It was quite dark when I had been conducted to this cottage the night before, so that I saw the Lake for the first time in the light of early morning.  The first impression was confirmed by every new prospect as we rode along.  The vale seemed a very paradise for its sweet seclusion.  I had been told that after Switzerland, I should find little to attract me in this region, but such was not the case.  Nothing can be more lovely than these lakes and mountains, the latter thickly wooded, and rising directly from the water’s edge.  The foliage is of the darkest green, 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 your gift (the engraving from Inman’s picture), I also noticed.