door of the house, embraced Mr. Downing, and cordially welcomed his guests. This was Mrs. Downing. She seemed to be of a bird-like nature; and we shall get on and twitter together charmingly, because I, too, have something of that nature about me.
The Astor House and its splendid rooms, and social life and the “New World” steamer, with all its finery, were good specimens of the showy side of the life of the new world; and Mr. Downing said that it was quite as well that I should at once have seen something of it, that I might the better be able to form an opinion of the other side of life here—of that which belongs to the inward, more refined, peculiar, individual development. And I could not easily have a better specimen of this than in Mr. Downing himself, and his home. He has built his house himself. It was himself who planted all the trees and flowers around it; and everything seems to me to bear the stamp of a refined and earnest mind. It stands in the midst of romantic scenery, shadowy pathways, the prettiest little bits of detail and splendid views. Everything has been done with design; nothing by guess, nothing with formality. A soul has here felt, thought, arranged. Within the house there prevails a certain darkness of tone: all the wood-work of the furniture is brown; the daylight even is dusk, yet nevertheless clear, or more properly full of light—a sort of imprisoned sunshine, something warm and deep; it seemed to me like a reflection of the man's own brown eyes. In the forms, the furniture, and the arrangement, prevails the finest taste; everything is noble and quiet, and everything equally comfortable as it is tasteful. The only things which are brilliant in the rooms are the beautiful flowers in lovely vases and baskets. For the rest, there are books, busts, and some pictures. Above small bookcases, in the form of gothic windows, in the walls of Mr. Downing's parlour, stand busts of Linnæus, Franklin, Newton, and
