Those who visit Idlewild today and note the miles of gravel walk sweeping where the vista that opens is most beautiful: the rare trees brought from many lands--the acres of lawn, smooth as velvet--the profusion of flowers that meets one at every turn--the luxurious mansion crowned to its eaves with blossoms and vines, can hardly realize the wild grandeur of the scene that appealed to the poet soul of N. P. Willis, and drew from the owner, Mr. Daniel Ward, the question, "What do you want with such an idle wild?" An unbroken woodland lying about the bank of the river, whose romantic beauty was as yet unappreciated; bisected by a dark ravine at the bottom of which ran a brook only revealed by the music of its waters and thrown into spray by huge boulders obstructing its course. Pines, hemlocks and forest trees centuries old sprang towards the sunlight but at their base grew impenetrable underbrush. The name has become a household word not only among our own people, but in the lands beyond the sea, and thousands of readers followed with delight every step that was taken to change the scene from barbarism to civilization. "A letter from Idlewild" was published every week in the _Home Journal_ of which Willis and George P. Morris were editors. While still a boy in college the publication of his Scriptural poems attracted much attention. These were followed by "Pencilings by the Way," a brilliant record of a trip through Europe. In 1851 he was sent to Cornwall by his physician in hopes of prolonging his life. He was threatened with consumption and had already been warned by the danger signal of several hemorrhages. The medicine prescribed was rest, nourishment and every hour possible spent out of doors. He boarded with a gentle Quaker lady, Mrs. Southerland, over whose home the dove of Peace was brooding. Slowly but sometimes almost imperceptibly came returning strength, but to make it permanent he must remain here and so came the purchase of a home. The Civil War brought financial reverses, for a majority of his subscribers were in The South, but he turned again to work in order to recoup some of his losses, but his health again broke down and he died on his 60th birthday, 1867, in the home he loved so well. Mr. Willis was twice married--first to a sweet-faced English girl, who only lived for a few years. His second wife was Miss Cornelia Grinnell, daughter of one of our merchant princes. She sold the estate, which passed into the hands of Judge George, a gentleman of culture and refined taste, who carried out many of the improvements planned by his predecessor. He sold it to the late Mr. Courtney, who was then President of the West Shore Railroad. After Mr. Courtney's death it passed into the hands of Mr. Charles Curie, the present owner.