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.