Chapter 18 of 23

LANDOR’S COTTAGE

A Pendant to “The Domain of Arnheim”

During A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the

river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined,

somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land

undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had

wound about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the

valleys, that I no longer knew in what direction lay the sweet

village of B——, where I had determined to stop for the night. The

sun had scarcely shone—strictly speaking—during the day, which

nevertheless, had been unpleasantly warm. A smoky mist,

resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all things, and

of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much about

the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or

even before dark, it was more than possible that a little Dutch

farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its

appearance—although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on

account of being more picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely

inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for a pillow, and my

hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the thing

which would have amused me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite at

ease—Ponto taking charge of my gun—until at length, just as I had

begun to consider whether the numerous little glades that led

hither and thither, were intended to be paths at all, I was

conducted by one of them into an unquestionable carriage track.

There could be no mistaking it. The traces of light wheels were

evident; and although the tall shrubberies and overgrown

undergrowth met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever

below, even to the passage of a Virginian mountain wagon—the most

aspiring vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The road, however,

except in being open through the wood—if wood be not too weighty

a name for such an assemblage of light trees—and except in the

particulars of evident wheel-tracks—bore no resemblance to any

road I had before seen. The tracks of which I speak were but

faintly perceptible—having been impressed upon the firm, yet

pleasantly moist surface of—what looked more like green Genoese

velvet than any thing else. It was grass, clearly—but grass such

as we seldom see out of England—so short, so thick, so even, and

so vivid in color. Not a single impediment lay in the

wheel-route—not even a chip or dead twig. The stones that once

obstructed the way had been carefully placed—not thrown—along

the sides of the lane, so as to define its boundaries at bottom

with a kind of half-precise, half-negligent, and wholly

picturesque definition. Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere,

luxuriantly, in the interspaces.

What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art

undoubtedly—that did not surprise me—all roads, in the ordinary

sense, are works of art; nor can I say that there was much to

wonder at in the mere excess of art manifested; all that seemed

to have been done, might have been done here—with such natural

“capabilities” (as they have it in the books on Landscape

Gardening)—with very little labor and expense. No; it was not the

amount but the character of the art which caused me to take a

seat on one of the blossomy stones and gaze up and down this

fairy-like avenue for half an hour or more in bewildered

admiration. One thing became more and more evident the longer I

gazed: an artist, and one with a most scrupulous eye for form,

had superintended all these arrangements. The greatest care had

been taken to preserve a due medium between the neat and graceful

on the one hand, and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the

Italian term, on the other. There were few straight, and no long

uninterrupted lines. The same effect of curvature or of color

appeared twice, usually, but not oftener, at any one point of

view. Everywhere was variety in uniformity. It was a piece of

“composition,” in which the most fastidiously critical taste

could scarcely have suggested an emendation.

I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now,

arising, I continued in the same direction. The path was so

serpentine, that at no moment could I trace its course for more

than two or three paces in advance. Its character did not undergo

any material change.

Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear—and in a

few moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more

abruptly than hitherto, I became aware that a building of some

kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before me. I

could see nothing distinctly on account of the mist which

occupied all the little valley below. A gentle breeze, however,

now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I remained

standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became

dissipated into wreaths, and so floated over the scene.

As it came fully into view—thus gradually as I describe it—piece

by piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again

the summit of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the

whole was one of the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited

under the name of “vanishing pictures.”

By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared,

the sun had made its way down behind the gentle hills, and

thence, as if with a slight chassez to the south, had come again

fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a chasm

that entered the valley from the west. Suddenly, therefore—and as

if by the hand of magic—this whole valley and every thing in it

became brilliantly visible.

The first coup d’œil, as the sun slid into the position

described, impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when

a boy, by the concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical

spectacle or melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was

wanting; for the sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all

orange and purple; while the vivid green of the grass in the

valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from the

curtain of vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its

total departure from a scene so enchantingly beautiful.

The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog

canopy could not have been more than four hundred yards long;

while in breadth it varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or

perhaps two hundred. It was most narrow at its northern

extremity, opening out as it tended southwardly, but with no very

precise regularity. The widest portion was within eighty yards of

the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed the vale could

not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face. Here a

precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety

feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was not

more than fifty feet wide; but as the visitor proceeded

southwardly from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his

left, declivities at once less high, less precipitous, and less

rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to the south; and yet

the whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less high,

except at two points. One of these I have already spoken of. It

lay considerably to the north of west, and was where the setting

sun made its way, as I have before described, into the

amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite

embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards wide at its

widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead

up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored

mountains and forests. The other opening was directly at the

southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were

nothing more than gentle inclinations, extending from east to

west about one hundred and fifty yards. In the middle of this

extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of the

valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every

thing else, the scene softened and sloped to the south. To the

north—on the craggy precipice—a few paces from the verge—up

sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black

walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak; and the

strong lateral branches thrown out by the walnuts especially,

spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly,

the explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees, but less and

less lofty and Salvatorish in character; then he saw the gentler

elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust—these again by the

softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple—these yet again by

still more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of

the southern declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone—an

occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom

of the valley itself—(for it must be borne in mind that the

vegetation hitherto mentioned grew only on the cliffs or

hillsides)—were to be seen three insulated trees. One was an elm

of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern

gate of the vale. Another was a hickory, much larger than the

elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both were

exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the

northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the

very jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an

angle of nearly forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of

the amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood,

however, the pride of the valley, and beyond all question the

most magnificent tree I have ever seen, unless, perhaps, among

the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a triple-stemmed

tulip-tree—the Liriodendron Tulipiferum—one of the natural order

of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent at about

three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and

gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where

the largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation

of about eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division

was one hundred and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty

the form, or the glossy, vivid green of the leaves of the

tulip-tree. In the present instance they were fully eight inches

wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by the gorgeous

splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, closely congregated,

a million of the largest and most resplendent tulips! Only thus

can the reader get any idea of the picture I would convey. And

then the stately grace of the clean, delicately-granulated

columnar stems, the largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from

the ground. The innumerable blossoms, mingling with those of

other trees scarcely less beautiful, although infinitely less

majestic, filled the valley with more than Arabian perfumes.

The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same

character as that I had found in the road; if anything, more

deliciously soft, thick, velvety, and miraculously green. It was

hard to conceive how all this beauty had been attained.

I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the

northwest issued a rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and

slightly foaming, down the ravine, until it dashed against the

group of rocks out of which sprang the insulated hickory. Here,

after encircling the tree, it passed on a little to the north of

east, leaving the tulip tree some twenty feet to the south, and

making no decided alteration in its course until it came near the

midway between the eastern and western boundaries of the valley.

At this point, after a series of sweeps, it turned off at right

angles and pursued a generally southern direction meandering as

it went—until it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure

(although roughly oval), that lay gleaming near the lower

extremity of the vale. This lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards

in diameter at its widest part. No crystal could be clearer than

its waters. Its bottom, which could be distinctly seen, consisted

altogether, of pebbles brilliantly white. Its banks, of the

emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than sloped, off

into the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so

perfectly, at times, did it reflect all objects above it, that

where the true bank ended and where the mimic one commenced, it

was a point of no little difficulty to determine. The trout, and

some other varieties of fish, with which this pond seemed to be

almost inconveniently crowded, had all the appearance of

veritable flying-fish. It was almost impossible to believe that

they were not absolutely suspended in the air. A light birch

canoe that lay placidly on the water, was reflected in its

minutest fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed by the most

exquisitely polished mirror. A small island, fairly laughing with

flowers in full bloom, and affording little more space than just

enough for a picturesque little building, seemingly a

fowl-house—arose from the lake not far from its northern shore—to

which it was connected by means of an inconceivably light-looking

and yet very primitive bridge. It was formed of a single, broad

and thick plank of the tulip wood. This was forty feet long, and

spanned the interval between shore and shore with a slight but

very perceptible arch, preventing all oscillation. From the

southern extreme of the lake issued a continuation of the

rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty yards,

finally passed through the “depression” (already described) in

the middle of the southern declivity, and tumbling down a sheer

precipice of a hundred feet, made its devious and unnoticed way

to the Hudson.

The lake was deep—at some points thirty feet—but the rivulet

seldom exceeded three, while its greatest width was about eight.

Its bottom and banks were as those of the pond—if a defect could

have been attributed, in point of picturesqueness, it was that of

excessive neatness.

The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an

occasional showy shrub, such as the hydrangea, or the common

snowball, or the aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, by a

clump of geraniums blossoming gorgeously in great varieties.

These latter grew in pots which were carefully buried in the

soil, so as to give the plants the appearance of being

indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn’s velvet was exquisitely

spotted with sheep—a considerable flock of which roamed about the

vale, in company with three tamed deer, and a vast number of

brilliantly-plumed ducks. A very large mastiff seemed to be in

vigilant attendance upon these animals, each and all.

Along the eastern and western cliffs—where, toward the upper

portion of the amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less

precipitous—grew ivy in great profusion—so that only here and

there could even a glimpse of the naked rock be obtained. The

northern precipice, in like manner, was almost entirely clothed

by grape-vines of rare luxuriance; some springing from the soil

at the base of the cliff, and others from ledges on its face.

The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this

little domain, was crowned by a neat stone wall, of sufficient

height to prevent the escape of the deer. Nothing of the fence

kind was observable elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial

enclosure needed:—any stray sheep, for example, which should

attempt to make its way out of the vale by means of the ravine,

would find its progress arrested, after a few yards’ advance, by

the precipitous ledge of rock over which tumbled the cascade that

had arrested my attention as I first drew near the domain. In

short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate occupying a

rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I

stopped to reconnoitre the scene.

I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through

the whole of its course. Its two general directions, as I have

said, were first from west to east, and then from north to south.

At the turn, the stream, sweeping backward, made an almost

circular loop, so as to form a peninsula which was very nearly an

island, and which included about the sixteenth of an acre. On

this peninsula stood a dwelling-house—and when I say that this

house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek, “etait d’une

architecture inconnue dans les annales de la terre,” I mean,

merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keenest sense

of combined novelty and propriety—in a word, of poetry—(for, than

in the words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in

the abstract, a more rigorous definition)—and I do not mean that

merely outre was perceptible in any respect.

In fact nothing could well be more simple—more utterly

unpretending than this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay

altogether in its artistic arrangement as a picture. I could have

fancied, while I looked at it, that some eminent

landscape-painter had built it with his brush.

The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not

altogether, although it was nearly, the best point from which to

survey the house. I will therefore describe it as I afterwards

saw it—from a position on the stone wall at the southern extreme

of the amphitheatre.

The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen

broad—certainly not more. Its total height, from the ground to

the apex of the roof, could not have exceeded eighteen feet. To

the west end of this structure was attached one about a third

smaller in all its proportions:—the line of its front standing

back about two yards from that of the larger house, and the line

of its roof, of course, being considerably depressed below that

of the roof adjoining. At right angles to these buildings, and

from the rear of the main one—not exactly in the middle—extended

a third compartment, very small—being, in general, one-third less

than the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were very

steep—sweeping down from the ridge-beam with a long concave

curve, and extending at least four feet beyond the walls in

front, so as to form the roofs of two piazzas. These latter

roofs, of course, needed no support; but as they had the air of

needing it, slight and perfectly plain pillars were inserted at

the corners alone. The roof of the northern wing was merely an

extension of a portion of the main roof. Between the chief

building and western wing arose a very tall and rather slender

square chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alternately black and red:—a

slight cornice of projecting bricks at the top. Over the gables

the roofs also projected very much:—in the main building about

four feet to the east and two to the west. The principal door was

not exactly in the main division, being a little to the

east—while the two windows were to the west. These latter did not

extend to the floor, but were much longer and narrower than

usual—they had single shutters like doors—the panes were of

lozenge form, but quite large. The door itself had its upper half

of glass, also in lozenge panes—a movable shutter secured it at

night. The door to the west wing was in its gable, and quite

simple—a single window looked out to the south. There was no

external door to the north wing, and it also had only one window

to the east.

The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with

a balustrade) running diagonally across it—the ascent being from

the south. Under cover of the widely projecting eave these steps

gave access to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft—for

it was lighted only by a single window to the north, and seemed

to have been intended as a store-room.

The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors,

as is usual; but at the doors and at each window, large, flat

irregular slabs of granite lay imbedded in the delicious turf,

affording comfortable footing in all weather. Excellent paths of

the same material—not nicely adapted, but with the velvety sod

filling frequent intervals between the stones, led hither and

thither from the house, to a crystal spring about five paces off,

to the road, or to one or two out-houses that lay to the north,

beyond the brook, and were thoroughly concealed by a few locusts

and catalpas.

Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood

the dead trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to

foot in the gorgeous bignonia blossoms that one required no

little scrutiny to determine what manner of sweet thing it could

be. From various arms of this tree hung cages of different kinds.

In one, a large wicker cylinder with a ring at top, revelled a

mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a third the impudent

bobolink—while three or four more delicate prisons were loudly

vocal with canaries.

The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet

honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure

and its west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled

luxuriance. Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the

lower roof—then to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter

it continued to writhe on, throwing out tendrils to the right and

left, until at length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell

trailing over the stairs.

The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the

old-fashioned Dutch shingles—broad, and with unrounded corners.

It is a peculiarity of this material to give houses built of it

the appearance of being wider at bottom than at top—after the

manner of Egyptian architecture; and in the present instance,

this exceedingly picturesque effect was aided by numerous pots of

gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the base of the

buildings.

The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with

which this neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip

tree leaves that partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily

be conceived by an artist.

From the position near the stone wall, as described, the

buildings were seen at great advantage—for the southeastern angle

was thrown forward—so that the eye took in at once the whole of

the two fronts, with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the

same time obtained just a sufficient glimpse of the northern

wing, with parts of a pretty roof to the spring-house, and nearly

half of a light bridge that spanned the brook in the near

vicinity of the main buildings.

I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long

enough to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was

clear that I had wandered from the road to the village, and I had

thus good traveller’s excuse to open the gate before me, and

inquire my way, at all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.

The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural

ledge, sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern

cliffs. It led me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and

thence over the bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front

door. In this progress, I took notice that no sight of the

out-houses could be obtained.

As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards

me in stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a

tiger. I held him out my hand, however, in token of amity—and I

never yet knew the dog who was proof against such an appeal to

his courtesy. He not only shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but

absolutely offered me his paw—afterward extending his civilities

to Ponto.

As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the

door, which stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the

threshold—that of a young woman about twenty-eight years of

age—slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium

height. As she approached, with a certain modest decision of step

altogether indescribable. I said to myself, “Surely here I have

found the perfection of natural, in contradistinction from

artificial grace.” The second impression which she made on me,

but by far the more vivid of the two, was that of enthusiasm. So

intense an expression of romance, perhaps I should call it, or of

unworldliness, as that which gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had

never so sunk into my heart of hearts before. I know not how it

is, but this peculiar expression of the eye, wreathing itself

occasionally into the lips, is the most powerful, if not

absolutely the sole spell, which rivets my interest in woman.

“Romance,” provided my readers fully comprehended what I would

here imply by the word—“romance” and “womanliness” seem to me

convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman,

is simply her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from

the interior call her “Annie, darling!”) were “spiritual grey;”

her hair, a light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe of

her.

At her most courteous of invitations, I entered—passing first

into a tolerably wide vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I

took notice that to my right as I stepped in, was a window, such

as those in front of the house; to the left, a door leading into

the principal room; while, opposite me, an open door enabled me

to see a small apartment, just the size of the vestibule,

arranged as a study, and having a large bow window looking out to

the north.

Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor—for this,

I afterwards found, was his name. He was civil, even cordial in

his manner, but just then, I was more intent on observing the

arrangements of the dwelling which had so much interested me,

than the personal appearance of the tenant.

The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened

into the parlor. West of this door was a single window, looking

toward the brook. At the west end of the parlor, were a

fireplace, and a door leading into the west wing—probably a

kitchen.

Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the

parlor. On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of excellent

texture—a white ground, spotted with small circular green

figures. At the windows were curtains of snowy white jaconet

muslin: they were tolerably full, and hung decisively, perhaps

rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits to the floor—just to

the floor. The walls were prepared with a French paper of great

delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord running

zig-zag throughout. Its expanse was relieved merely by three of

Julien’s exquisite lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the

wall without frames. One of these drawings was a scene of

Oriental luxury, or rather voluptuousness; another was a

“carnival piece,” spirited beyond compare; the third was a Greek

female head—a face so divinely beautiful, and yet of an

expression so provokingly indeterminate, never before arrested my

attention.

The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few

chairs (including a large rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather

“settee;” its material was plain maple painted a creamy white,

slightly interstriped with green; the seat of cane. The chairs

and table were “to match,” but the forms of all had evidently

been designed by the same brain which planned “the grounds;” it

is impossible to conceive anything more graceful.

On the table were a few books; a large, square, crystal bottle of

some novel perfume; a plain ground glass astral (not solar)

lamp with an Italian shade; and a large vase of

resplendently-blooming flowers. Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous

colours and delicate odour formed the sole mere decoration of the

apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with a vase of

brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the

room stood also a similar vase, varied only as to its lovely

contents. One or two smaller bouquets adorned the mantel, and

late violets clustered about the open windows.

It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in

detail, a picture of Mr. Landor’s residence—as I found it. How he

made it what it was—and why—with some particulars of Mr. Landor

himself—may, possibly form the subject of another article.