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.