[87910] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
Boosts Brain Power to Superhuman Levels
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Dan Madden)
Thu Sep 1 17:12:42 2016
Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2016 19:00:23 -0400
From: "Dan Madden" <dan.madden@projected.stream>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
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<p class=3D"MsoNormal">The Best Way To Get MORE Out Of Your Life</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">Hey,</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">Do you ever wish you had more:</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style=3D"text-indent:-.25in"><spa=
n style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " =
Times New Roman" "> </span>=
</span>Friends</p>=20
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an style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " =
Times New Roman" "> </span=
></span>Money</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style=3D"text-indent:-.25in"><sp=
an style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " =
Times New Roman" "> </span=
></span>Time</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style=3D"text-indent:-.25in"><sp=
an style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " =
Times New Roman" "> </span=
></span>Experiences</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style=3D"text-indent:-.25in"><sp=
an style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " =
Times New Roman" "> </span=
></span>Respect from others</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style=3D"text-indent:-.25in"><span=
style=3D"font-family:Symbol">· <span style=3D"font:7.0pt " T=
imes New Roman" "> </span><=
/span>Freedom to do the things you love</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">If so, there is one way to have ALL of those thin=
gs and more:</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"><a href=3D"http://www.projected.stream/8638hT64S5ubCca*hvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW3ff/immigrated-judiciously">_ Boost your BRAIN. _</a><=
/p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">After all, your brain is where it all starts. But=
boosting it may sound vague and difficult to do? </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">Luckily, it' s not. Because after you _ watch thi=
s short and informative video _, the vagueness will be removed.</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">Beyond that, you' ll see that boosting your brain=
to nearly SUPERHUMAN levels is so ridiculously EASY, you' ll wish you had =
seen this YEARS ago? </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"><b><a href=3D"http://www.projected.stream/8638hT64S5ubCca*hvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW3ff/immigrated-judiciously">_ See how you can boost=
IQ, memory, mental clarity, and focus in just 7 seconds _</a></b></p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">-Dan Madden</p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
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<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
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<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal"> </p>=20
<p class=3D"MsoNormal">Unsubscribe <a href=3D"http://www.projected.stream/31dB86Bp45uOcrcaQhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONWa54/suddenly-untold">Here</a></p>=
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or:#ffffff; ">=20
<p>Boosts Brain Power to Superhuman Levels<br /> The garden like a lady =
fair was cut, That lay as if she slumbered in delight, And to the open skie=
s her eyes did shut. The azure fields of Heaven were 'sembled right In a la=
rge round, set with the flowers of light. The flowers de luce, and the roun=
d 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 t=
he 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 foresh=
adowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet -- of exem=
plifying by individual instance what has been deemed the chimera of the per=
fectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison I fancy that I have seen ref=
uted the dogma, that in man's very nature lies some hidden principle, the a=
ntagonist of bliss. An anxious examination of his career has given me to un=
derstand that in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humani=
ty arises the wretchedness of mankind -- that as a species we have in our p=
ossession the as yet unwrought elements of content -- and that, even now, i=
n 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 opinio=
ns such as these my young friend, too, was fully imbued, and thus it is wor=
thy 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 s=
o well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have found himself pre=
cipitated, by the very extraordinary success of his life, into the common v=
ortex of unhappiness which yawns for those of pre-eminent endowments. But i=
t is by no means my object to pen an essay on happiness. The ideas of my fr=
iend may be summed up in a few words. He admitted but four elementary princ=
iples, or more strictly, conditions of bliss. That which he considered chie=
f was (strange to say!) the simple and purely physical one of free exercise=
in the open air. "The health," he said, "attainable by othe=
r 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 condit=
ion was the love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization, wa=
s the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of unceasing pursuit; =
and he held that, other things being equal, the extent of attainable happin=
ess was in proportion to the spirituality of this object. Ellison was remar=
kable in the continuous profusion of good gifts lavished upon him by fortun=
e. In personal grace and beauty he exceeded all men. His intellect was of t=
hat order to which the acquisition of knowledge is less a labor than an int=
uition and a necessity. His family was one of the most illustrious of the e=
mpire. His bride was the loveliest and most devoted of women. His possessio=
ns had been always ample; but on the attainment of his majority, it was dis=
covered that one of those extraordinary freaks of fate had been played in h=
is behalf which startle the whole social world amid which they occur, and s=
eldom 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. T=
his gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and, having no immediate conn=
ections, conceived the whim of suffering his wealth to accumulate for a cen=
tury after his decease. Minutely and sagaciously directing the various mode=
s 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 hundre=
d years. Many attempts had been made to set aside this singular bequest; th=
eir ex post facto character rendered them abortive; but the attention of a =
jealous government was aroused, and a legislative act finally obtained, for=
bidding all similar accumulations. This act, however, did not prevent young=
Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first birthday, as th=
e heir of his ancestor Seabright, of a fortune of four hundred and fifty mi=
llions 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 be=
wildered all who thought on the topic. The possessor of any appreciable amo=
unt of money might have been imagined to perform any one of a thousand thin=
gs. With riches merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have been =
easy to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable extravaga=
nces of his time -- or busying himself with political intrigue -- or aiming=
at ministerial power -- or purchasing increase of nobility -- or collectin=
g large museums of virtu -- or playing the munificent patron of letters, of=
science, of art -- or endowing, and bestowing his name upon extensive inst=
itutions of charity. But for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possess=
ion 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 t=
o 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 hundre=
d thousand dollars; which was one million and one hundred and twenty-five t=
housand per month; or thirty-six thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per d=
ay; 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 ev=
en conceived that Mr. Ellison would divest himself of at least one-half of =
his fortune, as of utterly superfluous opulence -- enriching whole troops o=
f 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 t=
he 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 reg=
ard to individual charities he had satisfied his conscience. In the possibi=
lity 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 f=
aith. 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 poe=
t. He comprehended, moreover, the true character, the august aims, the supr=
eme majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. The fullest, if not the so=
le proper satisfaction of this sentiment he instinctively felt to lie in th=
e creation of novel forms of beauty. Some peculiarities, either in his earl=
y education, or in the nature of his intellect, had tinged with what is ter=
med 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 nove=
l moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it happened he became neither m=
usician 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 pursu=
ance of his idea that in contempt of ambition is to be found one of the ess=
ential principles of happiness on earth. Is it not indeed, possible that, w=
hile 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 gre=
ater than Milton have contentedly remained "mute and inglorious?"=
I believe that the world has never seen -- and that, unless through some s=
eries of accidents goading the noblest order of mind into distasteful exert=
ion, the world will never see -- that full extent of triumphant execution, =
in the richer domains of art, of which the human nature is absolutely capab=
le. Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived more pr=
ofoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other circumstances than those=
which invested him, it is not impossible that he would have become a paint=
er. Sculpture, although in its nature rigorously poetical was too limited i=
n its extent and consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much of his a=
ttention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which the common un=
derstanding 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 neglecte=
d. No definition had spoken of the landscape-gardener as of the poet; yet i=
t seemed to my friend that the creation of the landscape-garden offered to =
the proper Muse the most magnificent of opportunities. Here, indeed, was th=
e 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 v=
ast superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In the mul=
tiform and multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he recognised the most =
direct and energetic efforts of Nature at physical loveliness. And in the d=
irection or concentration of this effort -- or, more properly, in its adapt=
ation 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. &qu=
ot;Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth." In hi=
s 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 t=
he painter of genius may produce. No such paradises are to be found in real=
ity as have glowed on the canvas of Claude. In the most enchanting of natur=
al landscapes, there will always be found a defect or an excess -- many exc=
esses and defects. While the component parts may defy, individually, the hi=
ghest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts will always be su=
sceptible of improvement. In short, no position can be attained on the wide=
surface of the natural earth, from which an artistical eye, looking steadi=
ly, will not find matter of offence in what is termed the "composition=
" of the landscape. And yet how unintelligible is this! In all other m=
atters we are justly instructed to regard nature as supreme. With her detai=
ls we shrink from competition. Who shall presume to imitate the colors of t=
he tulip, or to improve the proportions of the lily of the valley? The crit=
icism which says, of sculpture or portraiture, that here nature is to be ex=
alted or idealized rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or sculp=
tural combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach the =
living and breathing beauty. In landscape alone is the principle of the cri=
tic 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 d=
omains of art. Having, I say, felt its truth here; for the feeling is no af=
fectation or chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute demonstration=
s than the sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only believes, b=
ut positively knows, that such and such apparently arbitrary arrangements o=
f matter constitute and alone constitute the true beauty. His reasons, howe=
ver, have not yet been matured into expression. It remains for a more profo=
und 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 em=
endation 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 admi=
tted. And even far more than this: -- in remedy of the defective compositio=
n, each insulated member of the fraternity would have suggested the identic=
al emendation. I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physica=
l 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 f=
ulfilled at all points man's sense of perfection in the beautiful, the subl=
ime, or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been frustra=
ted by the known geological disturbances -- disturbances of form and color =
-- grouping, in the correction or allaying of which lies the soul of art. T=
he force of this idea was much weakened, however, by the necessity which it=
involved of considering the disturbances abnormal and unadapted to any pur=
pose. It was Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He t=
hus explained: -- Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the fir=
st intention. We have then the primitive arrangement of the earth's surface=
adapted to his blissful estate, as not existent but designed. The disturba=
nces were the preparations for his subsequently conceived deathful conditio=
n. "Now," said my friend, "what we regard as exaltation of t=
he 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 blemi=
sh in the picture, if we can suppose this picture viewed at large -- in mas=
s -- from some point distant from the earth's surface, although not beyond =
the limits of its atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might impro=
ve a closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general or m=
ore 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 or=
der -- 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 b=
een supposed to have well treated his theme: "There are properly but t=
wo 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 re=
lations of size, proportion, and color which, hid from the common observer,=
are revealed everywhere to the experienced student of nature. The result o=
f the natural style of gardening, is seen rather in the absence of all defe=
cts and incongruities -- in the prevalence of a healthy harmony and order -=
- than in the creation of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial s=
tyle 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 th=
e stately avenues and retirements of Versailles; Italian terraces; and a va=
rious mixed old English style, which bears some relation to the domestic Go=
thic 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 tha=
t have passed there in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an ev=
idence of care and human interest." "From what I have already obs=
erved," said Ellison, "you will understand that I reject the idea=
, here expressed, of recalling the original beauty of the country. The orig=
inal beauty is never so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, e=
very thing depends on the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is sa=
id about detecting and bringing into practice nice relations of size, propo=
rtion, 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 nothi=
ng, and guides in no degree. That the true result of the natural style of g=
ardening is seen rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities tha=
n in the creation of any special wonders or miracles, is a proposition bett=
er suited to the grovelling apprehension of the herd than to the fervid dre=
ams of the man of genius. The negative merit suggested appertains to that h=
obbling criticism which, in letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis.=
In truth, while that virtue which consists in the mere avoidance of vice a=
ppeals directly to the understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in rule=
, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can be apprehended in its r=
esults alone. Rule applies but to the merits of denial -- to the excellenci=
es 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 con=
ceive a Parthenon or an "Inferno." The thing done, however; the w=
onder accomplished; and the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. Th=
e sophists of the negative school who, through inability to create, have sc=
offed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What, in its chry=
salis condition of principle, affronted their demure reason, never fails, i=
n its maturity of accomplishment, to extort admiration from their instinct =
of beauty. "The author's observations on the artificial style," c=
ontinued 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 refere=
nce to the sense of human interest. The principle expressed is incontrovert=
ible -- but there may be something beyond it. There may be an object in kee=
ping with the principle -- an object unattainable by the means ordinarily p=
ossessed 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, whil=
e retaining the necessary idea of art or culture, or, as our author express=
es 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 s=
een that, in bringing about such result, he secures all the advantages of i=
nterest or design, while relieving his work of the harshness or technicalit=
y of the worldly art. In the most rugged of wildernesses -- in the most sav=
age 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 obvi=
ous force of a feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty desig=
n 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 t=
he 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 int=
ermediate or secondary nature -- a nature which is not God, nor an emanatio=
n 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 enormou=
s 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 spiritualit=
y of the object -- in the contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly t=
o feel -- in the perennial springs with which it gratified, without possibi=
lity of satiating, that one master passion of his soul, the thirst for beau=
ty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a woman, not unwomanly, whose love=
liness and love enveloped his existence in the purple atmosphere of Paradis=
e, that Ellison thought to find, and found, exemption from the ordinary car=
es of humanity, with a far greater amount of positive happiness than ever g=
lowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Stael. I despair of conveying to the rea=
der any distinct conception of the marvels which my friend did actually acc=
omplish. I wish to describe, but am disheartened by the difficulty of descr=
iption, and hesitate between detail and generality. Perhaps the better cour=
se will be to unite the two in their extremes. Mr. Ellison's first step reg=
arded, of course, the choice of a locality, and scarcely had he commenced t=
hinking on this point, when the luxuriant nature of the Pacific Islands arr=
ested his attention. In fact, he had made up his mind for a voyage to the S=
outh 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 ingres=
s and egress, would in such case be the charm of charms; but as yet I am no=
t Timon. I wish the composure but not the depression of solitude. There mus=
t remain with me a certain control over the extent and duration of my repos=
e. 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 p=
opulous city -- whose vicinity, also, will best enable me to execute my pla=
ns." 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 sa=
tisfied 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 prospe=
ct 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 tra=
veller, as he drew a sigh of deep delight after gazing on this scene, entra=
nced, 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 sak=
e of 'prospect,' to put up buildings on hill-tops. The error is obvious. Gr=
andeur in any of its moods, but especially in that of extent, startles, exc=
ites -- 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 pha=
se of extent, that of distance. It is at war with the sentiment and with th=
e 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 canno=
t 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 himsel=
f 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 d=
egree, 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. D=
uring the forenoon he passed between shores of a tranquil and domestic beau=
ty, on which grazed innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the viv=
id green of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided in=
to that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a sense of re=
tirement -- this again in a consciousness of solitude. As the evening appro=
ached, the channel grew more narrow, the banks more and more precipitous; a=
nd 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 distanc=
e than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned within an e=
nchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable walls of foliage, a ro=
of of ultramarine satin, and no floor -- the keel balancing itself with adm=
irable 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 -- althoug=
h the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it merely because the lan=
guage has no word which better represents the most striking -- not the most=
distinctive-feature of the scene. The character of gorge was maintained on=
ly in the height and parallelism of the shores; it was lost altogether in t=
heir other traits. The walls of the ravine (through which the clear water s=
till 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 m=
oss which depended densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave=
the whole chasm an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequen=
t and intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so th=
at the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. He was, moreover, enwra=
pt in an exquisite sense of the strange. The thought of nature still remain=
ed, but her character seemed to have undergone modification, there was a we=
ird 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 p=
atch of the brown earth was anywhere visible. The crystal water welled up a=
gainst the clean granite, or the unblemished moss, with a sharpness of outl=
ine that delighted while it bewildered the eye. Having threaded the mazes o=
f this channel for some hours, the gloom deepening every moment, a sharp an=
d unexpected turn of the vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped from hea=
ven, into a circular basin of very considerable extent when compared with t=
he 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 ent=
ered -- by hills equal in general height to the walls of the chasm, althoug=
h 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 bas=
e to summit -- not a perceptible point escaping -- in a drapery of the most=
gorgeous flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the se=
a of odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great depth, but so t=
ransparent was the water that the bottom, which seemed to consist of a thic=
k 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 do=
wn in the inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On these la=
tter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The impressions wrou=
ght on the observer were those of richness, warmth, color, quietude, unifor=
mity, softness, delicacy, daintiness, voluptuousness, and a miraculous extr=
emeness of culture that suggested dreams of a new race of fairies, laboriou=
s, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye traced upward the =
myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction with the water to its vague te=
rmination 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 int=
o 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 terminat=
ion 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 devi=
ces in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this bo=
at 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 th=
e proud grace of a swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery pad=
dle 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 lar=
ger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies appare=
ntly motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what course t=
o 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 ad=
vances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight r=
ipples it creates seem to break about the ivory side in divinest melody-see=
m to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing yet melancholy mus=
ic 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 chai=
n of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly wooded. It is observed, however, th=
at the trait of exquisite cleanness where the bank dips into the water, sti=
ll 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 th=
e bank slopes upward from the stream in a very gentle ascent, forming a bro=
ad 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 pur=
est 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, un=
til lost in the distance to the westward. This wall is of one continuous ro=
ck, and has been formed by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipic=
e of the stream's southern bank, but no trace of the labor has been suffere=
d to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and is profusely over=
hung 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 fu=
lly relieved by occasional trees of gigantic height, growing singly or in s=
mall 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 espec=
ially) 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, howeve=
r, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet from the bay is discove=
red 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 b=
ends to the left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves. The boat, neve=
rtheless, glides magically into the winding channel; and here the shore opp=
osite the wall is found to resemble that opposite the wall in the straight =
vista. Lofty hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with ve=
getation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene. Floating gently onwar=
d, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the voyager, after many short tu=
rns, finds his progress apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door=
of burnished gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and reflecting the dire=
ct 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 mome=
nts, 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, wh=
ile a stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one, make=
s its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus hidden from si=
ght. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and approaches the gate. Its p=
onderous wings are slowly and musically expanded. The boat glides between t=
hem, and commences a rapid descent into a vast amphitheatre entirely begirt=
with purple mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughou=
t 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 opp=
ressive sense of strange sweet odor, -- there is a dream -- like intermingl=
ing to the eye of tall slender Eastern trees -- bosky shrubberies -- flocks=
of golden and crimson birds -- lily-fringed lakes -- meadows of violets, t=
ulips, poppies, hyacinths, and tuberoses -- long intertangled lines of silv=
er 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 pinna=
cles; and seeming the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the =
Fairies, of the Genii and of the Gnomes.</p>=20
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