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.