Wordsworth's children go to visit him at the exhibition, and do not recognize their father. We stroll along among the fading manuscripts under glass and the paintings on the walls, hardly aware of the family resemblance between the time memorialized there and our own. It seems so rural, so picturesque, and slow, with only here and there a suggestion of the modern world to come. Then having paid our respects, we leave and the Age of English Romanticism behind in the public library, step down into the noise of traffic and crowds of shoppers on the sidewalk. We return to our own hurried time-and to a way of life still guided by the Romantic sensibility we have just seen illustrated by relics. A way of life in which the passions and hopes of youth are venerated with the same conviction Wordsworth felt: Bliss it was in that dawn to be