Part 6 (2/2)
”And here ended the writer's chat with perhaps the most popular author of the day. Mr. Roe is extremely retiring in disposition; he never courts notoriety, but always strictly avoids it whenever possible. And with his large black slouched hat set carelessly on his head a stranger would more readily mistake him for a Cuban planter, with his dark complexion, than the author of the novels which have entered into thousands of American homes.”
”Cornwall is situated on the western bank of the Hudson, just north of the Highlands. If you arrive by steamer you find an energetic crowd of 'bus men, who are eager to be of service to you. Most of the vehicles have four horses attached, which seem to tell of a hill in the neighborhood. We pa.s.sed Cornwall several times by boat, and saw enough of the energy of the hackmen to make us resolve to reach the place some time when they were absent. Consequently we sailed down on Cornwall as General Wolfe sailed down on Quebec--in a small boat, and captured the place easily.
”As we walked up the rickety steps that lead from the water to the wharf, there was no deputation there to meet us.
”'Now the first thing,' said my companion, 'is to find out where Mr. Roe lives.'
”'No, that's the second thing,' I replied. 'The first thing is to find out where we are to get supper.'
”The reasonableness of this proposal was so apparent that further remark was not so necessary as finding a hotel well stocked with provisions.
”We found it in the shape of an unpretentious brick structure at the foot of the hill. By the way, everything is at the foot of the hill at Cornwall Landing. The landlady, who was the pink of neatness, promised us all we could eat on our return, although if she had known my talents in that line she would have hesitated. I noticed that she referred to 'Mr. Roe, the author,' while our fellow voyager in the small boat spoke of him as 'the strawberry man.' Probably the boor who relished the production of Mr. Roe's garden would have been surprised to know that the productions of his pen were even more sought after than that delicious fruit.
”But evening is coming on and we have a long hill before us, so we must proceed. A Cornwall road is always either going up or down, and a person gets great opportunities for rising in the world as he turns his back on the Hudson and climbs to Cornwall. The road winds up the hill, often shaded by trees and always accompanied by a mountain torrent whose rocky bed lies deep beside the pathway. This stream lacks only one thing to make it a success--and that is water. No doubt after a heavy rain it would show commendable enterprise, but now the rocks were dry. A thin thread of clear spring water trickled along the bottom of the ravine, now forming a silvery-toned waterfall, then losing itself among the loose rocks, next finding itself again, and sometimes making the mistake which humanity often makes, of spreading itself too much and trying to put on the airs of larger streams.
”Half-way up is a spring, surrounded by benches, welcome to the pedestrian who finds tramping uphill business. The clear, cold water pours out, and an iron dipper, like Prometheus 'chained to a pillar,' invites the thirsty to have a drink. The benches form a semicircle around this fountain, and on the backs thereof some one has painted in large letters the legend 'Please don't cut an old friend.' But 'excelsior' is our motto, and we climb. When we reach the top of the mountain we part company with the rivulet, thinking, with perhaps a sigh, what a vast advantage water has over people--it always goes down hill. Cornwall now begins to show its beauties. It seems to be a big village composed of splendid residences and elegant family hotels--or rather huge summer boarding-houses. Excellent roads run in all directions, up and down, turning now to the right and now to the left, until a stranger loses all idea of the points of the compa.s.s.
”About a mile from the landing, if you are in a carriage, or about five miles if you are on foot, you come to an open gateway, through which a road turns that might be mistaken for one of the many offshoots of the public street, were it not that a notice conspicuously posted up informs the traveller that the way is private property. A cottage, probably a gardener's residence, stands beside the gate. The land slopes gently downward from the road and then rises beyond, leaving a wide valley between the street and a large two-story frame building that stands on the rising ground. This is the home of E. P. Roe, author of 'Barriers Burned Away,' 'Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' 'From Jest to Earnest,'
and other well-known works, read and enjoyed by thousands in America and in England. Between the house and the road are long rows of strawberry plants that looked tempting even in September.
The house stands in about the centre of a plot of twenty-three acres. The side is toward the road, and a broad piazza runs along the length of it, from which glimpses of the distant Hudson can be had through the framework of trees and hills. The piazza is reached by broad steps, and is high enough from the ground to make a grand tumbling-off place for the numerous jovial and robust youngsters that romp around there and call Mr. Roe 'papa.' A wide hall runs through the centre of the house, and the whole dwelling has a roomy air that reminds one of the generous and hospitable mansions for which the South is famous. Mr. Roe's house is without any attempt at architectural ornamentation, unless the roof window in the centre can be called an ornament; but there is something very homelike about the place, something that is far beyond the powers of architecture to supply.
”My fellow-traveller sat down in one of the rural chairs that stood invitingly on the piazza, and I manipulated the door-bell.
”While the servant is coming to open the door I may as well confess that I have undertaken to write the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out.
”Mr. Roe was not at home.
”I tell this now so that the reader will not be disappointed when the girl opens the door.
”The door opens.
”Could we see Mr. Roe?
”Mr. Roe had left that very morning for New York.
”'He evidently heard in some way we were coming,' said my companion, _sotto voce_.
”When would he return?
”Perhaps not this week. Would we walk in and see Mrs. Roe?
”The next thing to seeing an author is to see the author's wife, so we accepted the invitation and walked into the parlor. Before we walked out we came to the conclusion that the next thing to seeing the author's wife is to see the author.
”Now, of course, I might have taken an inventory of the articles in the parlor, just as if I were a deputy sheriff, or a tax collector, or something of that sort, but I didn't. I might tell of the piano that stood in one corner and the pile of music that reached from the floor to the top of it, and of the little table covered with stereoscopic views, and the photograph of Mr. Roe framed above it, and of the two low front windows with their river view and their lace curtains, and the large folding-doors opening into the library, the workshop of Mr. Roe, and of the quiet, neutral tints of the carpet, or the many contents of the whatnot in the corner, and the paintings and engravings on the walls, and the comfortable easy-chairs, and the books scattered here and there, and of dozens of other things that made up an author's parlor, but I will not mention one of them.
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