xxxix 



sitting in the liferary, and be had told me Ma intention of 

 building a little study and worMngrroom, 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 he^ possible manner, and 

 was m)t surprised when he afterward Wrote me that he had 

 made a door through the waU. of the Ubrary into the new 

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

 book-cases let into the wall, and, by retaining the, 4oT?.blfi 

 doors of thebook-case precisely as they were, and putting 

 false books behind the glass of the doors, the appearance 

 of the library was entirely unaltered, while the whole appa- 

 rent, book-'case,^ doors and aU, swung to and fro, at his wiH, 

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

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

 candle, thinking that eveiy 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 ohe. of the book-oases flew out of the wall, turn- 

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

 behind, Downiug darted into the room, while 1 sat staring" 

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

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

 ijionious with iny 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 arid, poet of rural beauty, a man who had 

 ■travelled. Kttle, who had piade his own wa.y into ppHshed 

 and cultivated social relations, as he did into evety thing 

 which he rnastered, being altogether a self-made man— I 

 found the courteous and accomphshfed gentleman, the quiet 

 man of the world, foil of tact and easy dignity, in whonj it 

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



