MEMOIR. XXXIX 



sitting in the library, and he had told me his intention of 

 building a little study and working-room, adjoining the 

 house : " but I don't know/' he said, "where or how to 

 connect it with the house." But I was very well convinced 

 that he would arrange it in the best possible manner, and 

 was not surprised when he afterward wrote me that he had 

 made a door through the wall of the library into the new 

 building. This door occupied just the space of one of the 

 book-cases let into the wall, and, by retaining the double 

 doors of the book-case precisely as they were, and putting 

 false books behind the glass of the doors, the appears uce 

 of the library was entirel/ u.mi "em .', wL <le t\e \\ Hole , vp^i- 

 rent book-case, doors and all, swung to and fro, at his will, 

 as a private door. During my next visit at his house, I 

 was sitting very late at night in the library, with a single 

 candle, thinking that every one had long since retired, and 

 having quite forgotten, in the perfectly familiar appearance 

 of the room, that the little change had been made, when 

 suddenly one of the book-cases flew out of the wall, turn- 

 ing upon noiseless hinges, and, out of the perfect darkness 

 behind, Downing darted into the room, while I sat staring 

 like a benighted guest in the Castle of Otranto. The mo- 

 ment, the place, and the circumstance, were entirely har- 

 monious with my impression of the man. 



Thus, although, upon the bright May morning, I had 

 crossed the river to see a man of transparent and simple 

 nature, a lover and poet of rural beauty, a man who had 

 travelled little, who had made his own way into polished 

 and cultivated social relations, as he did into every thing / 

 which he mastered, being altogether a self-made man I / 

 found the courteous and accomplished gentleman, the quiet 

 man of the world, full of tact and easy dignity, in whom it 

 was easy to discover that lover and poet, though not in the 



