One winter evening, some time after the memorable year of our first
visit to the Forest of Arden, Rosalind and I were planning a return to
that enchanting place, and in the glow of the fire on the hearth were
picturing to ourselves the delights that would be ours again, when the
clang of the knocker suddenly recalled us from our dreams. Hospitably
inclined, as I trust and believe we are, at that moment an interruption
seemed like an intrusion. But our momentary annoyance was speedily
dispelled when the library door opened, and, with the freedom which
belongs to old friendship, the Poet entered unannounced. No one could
have been more welcome on that wintry night than this genial and human
soul, bound to us by many ties of familiar association as well as by
frequent neighbourliness in the woods of Arden. It had happened again
and again that we had found ourselves together in the recesses of the
Forest, and enchanting beyond all speech had been those days and nights
of mingled talk and dreams.
The Poet is one of the friends whose coming is peculiarly welcome
because it always harmonises with the mood of the moment, and no speech
is needed to bring us into agreement. Rosalind took the visitor into
our plan at once, and urged him to go with us on this mysterious
journey; whereupon he told us that, by one of those delightful
coincidences which are always happening to people of kindred tastes and
aims, this very errand had brought him to our door.
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