, giving to the lake in which it is reflected the same sombre hue.
It seemed the fittest dwelling-place for a Poet, amid all this quiet
beauty.

It was half-past one when we reached Ambleside, where I left Mr. and
Mrs. B., and walked on alone to Rydal Mount. I was full of eager
expectations as I thought how soon I should, perhaps, be in the presence
of Wordsworth--that after long years of waiting, of distant reverential
admiration and love, I was, as I hoped, to be favoured with a personal
interview with the great poet-philosopher, to whom you and I, and so
many, many others, feel that we are under the deepest obligation for the
good which has come to us from his writings. At two o'clock I was at the
wicket gate opening into Wordsworth's grounds. I walked along the gravel
pathway, leading through shrubbery to the open space in front of the
long two-story cottage, the Poet's dwelling. Your sketch of the house by
Inman is a correct one, but it gives no idea of the view _from_ it,
which is its chief charm. Rydal Mere with its islands, and the mountains
beyond it, are all in sight. I had but a hasty enjoyment of this beauty;
nor could I notice carefully the flowers which were blooming around. It
was evident that the greatest attention had been paid to the grounds,
for the flower-beds were tastefully arranged, and the gravel walks were
in complete order. One might be well content, I thought, to make his
abode at a spot like this.

A boy of about twelve years was occupied at one of the flower-beds, as I
passed by; he followed me to the door, and waited my commands. I asked
if Mr. Wordsworth was in.... He was dining--would I walk into the
drawing-room, and wait a short time?... I was shown into the
drawing-room, or study, I know not which to call it.... Here I am, I
said to myself, in the great Poet's house. Here his daily life is spent.
Here in this room, doubtless, much of his poetry has been written--words
of power which are to go down with those of Shakspeare, and Spenser, and
Milton, while our English tongue endures. It was a long apartment, the
ceiling low, with two windows at one end, looking out on the lawn and
shrubbery. Many engravings were on the walls. The famous Madonna of
Raphael, known as that of the Dresden Gallery, hung directly over the
fire-place. Inman's portrait of the Poet, your gift to Mrs. Wordsworth,
being a copy of the one painted for you, had a conspicuous place. The
portrait of Bishop White, also y