LANDOR'S COTTAGE

LANDOR'S COTTAGE

     A Pendant to "The Domain of Arnheim"

DURING A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the river
counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat
embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land undulated very
remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had wound about and about so
confusedly, in its effort to keep in the valleys, that I no longer knew
in what direction lay the sweet village of B-, where I had determined
to stop for the night. The sun had scarcely shone—strictly
speaking—during the day, which nevertheless, had been unpleasantly
warm. A smoky mist, resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all
things, and of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much
about the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset,
or even before dark, it was more than possible that a little
Dutch farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its
appearance—although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on account of
being more picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely inhabited. At
all events, with my knapsack for a pillow, and my hound as a sentry, a
bivouac in the open air was just the thing which would have amused me.
I sauntered on, therefore, quite at ease—Ponto taking charge of my
gun—until at length, just as I had begun to consider whether the
numerous little glades that led hither and thither, were intended to
be paths at all, I was conducted by one of them into an unquestionable
carriage track. There could be no mistaking it. The traces of light
wheels were evident; and although the tall shrubberies and overgrown
undergrowth met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever below, even
to the passage of a Virginian mountain wagon—the most aspiring vehicle,
I take it, of its kind. The road, however, except in being open through
the wood—if wood be not too weighty a name for such an assemblage of
light trees—and except in the particulars of evident wheel-tracks—bore
no resemblance to any road I had before seen. The tracks of which I
speak were but faintly perceptible—having been impressed upon the firm,
yet pleasantly moist surface of—what looked more like green Genoese
velvet than any thing else. It was grass, clearly—but grass such as we
seldom see out of England—so short, so thick, so even, and so vivid in
color. Not a single impediment lay in the wheel-route—not even a chip
or dead twig. The stones that once obstructed the way had been carefully
placed—not thrown-along the sides of the lane, so as to define its
boundaries at bottom with a kind of half-precise, half-negligent, and
wholly picturesque definition. Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere,
luxuriantly, in the interspaces.

What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art
undoubtedly—that did not surprise me—all roads, in the ordinary sense,
are works of art; nor can I say that there was much to wonder at in the
mere excess of art manifested; all that seemed to have been done, might
have been done here—with such natural "capabilities" (as they have
it in the books on Landscape Gardening)—with very little labor and
expense. No; it was not the amount but the character of the art which
caused me to take a seat on one of the blossomy stones and gaze up and
down this fairy—like avenue for half an hour or more in bewildered
admiration. One thing became more and more evident the longer I
gazed: an artist, and one with a most scrupulous eye for form, had
superintended all these arrangements. The greatest care had been taken
to preserve a due medium between the neat and graceful on the one hand,
and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the Italian term, on the
other. There were few straight, and no long uninterrupted lines. The
same effect of curvature or of color appeared twice, usually, but not
oftener, at any one point of view. Everywhere was variety in uniformity.
It was a piece of "composition," in which the most fastidiously critical
taste could scarcely have suggested an emendation.

I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now, arising, I
continued in the same direction. The path was so serpentine, that at
no moment could I trace its course for more than two or three paces in
advance. Its character did not undergo any material change.

Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear—and in a few
moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more abruptly than
hitherto, I became aware that a building of some kind lay at the foot
of a gentle declivity just before me. I could see nothing distinctly on
account of the mist which occupied all the little valley below. A gentle
breeze, however, now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while
I remained standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became
dissipated into wreaths, and so floated over the scene.

As it came fully into view—thus gradually as I describe it—piece by
piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again the summit
of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the whole was one of
the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited under the name of "vanishing
pictures."

By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared, the sun
had made its way down behind the gentle hills, and thence, as it with
a slight chassez to the south, had come again fully into sight, glaring
with a purplish lustre through a chasm that entered the valley from the
west. Suddenly, therefore—and as if by the hand of magic—this whole
valley and every thing in it became brilliantly visible.

The first coup d'oeil, as the sun slid into the position described,
impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when a boy, by
the concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical spectacle or
melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was wanting; for the
sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all orange and purple; while
the vivid green of the grass in the valley was reflected more or less
upon all objects from the curtain of vapor that still hung overhead,
as if loth to take its total departure from a scene so enchantingly
beautiful.

The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog canopy
could not have been more than four hundred yards long; while in breadth
it varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or perhaps two hundred.
It was most narrow at its northern extremity, opening out as it tended
southwardly, but with no very precise regularity. The widest portion
was within eighty yards of the southern extreme. The slopes which
encompassed the vale could not fairly be called hills, unless at their
northern face. Here a precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of
some ninety feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was
not more than fifty feet wide; but as the visiter proceeded southwardly
from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his left, declivities
at once less high, less precipitous, and less rocky. All, in a word,
sloped and softened to the south; and yet the whole vale was engirdled
by eminences, more or less high, except at two points. One of these I
have already spoken of. It lay considerably to the north of west, and
was where the setting sun made its way, as I have before described, into
the amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite
embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards wide at its widest
point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead up, up like a
natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored mountains and forests.
The other opening was directly at the southern end of the vale. Here,
generally, the slopes were nothing more than gentle inclinations,
extending from east to west about one hundred and fifty yards. In the
middle of this extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of
the valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every thing
else, the scene softened and sloped to the south. To the north—on the
craggy precipice—a few paces from the verge—up sprang the magnificent
trunks of numerous hickories, black walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed
with occasional oak, and the strong lateral branches thrown out by the
walnuts especially, spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding
southwardly, the explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees,
but less and less lofty and Salvatorish in character; then he saw the
gentler elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust—these again by the
softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple—these yet again by still
more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of the southern
declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone—an occasional
silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom of the valley
itself—(for it must be borne in mind that the vegetation hitherto
mentioned grew only on the cliffs or hillsides)—were to be seen three
insulated trees. One was an elm of fine size and exquisite form: it
stood guard over the southern gate of the vale. Another was a hickory,
much larger than the elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although
both were exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the
northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the very jaws
of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an angle of nearly
forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of the amphitheatre. About
thirty yards east of this tree stood, however, the pride of the valley,
and beyond all question the most magnificent tree I have ever seen,
unless, perhaps, among the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a
triple—stemmed tulip-tree—the Liriodendron Tulipiferum—one of the
natural order of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent
at about three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and
gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where the
largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation of about
eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division was one hundred
and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty the form, or the glossy,
vivid green of the leaves of the tulip-tree. In the present instance
they were fully eight inches wide; but their glory was altogether
eclipsed by the gorgeous splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive,
closely congregated, a million of the largest and most resplendent
tulips! Only thus can the reader get any idea of the picture I would
convey. And then the stately grace of the clean, delicately—granulated
columnar stems, the largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from the
ground. The innumerable blossoms, mingling with those of other trees
scarcely less beautiful, although infinitely less majestic, filled the
valley with more than Arabian perfumes.

The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same character as
that I had found in the road; if anything, more deliciously soft, thick,
velvety, and miraculously green. It was hard to conceive how all this
beauty had been attained.

I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the
northwest issued a rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and slightly
foaming, down the ravine, until it dashed against the group of rocks out
of which sprang the insulated hickory. Here, after encircling the tree,
it passed on a little to the north of east, leaving the tulip tree some
twenty feet to the south, and making no decided alteration in its course
until it came near the midway between the eastern and western boundaries
of the valley. At this point, after a series of sweeps, it turned off at
right angles and pursued a generally southern direction meandering as it
went—until it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure (although
roughly oval), that lay gleaming near the lower extremity of the vale.
This lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards in diameter at its widest
part. No crystal could be clearer than its waters. Its bottom, which
could be distinctly seen, consisted altogether, of pebbles brilliantly
white. Its banks, of the emerald grass already described, rounded,
rather than sloped, off into the clear heaven below; and so clear was
this heaven, so perfectly, at times, did it reflect all objects above
it, that where the true bank ended and where the mimic one commenced,
it was a point of no little difficulty to determine. The trout, and
some other varieties of fish, with which this pond seemed to be almost
inconveniently crowded, had all the appearance of veritable flying-fish.
It was almost impossible to believe that they were not absolutely
suspended in the air. A light birch canoe that lay placidly on the
water, was reflected in its minutest fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed
by the most exquisitely polished mirror. A small island, fairly laughing
with flowers in full bloom, and affording little more space than just
enough for a picturesque little building, seemingly a fowl-house—arose
from the lake not far from its northern shore—to which it was connected
by means of an inconceivably light—looking and yet very primitive
bridge. It was formed of a single, broad and thick plank of the tulip
wood. This was forty feet long, and spanned the interval between shore
and shore with a slight but very perceptible arch, preventing all
oscillation. From the southern extreme of the lake issued a continuation
of the rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty yards,
finally passed through the "depression" (already described) in the
middle of the southern declivity, and tumbling down a sheer precipice of
a hundred feet, made its devious and unnoticed way to the Hudson.

The lake was deep—at some points thirty feet—but the rivulet seldom
exceeded three, while its greatest width was about eight. Its bottom and
banks were as those of the pond—if a defect could have been attributed,
in point of picturesqueness, it was that of excessive neatness.

The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an
occasional showy shrub, such as the hydrangea, or the common snowball,
or the aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, by a clump of geraniums
blossoming gorgeously in great varieties. These latter grew in pots
which were carefully buried in the soil, so as to give the plants the
appearance of being indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn's velvet was
exquisitely spotted with sheep—a considerable flock of which roamed
about the vale, in company with three tamed deer, and a vast number of
brilliantly—plumed ducks. A very large mastiff seemed to be in vigilant
attendance upon these animals, each and all.

Along the eastern and western cliffs—where, toward the upper portion of
the amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less precipitous—grew ivy
in great profusion—so that only here and there could even a glimpse of
the naked rock be obtained. The northern precipice, in like manner,
was almost entirely clothed by grape-vines of rare luxuriance; some
springing from the soil at the base of the cliff, and others from ledges
on its face.

The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this little
domain, was crowned by a neat stone wall, of sufficient height to
prevent the escape of the deer. Nothing of the fence kind was observable
elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial enclosure needed:—any
stray sheep, for example, which should attempt to make its way out of
the vale by means of the ravine, would find its progress arrested,
after a few yards' advance, by the precipitous ledge of rock over which
tumbled the cascade that had arrested my attention as I first drew near
the domain. In short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate
occupying a rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which
I stopped to reconnoitre the scene.

I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through the
whole of its course. Its two general directions, as I have said, were
first from west to east, and then from north to south. At the turn, the
stream, sweeping backward, made an almost circular loop, so as to form a
peninsula which was very nearly an island, and which included about the
sixteenth of an acre. On this peninsula stood a dwelling-house—and when
I say that this house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek, "etait
d'une architecture inconnue dans les annales de la terre," I mean,
merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keenest sense of
combined novelty and propriety—in a word, of poetry—(for, than in the
words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in the abstract,
a more rigorous definition)—and I do not mean that merely outre was
perceptible in any respect.

In fact nothing could well be more simple—more utterly unpretending
than this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay altogether in its artistic
arrangement as a picture. I could have fancied, while I looked at it,
that some eminent landscape-painter had built it with his brush.

The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not altogether,
although it was nearly, the best point from which to survey the house.
I will therefore describe it as I afterwards saw it—from a position on
the stone wall at the southern extreme of the amphitheatre.

The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen
broad—certainly not more. Its total height, from the ground to the apex
of the roof, could not have exceeded eighteen feet. To the west end
of this structure was attached one about a third smaller in all its
proportions:—the line of its front standing back about two yards from
that of the larger house, and the line of its roof, of course, being
considerably depressed below that of the roof adjoining. At right angles
to these buildings, and from the rear of the main one—not exactly in
the middle—extended a third compartment, very small—being, in general,
one-third less than the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were
very steep—sweeping down from the ridge-beam with a long concave curve,
and extending at least four feet beyond the walls in front, so as to
form the roofs of two piazzas. These latter roofs, of course, needed
no support; but as they had the air of needing it, slight and perfectly
plain pillars were inserted at the corners alone. The roof of the
northern wing was merely an extension of a portion of the main roof.
Between the chief building and western wing arose a very tall and rather
slender square chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alternately black and
red:—a slight cornice of projecting bricks at the top. Over the gables
the roofs also projected very much:—in the main building about four
feet to the east and two to the west. The principal door was not exactly
in the main division, being a little to the east—while the two windows
were to the west. These latter did not extend to the floor, but were
much longer and narrower than usual—they had single shutters like
doors—the panes were of lozenge form, but quite large. The door itself
had its upper half of glass, also in lozenge panes—a movable shutter
secured it at night. The door to the west wing was in its gable, and
quite simple—a single window looked out to the south. There was no
external door to the north wing, and it also had only one window to the
east.

The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with a
balustrade) running diagonally across it—the ascent being from the
south. Under cover of the widely projecting eave these steps gave access
to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft—for it was lighted only
by a single window to the north, and seemed to have been intended as a
store-room.

The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors, as is
usual; but at the doors and at each window, large, flat irregular slabs
of granite lay imbedded in the delicious turf, affording comfortable
footing in all weather. Excellent paths of the same material—not nicely
adapted, but with the velvety sod filling frequent intervals between the
stones, led hither and thither from the house, to a crystal spring about
five paces off, to the road, or to one or two out—houses that lay to
the north, beyond the brook, and were thoroughly concealed by a few
locusts and catalpas.

Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood the
dead trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to foot in
the gorgeous bignonia blossoms that one required no little scrutiny to
determine what manner of sweet thing it could be. From various arms of
this tree hung cages of different kinds. In one, a large wicker cylinder
with a ring at top, revelled a mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a
third the impudent bobolink—while three or four more delicate prisons
were loudly vocal with canaries.

The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet
honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure and
its west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled luxuriance.
Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the lower roof—then
to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter it continued to writhe
on, throwing out tendrils to the right and left, until at length it
fairly attained the east gable, and fell trailing over the stairs.

The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the old-fashioned
Dutch shingles—broad, and with unrounded corners. It is a peculiarity
of this material to give houses built of it the appearance of being
wider at bottom than at top—after the manner of Egyptian architecture;
and in the present instance, this exceedingly picturesque effect was
aided by numerous pots of gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the
base of the buildings.

The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with which this
neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip tree leaves that
partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily be conceived by an
artist.

From the position near the stone wall, as described, the buildings
were seen at great advantage—for the southeastern angle was thrown
forward—so that the eye took in at once the whole of the two fronts,
with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the same time obtained just a
sufficient glimpse of the northern wing, with parts of a pretty roof
to the spring-house, and nearly half of a light bridge that spanned the
brook in the near vicinity of the main buildings.

I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long enough
to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was clear that
I had wandered from the road to the village, and I had thus good
traveller's excuse to open the gate before me, and inquire my way, at
all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.

The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural ledge,
sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern cliffs. It
led me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and thence over the
bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front door. In this progress,
I took notice that no sight of the out-houses could be obtained.

As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards me in
stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a tiger. I held him
out my hand, however, in token of amity—and I never yet knew the dog
who was proof against such an appeal to his courtesy. He not only
shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but absolutely offered me his
paw-afterward extending his civilities to Ponto.

As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the
door, which stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the
threshold—that of a young woman about twenty-eight years of
age—slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium height.
As she approached, with a certain modest decision of step altogether
indescribable. I said to myself, "Surely here I have found the
perfection of natural, in contradistinction from artificial grace." The
second impression which she made on me, but by far the more vivid of
the two, was that of enthusiasm. So intense an expression of romance,
perhaps I should call it, or of unworldliness, as that which gleamed
from her deep-set eyes, had never so sunk into my heart of hearts
before. I know not how it is, but this peculiar expression of the eye,
wreathing itself occasionally into the lips, is the most powerful,
if not absolutely the sole spell, which rivets my interest in woman.
"Romance, provided my readers fully comprehended what I would here imply
by the word—"romance" and "womanliness" seem to me convertible terms:
and, after all, what man truly loves in woman, is simply her womanhood.
The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from the interior call her "Annie,
darling!") were "spiritual grey;" her hair, a light chestnut: this is
all I had time to observe of her.

At her most courteous of invitations, I entered—passing first into a
tolerably wide vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I took notice
that to my right as I stepped in, was a window, such as those in front
of the house; to the left, a door leading into the principal room;
while, opposite me, an open door enabled me to see a small apartment,
just the size of the vestibule, arranged as a study, and having a large
bow window looking out to the north.

Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor—for this,
I afterwards found, was his name. He was civil, even cordial in his
manner, but just then, I was more intent on observing the arrangements
of the dwelling which had so much interested me, than the personal
appearance of the tenant.

The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened into the
parlor. West of this door was a single window, looking toward the brook.
At the west end of the parlor, were a fireplace, and a door leading into
the west wing—probably a kitchen.

Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the
parlor. On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of excellent texture—a
white ground, spotted with small circular green figures. At the windows
were curtains of snowy white jaconet muslin: they were tolerably full,
and hung decisively, perhaps rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits
to the floor—just to the floor. The walls were prepared with a French
paper of great delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord
running zig-zag throughout. Its expanse was relieved merely by three
of Julien's exquisite lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the wall
without frames. One of these drawings was a scene of Oriental luxury, or
rather voluptuousness; another was a "carnival piece," spirited
beyond compare; the third was a Greek female head—a face so divinely
beautiful, and yet of an expression so provokingly indeterminate, never
before arrested my attention.

The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few chairs
(including a large rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather "settee;" its
material was plain maple painted a creamy white, slightly interstriped
with green; the seat of cane. The chairs and table were "to match," but
the forms of all had evidently been designed by the same brain which
planned "the grounds;" it is impossible to conceive anything more
graceful.

On the table were a few books, a large, square, crystal bottle of some
novel perfume, a plain ground—glass astral (not solar) lamp with an
Italian shade, and a large vase of resplendently-blooming flowers.
Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous colours and delicate odour formed the sole
mere decoration of the apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with
a vase of brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the
room stood also a similar vase, varied only as to its lovely contents.
One or two smaller bouquets adorned the mantel, and late violets
clustered about the open windows.

It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in detail, a
picture of Mr. Landor's residence—as I found it. How he made it what it
was—and why—with some particulars of Mr. Landor himself—may, possibly
form the subject of another article.

THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM

THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM

     The garden like a lady fair was cut,
     That lay as if she slumbered in delight,
     And to the open skies her eyes did shut.
     The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right
     In a large round, set with the flowers of light.
     The flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew.
     That hung upon their azure leaves did shew
     Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue.
     Giles Fletcher.

FROM his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison
along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I
mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed
born for the purpose of foreshadowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price,
Priestley, and Condorcet—of exemplifying by individual instance
what has been deemed the chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief
existence of Ellison I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in
man's very nature lies some hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss.
An anxious examination of his career has given me to understand that in
general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity arises the
wretchedness of mankind—that as a species we have in our possession the
as yet unwrought elements of content—and that, even now, in the present
darkness and madness of all thought on the great question of the social
condition, it is not impossible that man, the individual, under certain
unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, may be happy.

With opinions such as these my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and
thus it is worthy of observation that the uninterrupted enjoyment which
distinguished his life was, in great measure, the result of preconcert.
It is indeed evident that with less of the instinctive philosophy which,
now and then, stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison
would have found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary success
of his life, into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for those
of pre-eminent endowments. But it is by no means my object to pen an
essay on happiness. The ideas of my friend may be summed up in a few
words. He admitted but four elementary principles, or more strictly,
conditions of bliss. That which he considered chief was (strange to
say!) the simple and purely physical one of free exercise in the open
air. "The health," he said, "attainable by other means is scarcely worth
the name." He instanced the ecstasies of the fox-hunter, and pointed to
the tillers of the earth, the only people who, as a class, can be fairly
considered happier than others. His second condition was the love of
woman. His third, and most difficult of realization, was the contempt
of ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; and he held
that, other things being equal, the extent of attainable happiness was
in proportion to the spirituality of this object.

Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts
lavished upon him by fortune. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded
all men. His intellect was of that order to which the acquisition of
knowledge is less a labor than an intuition and a necessity. His
family was one of the most illustrious of the empire. His bride was the
loveliest and most devoted of women. His possessions had been always
ample; but on the attainment of his majority, it was discovered that
one of those extraordinary freaks of fate had been played in his behalf
which startle the whole social world amid which they occur, and seldom
fail radically to alter the moral constitution of those who are their
objects.

It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison's coming of
age, there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright Ellison.
This gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no immediate
connections, conceived the whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate
for a century after his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the
various modes of investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the
nearest of blood, bearing the name of Ellison, who should be alive at
the end of the hundred years. Many attempts had been made to set aside
this singular bequest; their ex post facto character rendered them
abortive; but the attention of a jealous government was aroused, and a
legislative act finally obtained, forbidding all similar accumulations.
This act, however, did not prevent young Ellison from entering into
possession, on his twenty-first birthday, as the heir of his ancestor
Seabright, of a fortune of four hundred and fifty millions of dollars.
(*1)

When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth inherited,
there were, of course, many speculations as to the mode of its disposal.
The magnitude and the immediate availability of the sum bewildered all
who thought on the topic. The possessor of any appreciable amount of
money might have been imagined to perform any one of a thousand things.
With riches merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have
been easy to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable
extravagances of his time—or busying himself with political
intrigue—or aiming at ministerial power—or purchasing increase
of nobility—or collecting large museums of virtu—or playing the
munificent patron of letters, of science, of art—or endowing, and
bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But for the
inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the heir, these objects
and all ordinary objects were felt to afford too limited a field.
Recourse was had to figures, and these but sufficed to confound. It was
seen that, even at three per cent., the annual income of the inheritance
amounted to no less than thirteen millions and five hundred thousand
dollars; which was one million and one hundred and twenty-five thousand
per month; or thirty-six thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per day;
or one thousand five hundred and forty-one per hour; or six and twenty
dollars for every minute that flew. Thus the usual track of supposition
was thoroughly broken up. Men knew not what to imagine. There were some
who even conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself of at least
one-half of his fortune, as of utterly superfluous opulence—enriching
whole troops of his relatives by division of his superabundance. To the
nearest of these he did, in fact, abandon the very unusual wealth which
was his own before the inheritance.

I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made up his
mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to his friends.
Nor was I greatly astonished at the nature of his decision. In regard to
individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. In the possibility
of any improvement, properly so called, being effected by man himself in
the general condition of man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little
faith. Upon the whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back,
in very great measure, upon self.

In the widest and noblest sense he was a poet. He comprehended,
moreover, the true character, the august aims, the supreme majesty and
dignity of the poetic sentiment. The fullest, if not the sole proper
satisfaction of this sentiment he instinctively felt to lie in the
creation of novel forms of beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his
early education, or in the nature of his intellect, had tinged with
what is termed materialism all his ethical speculations; and it was this
bias, perhaps, which led him to believe that the most advantageous at
least, if not the sole legitimate field for the poetic exercise, lies
in the creation of novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it
happened he became neither musician nor poet—if we use this latter term
in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been that he neglected
to become either, merely in pursuance of his idea that in contempt of
ambition is to be found one of the essential principles of happiness on
earth. Is it not indeed, possible that, while a high order of genius
is necessarily ambitious, the highest is above that which is termed
ambition? And may it not thus happen that many far greater than Milton
have contentedly remained "mute and inglorious?" I believe that the
world has never seen—and that, unless through some series of accidents
goading the noblest order of mind into distasteful exertion, the world
will never see—that full extent of triumphant execution, in the richer
domains of art, of which the human nature is absolutely capable.

Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more
profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than
those which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become
a painter. Sculpture, although in its nature rigorously poetical was too
limited in its extent and consequences, to have occupied, at any time,
much of his attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in
which the common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it
capable of expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest, the
truest, and most natural, if not altogether the most extensive province,
had been unaccountably neglected. No definition had spoken of the
landscape-gardener as of the poet; yet it seemed to my friend that the
creation of the landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most
magnificent of opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for
the display of imagination in the endless combining of forms of
novel beauty; the elements to enter into combination being, by a vast
superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In the
multiform and multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he recognised the
most direct and energetic efforts of Nature at physical loveliness. And
in the direction or concentration of this effort—or, more properly,
in its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth—he
perceived that he should be employing the best means—laboring to the
greatest advantage—in the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as
poet, but of the august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the
poetic sentiment in man.

"Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In his
explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward solving
what has always seemed to me an enigma:—I mean the fact (which none
but the ignorant dispute) that no such combination of scenery exists in
nature as the painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to
be found in reality as have glowed on the canvas of Claude. In the most
enchanting of natural landscapes, there will always be found a defect
or an excess—many excesses and defects. While the component parts may
defy, individually, the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement
of these parts will always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no
position can be attained on the wide surface of the natural earth,
from which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will not find matter of
offence in what is termed the "composition" of the landscape. And
yet how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are justly
instructed to regard nature as supreme. With her details we shrink from
competition. Who shall presume to imitate the colors of the tulip, or to
improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The criticism which
says, of sculpture or portraiture, that here nature is to be exalted or
idealized rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or sculptural
combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach the
living and breathing beauty. In landscape alone is the principle of the
critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it is but the headlong
spirit of generalization which has led him to pronounce it true
throughout all the domains of art. Having, I say, felt its truth here;
for the feeling is no affectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no
more absolute demonstrations than the sentiments of his art yields the
artist. He not only believes, but positively knows, that such and
such apparently arbitrary arrangements of matter constitute and alone
constitute the true beauty. His reasons, however, have not yet been
matured into expression. It remains for a more profound analysis
than the world has yet seen, fully to investigate and express them.
Nevertheless he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions by the voice of
all his brethren. Let a "composition" be defective; let an emendation
be wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let this emendation be
submitted to every artist in the world; by each will its necessity
be admitted. And even far more than this:—in remedy of the defective
composition, each insulated member of the fraternity would have
suggested the identical emendation.

I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical nature
susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her susceptibility of
improvement at this one point, was a mystery I had been unable to solve.
My own thoughts on the subject had rested in the idea that the primitive
intention of nature would have so arranged the earth's surface as to
have fulfilled at all points man's sense of perfection in the beautiful,
the sublime, or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had
been frustrated by the known geological disturbances—disturbances of
form and color—grouping, in the correction or allaying of which lies
the soul of art. The force of this idea was much weakened, however, by
the necessity which it involved of considering the disturbances abnormal
and unadapted to any purpose. It was Ellison who suggested that
they were prognostic of death. He thus explained:—Admit the earthly
immortality of man to have been the first intention. We have then the
primitive arrangement of the earth's surface adapted to his blissful
estate, as not existent but designed. The disturbances were the
preparations for his subsequently conceived deathful condition.

"Now," said my friend, "what we regard as exaltation of the landscape
may be really such, as respects only the moral or human point of view.
Each alteration of the natural scenery may possibly effect a blemish
in the picture, if we can suppose this picture viewed at large—in
mass—from some point distant from the earth's surface, although not
beyond the limits of its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what
might improve a closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure
a general or more distantly observed effect. There may be a class of
beings, human once, but now invisible to humanity, to whom, from afar,
our disorder may seem order—our unpicturesqueness picturesque, in a
word, the earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more especially than our own,
and for whose death—refined appreciation of the beautiful, may have
been set in array by God the wide landscape-gardens of the hemispheres."

In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from a
writer on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have well treated
his theme:

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

"From what I have already observed," said Ellison, "you will understand
that I reject the idea, here expressed, of recalling the original beauty
of the country. The original beauty is never so great as that which may
be introduced. Of course, every thing depends on the selection of a
spot with capabilities. What is said about detecting and bringing into
practice nice relations of size, proportion, and color, is one of those
mere vaguenesses of speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought.
The phrase quoted may mean any thing, or nothing, and guides in no
degree. That the true result of the natural style of gardening is seen
rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities than in the
creation of any special wonders or miracles, is a proposition better
suited to the grovelling apprehension of the herd than to the fervid
dreams of the man of genius. The negative merit suggested appertains to
that hobbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate Addison into
apotheosis. In truth, while that virtue which consists in the mere
avoidance of vice appeals directly to the understanding, and can thus be
circumscribed in rule, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can
be apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies but to the merits of
denial—to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the critical
art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build a "Cato," but we
are in vain told how to conceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno." The
thing done, however; the wonder accomplished; and the capacity for
apprehension becomes universal. The sophists of the negative school who,
through inability to create, have scoffed at creation, are now found
the loudest in applause. What, in its chrysalis condition of principle,
affronted their demure reason, never fails, in its maturity of
accomplishment, to extort admiration from their instinct of beauty.

"The author's observations on the artificial style," continued Ellison,
"are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a garden scene adds to
it a great beauty. This is just; as also is the reference to the sense
of human interest. The principle expressed is incontrovertible—but
there may be something beyond it. There may be an object in keeping with
the principle—an object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed
by individuals, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm to the
landscape-garden far surpassing that which a sense of merely human
interest could bestow. A poet, having very unusual pecuniary resources,
might, while retaining the necessary idea of art or culture, or, as
our author expresses it, of interest, so imbue his designs at once with
extent and novelty of beauty, as to convey the sentiment of spiritual
interference. It will be seen that, in bringing about such result, he
secures all the advantages of interest or design, while relieving his
work of the harshness or technicality of the worldly art. In the
most rugged of wildernesses—in the most savage of the scenes of pure
nature—there is apparent the art of a creator; yet this art is apparent
to reflection only; in no respect has it the obvious force of a feeling.
Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty design to be one step
depressed—to be brought into something like harmony or consistency with
the sense of human art—to form an intermedium between the two:—let
us imagine, for example, a landscape whose combined vastness and
definitiveness—whose united beauty, magnificence, and strangeness,
shall convey the idea of care, or culture, or superintendence, on the
part of beings superior, yet akin to humanity—then the sentiment of
interest is preserved, while the art intervolved is made to assume the
air of an intermediate or secondary nature—a nature which is not God,
nor an emanation from God, but which still is nature in the sense of the
handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God."

It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a vision
such as this—in the free exercise in the open air ensured by the
personal superintendence of his plans—in the unceasing object which
these plans afforded—in the high spirituality of the object—in
the contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly to feel—in the
perennial springs with which it gratified, without possibility of
satiating, that one master passion of his soul, the thirst for beauty,
above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman, not unwomanly, whose
loveliness and love enveloped his existence in the purple atmosphere of
Paradise, that Ellison thought to find, and found, exemption from
the ordinary cares of humanity, with a far greater amount of positive
happiness than ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Stael.

I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of the
marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to describe, but
am disheartened by the difficulty of description, and hesitate between
detail and generality. Perhaps the better course will be to unite the
two in their extremes.

Mr. Ellison's first step regarded, of course, the choice of a locality,
and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point, when the luxuriant
nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his attention. In fact, he
had made up his mind for a voyage to the South Seas, when a night's
reflection induced him to abandon the idea. "Were I misanthropic," he
said, "such a locale would suit me. The thoroughness of its insulation
and seclusion, and the difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such
case be the charm of charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the
composure but not the depression of solitude. There must remain with me
a certain control over the extent and duration of my repose. There will
be frequent hours in which I shall need, too, the sympathy of the poetic
in what I have done. Let me seek, then, a spot not far from a populous
city—whose vicinity, also, will best enable me to execute my plans."

In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for several
years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand spots with
which I was enraptured he rejected without hesitation, for reasons which
satisfied me, in the end, that he was right. We came at length to an
elevated table-land of wonderful fertility and beauty, affording a
panoramic prospect very little less in extent than that of Aetna, and,
in Ellison's opinion as well as my own, surpassing the far-famed view
from that mountain in all the true elements of the picturesque.

"I am aware," said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight
after gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an hour, "I know that
here, in my circumstances, nine-tenths of the most fastidious of men
would rest content. This panorama is indeed glorious, and I should
rejoice in it but for the excess of its glory. The taste of all the
architects I have ever known leads them, for the sake of 'prospect,' to
put up buildings on hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of
its moods, but especially in that of extent, startles, excites—and then
fatigues, depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be better—for
the constant view nothing worse. And, in the constant view, the most
objectionable phase of grandeur is that of extent; the worst phase of
extent, that of distance. It is at war with the sentiment and with the
sense of seclusion—the sentiment and sense which we seek to humor in
'retiring to the country.' In looking from the summit of a mountain we
cannot help feeling abroad in the world. The heart-sick avoid distant
prospects as a pestilence."

It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our search that
we found a locality with which Ellison professed himself satisfied. It
is, of course, needless to say where was the locality. The late death of
my friend, in causing his domain to be thrown open to certain classes
of visiters, has given to Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if
not solemn celebrity, similar in kind, although infinitely superior in
degree, to that which so long distinguished Fonthill.

The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visiter left the
city in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed between shores
of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed innumerable sheep,
their white fleeces spotting the vivid green of rolling meadows. By
degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into that of merely pastoral
care. This slowly became merged in a sense of retirement—this again in
a consciousness of solitude. As the evening approached, the channel grew
more narrow, the banks more and more precipitous; and these latter
were clothed in rich, more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water
increased in transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at
no moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance
than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned within an
enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage,
a roof of ultramarine satin, and no floor—the keel balancing itself
with admirable nicety on that of a phantom bark which, by some accident
having been turned upside down, floated in constant company with the
substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. The channel now
became a gorge—although the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ
it merely because the language has no word which better represents
the most striking—not the most distinctive-feature of the scene. The
character of gorge was maintained only in the height and parallelism of
the shores; it was lost altogether in their other traits. The walls of
the ravine (through which the clear water still tranquilly flowed) arose
to an elevation of a hundred and occasionally of a hundred and fifty
feet, and inclined so much toward each other as, in a great measure, to
shut out the light of day; while the long plume-like moss which depended
densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole
chasm an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and
intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so
that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. He was, moreover,
enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange. The thought of nature
still remained, but her character seemed to have undergone modification,
there was a weird symmetry, a thrilling uniformity, a wizard propriety
in these her works. Not a dead branch—not a withered leaf—not a stray
pebble—not a patch of the brown earth was anywhere visible. The crystal
water welled up against the clean granite, or the unblemished moss, with
a sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the eye.

Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom
deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel
brought it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of
very considerable extent when compared with the width of the gorge. It
was about two hundred yards in diameter, and girt in at all points but
one—that immediately fronting the vessel as it entered—by hills equal
in general height to the walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly
different character. Their sides sloped from the water's edge at an
angle of some forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to
summit—not a perceptible point escaping—in a drapery of the most
gorgeous flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the
sea of odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but
so transparent was the water that the bottom, which seemed to consist of
a thick mass of small round alabaster pebbles, was distinctly visible
by glimpses—that is to say, whenever the eye could permit itself not
to see, far down in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the
hills. On these latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size.
The impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness,
warmth, color, quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy, daintiness,
voluptuousness, and a miraculous extremeness of culture that suggested
dreams of a new race of fairies, laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and
fastidious; but as the eye traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from
its sharp junction with the water to its vague termination amid the
folds of overhanging cloud, it became, indeed, difficult not to fancy
a panoramic cataract of rubies, sapphires, opals, and golden onyxes,
rolling silently out of the sky.

The visiter, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom of the
ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun,
which he had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now
confronts him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless
vista seen through another chasm—like rift in the hills.

But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, and
descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices in
vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat
arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form
is that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay
with the proud grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single
feathery paddle of satin-wood; but no oarsmen or attendant is to be
seen. The guest is bidden to be of good cheer—that the fates will take
care of him. The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the
canoe, which lies apparently motionless in the middle of the lake.
While he considers what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a
gentle movement in the fairy bark. It slowly swings itself around until
its prow points toward the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually
accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it creates seem to break
about the ivory side in divinest melody-seem to offer the only possible
explanation of the soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin
the bewildered voyager looks around him in vain.

The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is
approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To the
right arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is
observed, however, that the trait of exquisite cleanness where the bank
dips into the water, still prevails. There is not one token of the usual
river debris. To the left the character of the scene is softer and more
obviously artificial. Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in
a very gentle ascent, forming a broad sward of grass of a texture
resembling nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of green which
would bear comparison with the tint of the purest emerald. This plateau
varies in width from ten to three hundred yards; reaching from the
river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high, which extends, in an infinity of
curves, but following the general direction of the river, until lost in
the distance to the westward. This wall is of one continuous rock, and
has been formed by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipice of
the stream's southern bank, but no trace of the labor has been suffered
to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and is profusely
overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral honeysuckle, the
eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of the top and bottom lines
of the wall is fully relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height,
growing singly or in small groups, both along the plateau and in the
domain behind the wall, but in close proximity to it; so that frequent
limbs (of the black walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent
extremities into the water. Farther back within the domain, the vision
is impeded by an impenetrable screen of foliage.

These things are observed during the canoe's gradual approach to what I
have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to this, however,
its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is
discovered to the left—in which direction the wall is also seen to
sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this new
opening the eye cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied
by the wall, still bends to the left, until both are swallowed up by the
leaves.

The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and
here the shore opposite the wall is found to resemble that opposite
the wall in the straight vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into
mountains, and covered with vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in
the scene.

Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the
voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by
a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately carved and
fretted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun
with an effulgence that seems to wreath the whole surrounding forest in
flames. This gate is inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to
cross the river at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen
that the main body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive
curve to the left, the wall following it as before, while a stream of
considerable volume, diverging from the principal one, makes its way,
with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from sight.
The canoe falls into the lesser channel and approaches the gate. Its
ponderous wings are slowly and musically expanded. The boat glides
between them, and commences a rapid descent into a vast amphitheatre
entirely begirt with purple mountains, whose bases are laved by a
gleaming river throughout the full extent of their circuit. Meantime
the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush
of entrancing melody; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet
odor,—there is a dream—like intermingling to the eye of tall
slender Eastern trees—bosky shrubberies—flocks of golden and crimson
birds—lily-fringed lakes—meadows of violets, tulips, poppies,
hyacinths, and tuberoses—long intertangled lines of silver
streamlets—and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass of
semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by miracle in
mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred oriels, minarets,
and pinnacles; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the
Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the Genii and of the Gnomes.

THE PREMATURE BURIAL

THE PREMATURE BURIAL

THERE are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but
which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction.
These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or
to disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and
majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with
the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the Passage
of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London,
of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred
and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these
accounts it is the fact——it is the reality——it is the history which
excites. As inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence.

I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities
on record; but in these it is the extent, not less than the character
of the calamity, which so vividly impresses the fancy. I need not remind
the reader that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries,
I might have selected many individual instances more replete with
essential suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster.
The true wretchedness, indeed—the ultimate woe——is particular, not
diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man the unit,
and never by man the mass——for this let us thank a merciful God!

To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these
extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has
frequently, very frequently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those
who think. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best
shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other
begins? We know that there are diseases in which occur total cessations
of all the apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these
cessations are merely suspensions, properly so called. They are only
temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism. A certain period
elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle again sets in motion the
magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver cord was not for ever
loosed, nor the golden bowl irreparably broken. But where, meantime, was
the soul?

Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, a priori that such
causes must produce such effects——that the well-known occurrence of
such cases of suspended animation must naturally give rise, now and
then, to premature interments—apart from this consideration, we have
the direct testimony of medical and ordinary experience to prove that a
vast number of such interments have actually taken place. I might refer
at once, if necessary to a hundred well authenticated instances. One of
very remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh
in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the
neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense,
and widely-extended excitement. The wife of one of the most respectable
citizens-a lawyer of eminence and a member of Congress—was seized with
a sudden and unaccountable illness, which completely baffled the skill
of her physicians. After much suffering she died, or was supposed to
die. No one suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was
not actually dead. She presented all the ordinary appearances of death.
The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The lips were of
the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless. There was no warmth.
Pulsation had ceased. For three days the body was preserved unburied,
during which it had acquired a stony rigidity. The funeral, in short,
was hastened, on account of the rapid advance of what was supposed to be
decomposition.

The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three subsequent
years, was undisturbed. At the expiration of this term it was opened
for the reception of a sarcophagus;——but, alas! how fearful a shock
awaited the husband, who, personally, threw open the door! As its
portals swung outwardly back, some white-apparelled object fell rattling
within his arms. It was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded
shroud.

A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within
two days after her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had
caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the floor, where it was so
broken as to permit her escape. A lamp which had been accidentally
left, full of oil, within the tomb, was found empty; it might have been
exhausted, however, by evaporation. On the uttermost of the steps which
led down into the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin,
with which, it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by
striking the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably swooned, or
possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing, her shroud became
entangled in some iron—work which projected interiorly. Thus she
remained, and thus she rotted, erect.

In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France,
attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion that
truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. The heroine of the story was a
Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family,
of wealth, and of great personal beauty. Among her numerous suitors was
Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur, or journalist of Paris. His talents
and general amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress,
by whom he seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth
decided her, finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur Renelle, a
banker and a diplomatist of some eminence. After marriage, however, this
gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated her.
Having passed with him some wretched years, she died,——at least her
condition so closely resembled death as to deceive every one who saw
her. She was buried——not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in the
village of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by the
memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the capital to
the remote province in which the village lies, with the romantic purpose
of disinterring the corpse, and possessing himself of its luxuriant
tresses. He reaches the grave. At midnight he unearths the coffin, opens
it, and is in the act of detaching the hair, when he is arrested by the
unclosing of the beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried
alive. Vitality had not altogether departed, and she was aroused by
the caresses of her lover from the lethargy which had been mistaken
for death. He bore her frantically to his lodgings in the village. He
employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little medical
learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her preserver. She
remained with him until, by slow degrees, she fully recovered her
original health. Her woman's heart was not adamant, and this last
lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She bestowed it upon Bossuet.
She returned no more to her husband, but, concealing from him her
resurrection, fled with her lover to America. Twenty years afterward,
the two returned to France, in the persuasion that time had so greatly
altered the lady's appearance that her friends would be unable to
recognize her. They were mistaken, however, for, at the first meeting,
Monsieur Renelle did actually recognize and make claim to his wife.
This claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her
resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances, with the long
lapse of years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but legally, the
authority of the husband.

The "Chirurgical Journal" of Leipsic—a periodical of high authority
and merit, which some American bookseller would do well to translate
and republish, records in a late number a very distressing event of the
character in question.

An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust
health, being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very severe
contusion upon the head, which rendered him insensible at once; the
skull was slightly fractured, but no immediate danger was apprehended.
Trepanning was accomplished successfully. He was bled, and many other of
the ordinary means of relief were adopted. Gradually, however, he fell
into a more and more hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was
thought that he died.

The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in one of
the public cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday. On the Sunday
following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as usual, much thronged
with visiters, and about noon an intense excitement was created by
the declaration of a peasant that, while sitting upon the grave of
the officer, he had distinctly felt a commotion of the earth, as if
occasioned by some one struggling beneath. At first little attention was
paid to the man's asseveration; but his evident terror, and the dogged
obstinacy with which he persisted in his story, had at length their
natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly procured, and the
grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a few minutes so far thrown
open that the head of its occupant appeared. He was then seemingly dead;
but he sat nearly erect within his coffin, the lid of which, in his
furious struggles, he had partially uplifted.

He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there pronounced
to be still living, although in an asphytic condition. After some hours
he revived, recognized individuals of his acquaintance, and, in broken
sentences spoke of his agonies in the grave.

From what he related, it was clear that he must have been conscious
of life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before lapsing into
insensibility. The grave was carelessly and loosely filled with an
exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was necessarily admitted.
He heard the footsteps of the crowd overhead, and endeavored to make
himself heard in turn. It was the tumult within the grounds of the
cemetery, he said, which appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but
no sooner was he awake than he became fully aware of the awful horrors
of his position.

This patient, it is recorded, was doing well and seemed to be in a fair
way of ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to the quackeries of medical
experiment. The galvanic battery was applied, and he suddenly expired in
one of those ecstatic paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.

The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my memory
a well known and very extraordinary case in point, where its action
proved the means of restoring to animation a young attorney of London,
who had been interred for two days. This occurred in 1831, and created,
at the time, a very profound sensation wherever it was made the subject
of converse.

The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus fever,
accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited the curiosity
of his medical attendants. Upon his seeming decease, his friends were
requested to sanction a post-mortem examination, but declined to permit
it. As often happens, when such refusals are made, the practitioners
resolved to disinter the body and dissect it at leisure, in private.
Arrangements were easily effected with some of the numerous corps of
body-snatchers, with which London abounds; and, upon the third night
after the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a grave eight
feet deep, and deposited in the opening chamber of one of the private
hospitals.

An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen,
when the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested an
application of the battery. One experiment succeeded another, and the
customary effects supervened, with nothing to characterize them in any
respect, except, upon one or two occasions, a more than ordinary degree
of life-likeness in the convulsive action.

It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought expedient,
at length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A student, however, was
especially desirous of testing a theory of his own, and insisted upon
applying the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. A rough gash was
made, and a wire hastily brought in contact, when the patient, with a
hurried but quite unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped
into the middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few
seconds, and then—spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but words
were uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell
heavily to the floor.

For some moments all were paralyzed with awe—but the urgency of the
case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen that Mr.
Stapleton was alive, although in a swoon. Upon exhibition of ether he
revived and was rapidly restored to health, and to the society of his
friends—from whom, however, all knowledge of his resuscitation was
withheld, until a relapse was no longer to be apprehended. Their
wonder—their rapturous astonishment—may be conceived.

The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is
involved in what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no period
was he altogether insensible—that, dully and confusedly, he was aware
of everything which happened to him, from the moment in which he was
pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in which he fell swooning to
the floor of the hospital. "I am alive," were the uncomprehended words
which, upon recognizing the locality of the dissecting-room, he had
endeavored, in his extremity, to utter.

Numbers, Words, Colors: 

Data Visualization and the Humanities

 

Influence of the humanities on data visualization 

Tools developed by Martin Wattenberg and his associate Fernanda Viégas, have changed the way people look at and use visualizations, by empowering and equipping users with the methodology needed to ask different questions of visual data, and to find hidden patterns.  



Fernanda Viégas and Martin Wattenberg are world-recognized leaders in data visualization. Their pioneering work has reinvented visualization as a mass medium. In this lecture hosted by the HyperStudio, Wattenberg, (whose background is in math and computer science) asks how the humanities have influenced the evolution of data visualization, then answers with examples from his own work.

This is a presentation from HyperStudio's Humanities + Digital Conference on Visual Interpretations.





 

---

 



 

 

"[S]mall words are indicators of style, of how we're framing issues –

they're very important. This was a complete revelation to me as a 

computer scientist. Realizing that these simple, small words

 hold so much meaning was fascinating…”

— Martin Wattenberg

image: detail from the series "Luscious," by Wattenberg and Viéga

---

Exploring

Wattenberg admits that his "hard drive is loaded with failed visualizations," but emphasizes that the visualization process should be one of trial and error. As for encouraging the development of visual literacy, Wattenberg concludes, "as visualization becomes part of the discourse and people realize, 'this is something that's powerful, it can help me make my case in life,' they'll learn… I'm hoping for education and good, old-fashioned human brain power."



About Viégas and Wattenberg

Before founding Flowing Media in 2010, Viégas and Wattenberg led IBM's Visual Communication Lab. Their system "Many Eyes" was the first to put powerful visualization tools in the hands of a general audience. Their vision of democratizing visualization has empowered journalists, businesspeople, and scientists to tell stories with data.

Prior to joining IBM, Viégas was known for her foundational work in visualizing social activity and conversations. Her Themail and Chat Circles systems broke new ground in graphical communication. Wattenberg created web-based visualization tools that demonstrated the popular potential of the medium. His visualizations of the stock market (SmartMoney's "Map of the Market") and of baby names (Baby Name Wizard's NameVoyager) are considered internet classics.

Viégas and Wattenberg are also known for their visualization-based artwork, which has been exhibited in venues such as the Museum of Modern Art in New York, London Institute of Contemporary Arts and the Whitney Museum of American Art.

 

MIT World

Hyperstudio | Digital Humanities at MIT

Flowing Media

It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these—but I
forbear—for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the fact that
premature interments occur. When we reflect how very rarely, from the
nature of the case, we have it in our power to detect them, we must
admit that they may frequently occur without our cognizance. Scarcely,
in truth, is a graveyard ever encroached upon, for any purpose, to any
great extent, that skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the
most fearful of suspicions.

Fearful indeed the suspicion—but more fearful the doom! It may be
asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well adapted
to inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental distress, as is
burial before death. The unendurable oppression of the lungs—the
stifling fumes from the damp earth—the clinging to the death
garments—the rigid embrace of the narrow house—the blackness of the
absolute Night—the silence like a sea that overwhelms—the unseen but
palpable presence of the Conqueror Worm—these things, with the thoughts
of the air and grass above, with memory of dear friends who would fly to
save us if but informed of our fate, and with consciousness that of this
fate they can never be informed—that our hopeless portion is that of
the really dead—these considerations, I say, carry into the heart,
which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and intolerable horror
from which the most daring imagination must recoil. We know of nothing
so agonizing upon Earth—we can dream of nothing half so hideous in the
realms of the nethermost Hell. And thus all narratives upon this topic
have an interest profound; an interest, nevertheless, which, through
the sacred awe of the topic itself, very properly and very peculiarly
depends upon our conviction of the truth of the matter narrated. What I
have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge—of my own positive and
personal experience.

For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular disorder
which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in default of a more
definitive title. Although both the immediate and the predisposing
causes, and even the actual diagnosis, of this disease are still
mysterious, its obvious and apparent character is sufficiently well
understood. Its variations seem to be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the
patient lies, for a day only, or even for a shorter period, in a species
of exaggerated lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but
the pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces of
warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the cheek;
and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can detect a torpid,
unequal, and vacillating action of the lungs. Then again the duration
of the trance is for weeks—even for months; while the closest scrutiny,
and the most rigorous medical tests, fail to establish any material
distinction between the state of the sufferer and what we conceive of
absolute death. Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely
by the knowledge of his friends that he has been previously subject to
catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion excited, and, above all, by
the non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are, luckily,
gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are unequivocal. The
fits grow successively more and more distinctive, and endure each for a
longer term than the preceding. In this lies the principal security from
inhumation. The unfortunate whose first attack should be of the extreme
character which is occasionally seen, would almost inevitably be
consigned alive to the tomb.

My own case differed in no important particular from those mentioned in
medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank, little by
little, into a condition of hemi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this
condition, without pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking,
to think, but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the
presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the crisis of
the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect sensation. At other
times I was quickly and impetuously smitten. I grew sick, and numb, and
chilly, and dizzy, and so fell prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all
was void, and black, and silent, and Nothing became the universe.
Total annihilation could be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke,
however, with a gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the
seizure. Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar
who roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night—just
so tardily—just so wearily—just so cheerily came back the light of the
Soul to me.

Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health appeared
to be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all affected by the one
prevalent malady—unless, indeed, an idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep
may be looked upon as superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could
never gain, at once, thorough possession of my senses, and always
remained, for many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity;—the
mental faculties in general, but the memory in especial, being in a
condition of absolute abeyance.

In all that I endured there was no physical suffering but of moral
distress an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked "of worms, of
tombs, and epitaphs." I was lost in reveries of death, and the idea
of premature burial held continual possession of my brain. The ghastly
Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day and night. In the former,
the torture of meditation was excessive—in the latter, supreme. When
the grim Darkness overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of
thought, I shook—shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When
Nature could endure wakefulness no longer, it was with a struggle that
I consented to sleep—for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking, I
might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I sank into
slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of phantasms, above
which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing, hovered, predominant, the
one sepulchral Idea.

From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in dreams,
I select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I was immersed in
a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration and profundity. Suddenly
there came an icy hand upon my forehead, and an impatient, gibbering
voice whispered the word "Arise!" within my ear.

I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of him
who had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the period at which I
had fallen into the trance, nor the locality in which I then lay. While
I remained motionless, and busied in endeavors to collect my thought,
the cold hand grasped me fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly,
while the gibbering voice said again:

"Arise! did I not bid thee arise?"

"And who," I demanded, "art thou?"

"I have no name in the regions which I inhabit," replied the voice,
mournfully; "I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless, but am
pitiful. Thou dost feel that I shudder.—My teeth chatter as I speak,
yet it is not with the chilliness of the night—of the night without
end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How canst thou tranquilly
sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of these great agonies. These sights
are more than I can bear. Get thee up! Come with me into the outer
Night, and let me unfold to thee the graves. Is not this a spectacle of
woe?—Behold!"

I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the wrist,
had caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind, and from each
issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay, so that I could see into
the innermost recesses, and there view the shrouded bodies in their
sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. But alas! the real sleepers were
fewer, by many millions, than those who slumbered not at all; and there
was a feeble struggling; and there was a general sad unrest; and from
out the depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling
from the garments of the buried. And of those who seemed tranquilly
to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in a greater or less
degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which they had originally been
entombed. And the voice again said to me as I gazed:

"Is it not—oh! is it not a pitiful sight?"—but, before I could find
words to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the phosphoric
lights expired, and the graves were closed with a sudden violence, while
from out them arose a tumult of despairing cries, saying again: "Is it
not—O, God, is it not a very pitiful sight?"

Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night, extended their
terrific influence far into my waking hours. My nerves became thoroughly
unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual horror. I hesitated to ride, or
to walk, or to indulge in any exercise that would carry me from home.
In fact, I no longer dared trust myself out of the immediate presence
of those who were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into
one of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition could
be ascertained. I doubted the care, the fidelity of my dearest friends.
I dreaded that, in some trance of more than customary duration, they
might be prevailed upon to regard me as irrecoverable. I even went so
far as to fear that, as I occasioned much trouble, they might be glad to
consider any very protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid
of me altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me by the
most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under no
circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so materially
advanced as to render farther preservation impossible. And, even
then, my mortal terrors would listen to no reason—would accept no
consolation. I entered into a series of elaborate precautions. Among
other things, I had the family vault so remodelled as to admit of being
readily opened from within. The slightest pressure upon a long lever
that extended far into the tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back.
There were arrangements also for the free admission of air and light,
and convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach of
the coffin intended for my reception. This coffin was warmly and softly
padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon the principle of the
vault-door, with the addition of springs so contrived that the feeblest
movement of the body would be sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides
all this, there was suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell,
the rope of which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the
coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse. But, alas?
what avails the vigilance against the Destiny of man? Not even these
well-contrived securities sufficed to save from the uttermost agonies of
living inhumation, a wretch to these agonies foredoomed!

There arrived an epoch—as often before there had arrived—in which I
found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first
feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly—with a tortoise
gradation—approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A torpid
uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No care—no hope—no
effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in the ears; then,
after a lapse still longer, a prickling or tingling sensation in the
extremities; then a seemingly eternal period of pleasurable quiescence,
during which the awakening feelings are struggling into thought; then a
brief re-sinking into non-entity; then a sudden recovery. At length the
slight quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric
shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood in
torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first positive
effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember. And now a
partial and evanescent success. And now the memory has so far regained
its dominion, that, in some measure, I am cognizant of my state. I feel
that I am not awaking from ordinary sleep. I recollect that I have been
subject to catalepsy. And now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean,
my shuddering spirit is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger—by the one
spectral and ever-prevalent idea.

For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained without
motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I dared not
make the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate—and yet there was
something at my heart which whispered me it was sure. Despair—such as
no other species of wretchedness ever calls into being—despair alone
urged me, after long irresolution, to uplift the heavy lids of my eyes.
I uplifted them. It was dark—all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I
knew that the crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I
had now fully recovered the use of my visual faculties—and yet it was
dark—all dark—the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that
endureth for evermore.

I endeavored to shriek-, and my lips and my parched tongue moved
convulsively together in the attempt—but no voice issued from the
cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some incumbent
mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at every elaborate and
struggling inspiration.

The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me that
they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too, that I lay
upon some hard substance, and by something similar my sides were,
also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured to stir any of my
limbs—but now I violently threw up my arms, which had been lying at
length, with the wrists crossed. They struck a solid wooden substance,
which extended above my person at an elevation of not more than six
inches from my face. I could no longer doubt that I reposed within a
coffin at last.

And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub
Hope—for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made spasmodic
exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for
the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for
ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not
help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully
prepared—and then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong
peculiar odor of moist earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was
not within the vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from
home-while among strangers—when, or how, I could not remember—and
it was they who had buried me as a dog—nailed up in some common
coffin—and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and
nameless grave.

As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost
chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this
second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or
yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the subterranean Night.

"Hillo! hillo, there!" said a gruff voice, in reply.

"What the devil's the matter now!" said a second.

"Get out o' that!" said a third.

"What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a
cattymount?" said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken
without ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very rough-looking
individuals. They did not arouse me from my slumber—for I was wide
awake when I screamed—but they restored me to the full possession of my
memory.

This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied by a
friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some miles down the
banks of the James River. Night approached, and we were overtaken by
a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at anchor in the stream, and
laden with garden mould, afforded us the only available shelter. We made
the best of it, and passed the night on board. I slept in one of the
only two berths in the vessel—and the berths of a sloop of sixty or
twenty tons need scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no
bedding of any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance
of its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found it
a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in. Nevertheless, I
slept soundly, and the whole of my vision—for it was no dream, and no
nightmare—arose naturally from the circumstances of my position—from
my ordinary bias of thought—and from the difficulty, to which I have
alluded, of collecting my senses, and especially of regaining my memory,
for a long time after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were
the crew of the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the
load itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a
silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of my
customary nightcap.

The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for the
time, to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully—they were
inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for their very
excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion. My soul acquired
tone—acquired temper. I went abroad. I took vigorous exercise. I
breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought upon other subjects than
Death. I discarded my medical books. "Buchan" I burned. I read no "Night
Thoughts"—no fustian about churchyards—no bugaboo tales—such as
this. In short, I became a new man, and lived a man's life. From that
memorable night, I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with
them vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had been
less the consequence than the cause.

There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of
our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell—but the imagination
of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas!
the grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether
fanciful—but, like the Demons in whose company Afrasiab made his voyage
down the Oxus, they must sleep, or they will devour us—they must be
suffered to slumber, or we perish.