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. WILLIAM WILSON


    What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
    That spectre in my path? —_Chamberlayne’s Pharronida._

      Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair
      page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real
      appellation. This has been already too much an object for the
      scorn—for the horror—for the detestation of my race. To the
      uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds
      bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most
      abandoned!—to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors,
      to its flowers, to its golden aspirations?—and a cloud, dense,
      dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy
      hopes and heaven? I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my
      later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This
      epoch—these later years—took unto themselves a sudden elevation
      in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to
      assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant,
      all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial
      wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than
      the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance—what one event
      brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a
      softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through
      the dim valley, for the sympathy—I had nearly said for the
      pity—of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have
      been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human
      control.