The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 178

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

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.


What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path?

_Chamberlayne's Pharronida._

LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now
lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has
been already too much an object for the scorn--for the horror--for the
detestation of my

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