On drawing nearer to
      this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet
      from the bay is discovered 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 bends to the
      left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves. The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding
      channel; and here the shore opposite the wall is found to
      resemble that opposite the wall in the straight vista. Lofty
      hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with
      vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene. Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented,
      the voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress
      apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished
      gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and reflecting the direct
      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 moments, 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, while a
      stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one,
      makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus
      hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and
      approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically
      expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid
      descent into a vast amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple
      mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout
      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 oppressive sense of strange sweet odor;—there
      is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern
      trees—bosky shrubberies—flocks of golden and crimson
      birds—lily-fringed lakes—meadows of violets, tulips, poppies,
      hyacinths, and tuberoses—long intertangled lines of silver
      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 pinnacles; and seeming the phantom
      handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the
      Genii and of the Gnomes. 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.