pure art in a garden scene, adds to it a great beauty.
This is partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and
design, and partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered
balustrade, calls up at once to the eye, the fair forms that have
passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an
evidence of care and human interest.”

“From what I have already observed,” said Mr. Ellison, “you will
understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of ‘recalling
the original beauty of the country.’ The original beauty is never
so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, much depends
upon the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is said in
respect to the ‘detecting and bringing into practice those nice
relations of size, proportion and color,’ is a mere vagueness of
speech, which may mean much, or little, or nothing, and which
guides in no degree. That the true ‘result of the natural style
of gardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and
incongruities, than in the creation of any special wonders or
miracles,’ is a proposition better suited to the grovelling
apprehension of the herd, than to the fervid dreams of the man of
genius. The merit suggested is, at best, negative, and appertains
to that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate
Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while that merit which
consists in the mere avoiding demerit, appeals directly to the
understanding, and can thus be foreshadowed in Rule, the loftier
merit, which breathes and flames in invention or creation, can be
apprehended solely in its results. Rule applies but to the
excellences of avoidance—to the virtues which deny or refrain.
Beyond these the critical art can but suggest. We may be
instructed to build an Odyssey, but it is in vain that we are
told how to conceive a ‘Tempest,’ an ‘Inferno,’ a ‘Prometheus
Bound,’ a ‘Nightingale,’ such as that of Keats, or the ‘Sensitive
Plant’ of Shelley. But, the thing done, the wonder accomplished,
and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists
of the negative school, who, through inability to create, have
scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,
in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure
reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort
admiration from their instinct of the beautiful or of the
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 afforded—in
the high spirituality of the object itself—in the contempt of
ambition which it enabled him more to feel than to affect—and,
lastly, it was in the companionship and sympathy of a devoted
wife, that Ellison thought to find, and found, an exemption from
the ordinary cares of Humanity, with a far greater amount of
positive happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De
Staël.

MAELZEL’S CHESS-PLAYER

Perhaps no exhibition of the kind has ever elicited so general
attention as the Chess-Player of Maelzel. Wherever seen it has
been an object of intense curiosity, to all persons who think.
Yet the question of its _modus operandi_ is still undetermined.
Nothing has been written on this topic which can be considered as
decisive—and accordingly we find every where men of mechanical
genius, of great general acuteness, and discriminative
understanding, who make no scruple in pronouncing the Automaton a
_pure machine_, unconnected with human agency in its movements,
and consequently, beyond all comparison, the most astonishing of
the inventions of mankind. And such it would undoubtedly be, were
they right in their supposition. Assuming this hypothesis, it
would be grossly absurd to compare with the Chess-Player, any
similar thing of either modern or ancient days. Yet there have
been many and wonderful automata. In Brewster’s Letters on
Natural Magic, we have an account of the most remarkable. Among
these may be mentioned, as having beyond doubt existed, firstly,
the coach invented by M. Camus for the amusement of Louis XIV
when a child. A table, about four feet square, was introduced,
into the room appropriated for the exhibition. Upon this table
was placed a carriage, six inches in length, made of wood, and
drawn by two horses of the same material. One window being down,
a lady was seen on the back seat. A coachman held the reins on
the box, and a footman and page were in their places behind. M.
Camus now touched a spring; whereupon the coachman smacked his
whip, and the horses proceeded in a natural manner, along the
edge of the table, drawing after them the carriage. Having gone
as far as possible in this direction, a sudden turn was made to
the left, and the vehicle was driven at right angles to its
former course, and still closely along the edge of the table. In
this way the coach proceeded until it arrived opposite the chair
of the young prince. It then stopped, the page descended and
opened the door, the lady alighted, and presented a petition to
her sovereign. She then re-entered. The page put up the steps,
closed the door, and resumed his station. The coachman whipped
his horses, and the carriage was driven back to its original
position.

The magician of M. Maillardet is also worthy of notice. We copy
the following account of it from the _Letters_ before mentioned
of Dr. B., who derived his information principally from the
Edinburgh Encyclopaedia.

“One of the most popular pieces of mechanism which we have seen,
Is the Magician constructed by M. Maillardet, for the purpose of
answering certain given questions. A figure, dressed like a
magician, appears seated at the bottom of a wall, holding a wand
in one hand, and a book in the other A number of questions, ready
prepared, are inscribed on oval medallions, and the spectator
takes any of these he chooses and to which he wishes an answer,
and having placed it in a drawer ready to receive it, the drawer
shuts with a spring till the answer is returned. The magician
then arises from his seat, bows his head, describes circles with
his wand, and consulting the book as If in deep thought, he lifts
it towards his face. Having thus appeared to ponder over the
proposed question he raises his wand, and striking with it the
wall above his head, two folding doors fly open, and display an
appropriate answer to the question. The doors again close, the
magician resumes his original position, and the drawer opens to
return the medallion. There are twenty of these medallions, all
containing different questions, to which the magician returns the
most suitable and striking answers. The medallions are thin
plates of brass, of an elliptical form, exactly resembling each
other. Some of the medallions have a question inscribed on each
side, both of which the magician answered in succession. If the
drawer is shut without a medallion being put into it, the
magician rises, consults his book, shakes his head, and resumes
his seat. The folding doors remain shut, and the drawer is
returned empty. If two medallions are put into the drawer
together, an answer is returned only to the lower one. When the
machinery is wound up, the movements continue about an hour,
during which time about fifty questions may be answered. The
inventor stated that the means by which the different medallions
acted upon the machinery, so as to produce the proper answers to
the questions which they contained, were extremely simple.”

The duck of Vaucanson was still more remarkable. It was _of _the
size of life, and so perfect an imitation of the living animal
that all the spectators were deceived. It executed, says
Brewster, all the natural movements and gestures, it ate and
drank with avidity, performed all the quick motions of the head
and throat which are peculiar to the duck, and like it muddled
the water which it drank with its bill. It produced also the
sound of quacking in the most natural manner. In the anatomical
structure the artist exhibited the highest skill. Every bone in
the real duck had its representative In the automaton, and its
wings were anatomically exact. Every cavity, apophysis, and
curvature was imitated, and each bone executed its proper
movements. When corn was thrown down before it, the duck
stretched out its neck to pick it up, swallowed, and digested it.
{*1}

But if these machines were ingenious, what shall we think of the
calculating machine of Mr. Babbage? What shall we think of an
engine of wood and metal which can not only compute astronomical
and navigation tables to any given extent, but render the
exactitude of its operations mathematically certain through its
power of correcting its possible errors? What shall we think of a
machine which can not only accomplish all this, but actually
print off its elaborate results, when obtained, without the
slightest intervention of the intellect of man? It will, perhaps,
be said, in reply, that a machine such as we have described is
altogether above comparison with the Chess-Player of Maelzel. By
no means—it is altogether beneath it—that is to say provided we
assume (what should never for a moment be assumed) that the
Chess-Player is a _pure machine, _and performs its operations
without any immediate human agency. Arithmetical or algebraical
calculations are, from their very nature, fixed and determinate.
Certain _data _being given, certain results necessarily and
inevitably follow. These results have dependence upon nothing,
and are influenced by nothing but the _data _originally given.
And the question to be solved proceeds, or should proceed, to its
final determination, by a succession of unerring steps liable to
no change, and subject to no modification. This being the case,
we can without difficulty conceive the _possibility _of so
arranging a piece of mechanism, that upon starting In accordance
with the _data _of the question to be solved, it should continue
its movements regularly, progressively, and undeviatingly towards
the required solution, since these movements, however complex,
are never imagined to be otherwise than finite and determinate.
But the case is widely different with the Chess-Player. With him
there is no determinate progression. No one move in chess
necessarily follows upon any one other. From no particular
disposition of the men at one period of a game can we predicate
their disposition at a different period. Let us place the _first
move _in a game of chess, in juxta-position with the _data _of an
algebraical question, and their great difference will be
immediately perceived. From the latter—from the _data—_the second
step of the question, dependent thereupon, inevitably follows. It
is modelled by the _data. _It must be _thus _and not otherwise.
But from the first move in the game of chess no especial second
move follows of necessity. In the algebraical question, as it
proceeds towards solution, the _certainty _of its operations
remains altogether unimpaired. The second step having been a
consequence of the _data, _the third step is equally a
consequence of the second, the fourth of the third, the fifth of
the fourth, and so on, _and not possibly otherwise, _to the end.
But in proportion to the progress made in a game of chess, is the
_uncertainty _of each ensuing move. A few moves having been made,
_no _step is certain. Different spectators of the game would
advise different moves. All is then dependent upon the variable
judgment of the players. Now even granting (what should not be
granted) that the movements of the Automaton Chess-Player were in
themselves determinate, they would be necessarily interrupted and
disarranged by the indeterminate will of his antagonist. There is
then no analogy whatever between the operations of the
Chess-Player, and those of the calculating machine of Mr.
Babbage, and if we choose to call the former a _pure machine _we
must be prepared to admit that it is, beyond all comparison, the
most wonderful of the inventions of mankind. Its original
projector, however, Baron Kempelen, had no scruple in declaring
it to be a “very ordinary piece of mechanism—a _bagatelle _whose
effects appeared so marvellous only from the boldness of the
conception, and the fortunate choice of the methods adopted for
promoting the illusion.” But it is needless to dwell upon this
point. It is quite certain that the operations of the Automaton
are regulated by _mind, _and by nothing else. Indeed this matter
is susceptible of a mathematical demonstration, _a priori. _The
only question then is of the _manner _in which human agency is
brought to bear. Before entering upon this subject it would be as
well to give a brief history and description of the Chess-Player
for the benefit of such of our readers as may never have had an
opportunity of witnessing Mr. Maelzel’s exhibition.

The Automaton Chess-Player was invented in 1769, by Baron
Kempelen, a nobleman of Presburg, in Hungary, who afterwards
disposed of it, together with the secret of its operations, to
its present possessor. {2*} Soon after its completion it was
exhibited in Presburg, Paris, Vienna, and other continental
cities. In 1783 and 1784, it was taken to London by Mr. Maelzel.
Of late years it has visited the principal towns in the United
States. Wherever seen, the most intense curiosity was excited by
its appearance, and numerous have been the attempts, by men of
all classes, to fathom the mystery of its evolutions. The cut on
this page gives a tolerable representation of the figure as seen
by the citizens of Richmond a few weeks ago. The right arm,
however, should lie more at length upon the box, a chess-board
should appear upon it, and the cushion should not be seen while
the pipe is held. Some immaterial alterations have been made in
the costume of the player since it came into the possession of
Maelzel—the plume, for example, was not originally worn. {image
of automaton}