MEMOIR. XXX111 



scape could not be owned, but belonged to every one who 

 could appropriate it. The thicket seemed not only to con- 

 ceal, but to annihilate, the town. So sequestered and sat- 

 isfied was the guest of that garden, that he was quite care- 

 less and incurious of the world beyond. I have often 

 passed a week there without wishing to go outside the 

 gate, and entirely forgot that there was any town near by. 

 Sometimes, at sunset or twilight, we stepped into a light 

 wagon, and turning up the hill, as we came out of the 

 grounds, left Newburgh below, and drove along roads hang- , 

 ing over the river, or, passing Washington's Head Quar- 

 ters, trotted leisurely along the shore. 



Within his house it was easy to understand that the 

 home was so much the subject of his thought. Why did 

 he wish that the landscape should be lovely, and the houses 

 graceful and beautiful, and the fruit fine, and the flowers 

 perfect, but because these were all dependencies and orna- <' 

 ments of home, and home was the sanctuary of the high- 

 est human affection. This was the point of departure of 

 his philosophy. Nature must serve man. The landscape 

 must be made a picture in the gallery of love. Home was 

 the pivot upon which turned all bis theories of rural art. 

 All his efforts, all the grasp of genius, and the cunning of 

 talent, were to complete, in a perfect home, the apotheosis 

 of love. It is in this fact that the permanence of his in- 

 fluence is rooted. His works are not the result of elegant 

 taste, and generous cultivation, and a clear intellect, only ; 

 but of a noble hope that inspired taste, cultivation, and 

 intellect. This saved him as an author from being wrecked 

 upon formulas. He was strictly scientific, few men in his 

 department more so ; but he was never rigidly academical. 

 He always discerned the thing signified through the ex- 

 pression ; and, in his own art, insisted that if there was 

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