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.

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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