"Come along with me," said she, "come and look by the side of the little stream that runs through the garden." "This girl, after all, can do whatever she likes with me," thought Hamilton, as he rose with affected effort, from the chair which he had just before vowed to himself nothing should induce him to stir from, until it was time to dress for dinner. Away they went to the brook, and found Mr. Neville standing there, looking at the daffodils with all the delight of the poet whose words were on his lips. "I wandered lonely as a cloud, That flits on high, o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of dancing daffodils. Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing near the trees. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line, Along the margin of a bay. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee, A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought What wealth to me the show had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude. And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils." Hamilton was so unused to hear Wordsworth quoted in any other tone than that of ridicule, or absurd parody, that he was amazed to hear his old tutor, whose taste he revered, not more from habit than experience of its correctness, repeat these lines with the enthusiasm of Catherine herself, and conclude them with a panegyric on their author, as having formed a new school in poetry, and finding "Books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in ev'ry thing." * * * * * "Well, sir, what do you think of our daffodils?" said Mr. Neville, pointing to them exultingly, "are they not enough to inspire a poet?" "I am not poet enough to answer the question," said Hamilton, "but I remember the eldest of poets says they make very good salads." "Ah ha!" said Mr. Neville, "I am glad you have not forgotten old Hesiod--but, however, I did not think of getting into Greek when I quoted Wordsworth." "Nor I of hearing anything like common sense spring out of a quotation from him," said Hamilton. "Not but that all he says may be very fine, but I am of another school--I am a Byronian--he is the only man that is read in Town--those Lakeists that go and make faces at themselves on the waveless waters, and then run home to put their reflections upon paper, are quite outvoted now; even the ladies never think of them."