by Poe · Cluster: Ode · Nature vs Civilization · Pastoral Retreat
Abstract
Descriptive prose pendant to Arnheim, a wanderer’s discovery of an exquisitely composed valley, cottage, and landscape-as-art.
Testo / Text
Parti / Parts
Readability (prose)55.5 Flesch ease12.6 FK grade15.8 Fog11% complex28.6 words/sent
Connections
Topoi: Locus Amoenus, Beatus Ille (Happy the Man Rural Retreat) Motifs: Nature, Garden, Flowers, Water, River, Fog and Smoke, Journey Themes & Concepts: Beauty, Artist and Society, Imagination, Nature vs Civilization, Wonder and Gratitude Forms & Genres: Short Story, Travel Writing, Nonfiction Settings: New England America, Pastoral Countryside
Testo integrale / Full text
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.