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 bea