is persuaded that if men are to become better and wiser, the poems will sooner or later make their way.-ROBINSON, HENRY CRABB, 1812, Diary, May 8; Diary, Reminiscences and Correspondence, vol. 1, p.245.

Wordsworth's residence and mine are fifteen miles asunder-a sufficient distance to preclude any frequent interchange of visits. I have known him nearly twenty years, and for about half that time intimately. The strength and the character of his mind you see in "The Excursion;" and his life does not belie his writings, for in every relation of life, and every point of view, he is a truly exemplary and admirable man. In conversation he is powerful beyond any of his cotemporaries; and as a poet-I speak not from the partiality of friendship, nor because we have been so absurdly held up as both writing upon one concerted system of poetry, but with the most deliberate exercise of impartial judgment whereof I am capable, when I declare my full conviction that posterity will rank him with Milton.-SOUTHEY, ROBERT, 1814, Letter to Bernard Barton, Dec. 19; Life and Correspondence, ed. C. C. Southey.

There seemed to me, in his first appearance, something grave almost to austerity, and the deep tones of his voice added strength to that impression of him. There was not visible about him the same easy and disengaged air that so immediately charmed me in Southey-his mind seemed to require an effort to awaken itself thoroughly from some brooding train of thought, and his manner, as I felt at least, at first reluctantly relaxed into blandness. and urbanity. The features of Wordsworth's face are strong and high, almost harsh and severe--and his eyes have, when he is silent, a dim, thoughtful, I had nearly said melancholy expressionso that when a smile takes possession of his countenance, it is indeed the most powerful smile I ever saw. . . . Never saw I a countenance in which Contemplation so reigns. His brow is very loftyand his dark brown hair seems worn away, as it were, by thought, so thinly is it spread over his temples. The colour of his face is almost sallow; but it is not the sallow ness of confinement or ill-health, it speaks rather of the rude and boisterous greeting of the mountain-weather.-LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON, 1819, Letters from the Lakes, Blackwood's Magazine. vol. 4, pp. 739, 740.

An extremely pleasant drive of sixteen. miles brought me to Wordsworth's door, on a little elevation, commanding a view of Rydal water.

It is claimed to be the most beautiful spot and the finest prospect in the lake country, and, even if there be finer, it would be an ungrateful thing to remember them here, where, if anywhere, the eye and the heart ought to be satisfied. Wordsworth knew from Southey that I was coming, and therefore met me at the door and received me heartily. He is about fifty-three or four, with a tall, ample, well-proportioned frame, a grave and tranquil manner, a Roman cast of appearance, and Roman dignity and simplicity. He presented me to his wife, a good, very plain woman, who seems to regard him with reverence and affection, and to his sister, not much younger than himself, with a good deal of spirit and, I should think, more than common talent and knowledge. I was at home with them at once, and we went out like friends together to scramble up the mountains, and enjoy the prospects and scenery. His conversation surprised me by being so different from all I had anticipated. It was exceedingly simple, strictly confined to subjects he understood familiarly, and more marked by plain good-sense than by anything else. When, however, he came upon poetry and reviews, he was the Khan of Tartary again, and talked as metaphysically and extravagantly as ever Coleridge wrote; but excepting this, it was really a consolation to hear him. It was best of

all, though, to see how he is loved and respected in his family and neighborhood.

The peasantry treated him with marked respect, the children took off their hats to him, and a poor widow in the neighborhood sent to him to come and talk to her son, who had been behaving ill.— TICKNOR, GEORGE, 1819, Journal, March 21; Life, Letters and Journals, vol. I, p. 287.

Coming to a brotherhood of firs, a gate opens into the grounds of the Poet. The house is hung with climbing shrubs, which flower around the windows, and twist themselves together, in a mass upon the roof. We knocked at the glass door, through which I saw the Poet pass, mentioned our name to the servant, and were shown into a parlour by Mrs. Wordsworth,—a lady

past the prime of womanhood, dressed in a purple silk pelisse, and straw bonnet. We seated ourselves on a sofa, and expected the appearance of him whose name had been held up to so much ridicule and praise, by the two poetical factions, in the republic of letters. He came loosely carelessly dressed, in white pantaloons and a short coat; his bosom open, a countenance dark and furrowed, a hawk's nose, very similar to Southey's, and drooping eyes, which seemed weak, as a green shade was lying on the table. I apologized for our intrusion, ascribing it to the desire we had of seeing the author of a work, to which we had owed many hours of pleasing and of elevated thought. He set us immediately at ease, entering directly into affable conversation on the Lakes, the birds which frequent them, the plants peculiar to them, the season favourable for visiting them and then on streams, woods, waters, mountains, clouds, fields, torrents, and all that constitute the elements of poetry. He remarked that the lapse of a river seen gleaming at a distance, harmonized with the heaven, which seemed to come down and blend with it in light and colour. Wordsworth, in appearance and conversation, has nothing of that love of puerile simplicity, which is seen in his earlier writings. There is, on the contrary, a manly sense and vigour of conception, joined with much frankness and facility of manner.-WIFFEN, BROTHERS, 1819, Memoirs and Miscellanies, ed. Samuel Bowles Pattison.

Wordsworth came at half-past eight, and stopped to breakfast. Talked a good deal. Spoke of Byron's plagiarisms from him; the whole third canto of "Childe Harold" founded on his style and sentiments. The feeling of natural objects which is there expressed, not caught by B. from nature herself, but from him (Wordsworth), and spoiled in the transmission; "Tintern Abbey" the source of it all, from which same poem, too, the celebrated passage about Solitude, in the first canto of "Childe Harold," is (he said) taken, with this difference, that what is naturally expressed by him has been worked by Byron into a laboured and antithetical sort of declamation. -MOORE, THOMAS, 1820, Journal, Oct. 27; Memoirs, Journal and Correspondence, ed. Russell.

Mr. Wordsworth, in his person, is above

He

the middle size, with marked features, and an air somewhat stately and Quixotic. reminds one of some of Holbein's heads, grave, saturnine, with a slight indication of sly humour, kept under by the manners of the age or by the pretensions of the person. He has a peculiar sweetness in his smile, and great depth and manliness and a rugged harmony, in the tones of his voice. His manner of reading his own poetry is particularly imposing; and in his favourite passages his eye beams with preternatural lustre, and the meaning labours slowly up from his swelling breast. No one who has seen him at these moments could go away with an impression that he was a "man of no mark or likelihood." Perhaps the comment of his face and voice is necessary to convey a full idea of his poetry. His language may not be intelligible, but his manner is not to be mistaken. It is clear that he is either mad or inspired. -HAZLITT, WILLIAM, 1825, The Spirit of the Age, p. 129.

More than all the "Excursion" and the Platonic Ode is developed in his domelike forehead. And his manner and conversation are full of the pleasant playful sincerity and kindness which are so observable in his works. The utter absence of pretension in all he says and looks is very striking. He does not say many things to be remembered; and most of his observations are chiefly noticeable for their delicate taste, strong good sense, and stout healthy diction, rather than for imagery or condensed principles of philosophy. You see in him the repose or the sport, but neither the harlequinade, nor the conflict of genius. I believe he has long turned the corner of life; and yet there is not about him the slightest tendency to be wearied or disgusted with human nature, or to be indifferent toward the common little objects, occurrences, and people round him. All his daily fireside companionable sympathies are as sensitive and good-humoured as ever.-STERLING, JOHN, 1828, Letters.

I must say I never saw any manifestation of small jealousy between Coleridge and Wordsworth; which . . . I thought uncommonly to the credit of both. I am sure they entertained a thorough respect for each other's intellectual endowments. Wordsworth was a single-minded man with less imagination than Coleridge,

but with a more harmonious judgment, and better balanced principles. Coleridge, conscious of his transcendent powers, rioted in a licence of tongue which no man could tame. Wordsworth, though he could discourse most eloquent music, was never unwilling to sit still in Coleridge's presence, yet could be as happy in prattling with a child as in communing with a sage. If Wordsworth condescended to converse with me, he spoke to me as if I were his equal in mind, and made me pleased and proud in consequence. If Coleridge held me by the button, for lack of fitter audience, he had a talent for making me feel his wisdom and my own stupidity; so that I was miserable and humiliated by the sense of it.-YOUNG, CHARLES MAYNE, 1828, Journal, July 6; Memoir by Julian Charles Young.

I enjoyed the snatches I was able to have of Wordsworth's conversation, and 1 think I had quite as much as was good for me. He has a good philosophical bust, a long, thin, gaunt face, much wrinkled and weatherbeaten: of the Curwen style of figure and face, but with a more cheerful and benevolent expression.-EDGEWORTH, MARIA, 1829, To Mrs. Ruxton, Sept. 27; Letters, vol. II, p. 167.

I am just come home from breakfasting with Henry Taylor to meet Wordsworth; the same party as when he had Southey Mill, Elliot, Charles Villiers. Wordsworth

may be bordering on sixty; hard-featured, brown, wrinkled, with prominent teeth and a few scattered gray hairs, but nevertheless not a disagreeable countenance.GREVILLE, C. F., 1831, Memoirs, Feb. 25th.

Well, when word came into the room of the splendid meteor, we all went out to view it; and, on the beautiful platform at Mount Rydale, we were all walking, in twos and threes, arm-in-arm, talking of the phenomenon, and admiring it. Now, be it remembered, that Wordsworth, Professor Wilson, Lloyd, De Quincey, and myself, were present, besides several other literary gentlemen, whose names I am not certain that I remember aright. Miss Wordsworth's arm was in mine, and she was expressing some fears that the splendid stranger might prove ominous, when I, by ill luck, blundered out the following remark, thinking that. I was saying a good thing:-"Hout, me'm it is neither mair nor less than joost a treeumphal airch,

raised in honour of the meeting of the poets." poets." "That's not amiss-eh? eh?that's very good," said the Professor, laughing. But Wordsworth, who had De Quincey's arm, gave a grunt, and turned on his heel, and leading the little opiumchewer aside, he addressed him in these disdainful and venomous words:-"Poets? poets? What does the fellow mean? Where are they?" Who could forgive this? For my part I never can, and never will! I admire Wordsworth; as who does not, whatever they may pretend? but for that short sentence I have a lingering illwill at him which I cannot get rid of. It is surely presumption in any man to circumscribe all human excellence within the narrow sphere of his own capacity. The "Where are they?" was too bad! I have always some hopes that De Quincey was leeing, for I did not myself hear Wordsworth utter the words.-HOGG, JAMES, 1832, Autobiography.

North. How placid and profound the expression of the whole bard! The face is Miltonic-even to the very eyes;-for though, thank Heaven, they are not blind, there is a dimness about the orbs.

The

temples I remember shaded with thin hair of an indescribable color, that in the sunlight seemed a kind of mild auburn—but now they are bare-and-nothing to break it the height is majestic. No furrowsno wrinkles on that contemplative forehead-the sky is without a cloud"The image of a poet's soul,

How calm! how tranquil! how serene!" It faintly smiles. There is light and motion round the lips, as if they were about to discourse "most eloquent music."WILSON, JOHN, 1832, Noctes Ambrosianæ, Nov.

After a while he (Professor Wilson) digressed to Wordsworth and Southey, and asked me if I was going to return by the Lakes. I proposed doing so. "I will give you letters to both, if you haven't them. I lived a long time in that neighborhood, and know Wordsworth perhaps as well as any one. Many a day I have walked over the hills with him, and listened to his repetition of his own poetry."

...

. . "Did Wordsworth repeat any other poetry than his own?" "Never in a single instance to my knowledge. He is remarkable for the manner in which he is wrapped up in his own poetical life." "Was

the story true that was told in the papers of his seeing, for the first time, in a large company some new novel of Scott's, in which there was a motto taken from his works; and that he went immediately to the shelf and took down one of his 'own volumes and read the whole poem to the party, who were waiting for a reading of the new book?" "Perfectly true. It happened in this very house."--WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER, 1835, Pencilings by the Way.

I went up to Oxford to the Commemoration, for the first time for twenty-one years, to see Wordsworth and Bunsen receive their degrees; and to me, remembering how old Coleridge inoculated a little knot of us with the love of Wordsworth, when his name was in general a byword, it was striking to witness the thunders of applause, repeated over and over again, with which he was greeted in the theatre by Undergraduates and Masters of Arts alike. -ARNOLD, THOMAS, 1839, To Rev. G. Cornish, July 6; Life and Correspondence, ed. Stanley, vol. II, p. 146.

Encouraged by the great inducement of seeing Mr. Bunsen and Mr. Wordsworth receive their honorary degrees at Oxford, my husband was tempted to go from Rugby to the Oxford Commemoration, and Jane and I were delighted to accompany him, though it could only be accomplished by getting up before day, and returning at night after all the excitement and fatigue of the theatre. But it was well worth while. Mr. Bunsen was received exceedingly well, and was I should suppose remarkably well-known for a foreigner; but the thundering applause, from all quarters, when the name of Wordsworth was heard, and his venerable form was seen advancing in the procession, I cannot at all describe. It was really delightful to see such a tribute to such a man. was the public voice for once harmoniously joining to pay homage to goodness, and to talent, consistently employed in promoting the real happiness of his fellowcreatures. To us who know him so intimately, and the true humility and simplicity of his character, it was very affecting and delightful, and I shall always rejoice that I was there.-ARNOLD, MRS. THOMAS, 1839, Letter to Miss Trevenen, July.

It

He was, upon the whole, not a well made

man. His legs were pointedly condemned by all female connoisseurs in legs; not that they were bad in any way which would force itself upon your notice-there was no absolute deformity about them; and undoubtedly they had been serviceable legs. beyond the average standard of human requisition; for I calculate, upon good data, that with these identical legs Wordsworth must have traversed a distance of 175,000 to 180,000 English miles-a mode of exertion which, to him, stood in the stead of alcohol and all other stimulants whatsoever be the animal spirits; to which, indeed, he was indebted for a life of unclouded happiness, and we for much of what is most excellent in his writings. But, useful as they have proved themselves, the Wordsworthian legs were certainly not ornamental; and it was really a pity, as I agreed with a lady in thinking, that he has not another pair for evening dress parties. I do not conceive that Wordsworth could have been an amiable boy; he was austere and unsocial, I have reason to think, in his habits; not generous; and not self-denying. I am pretty certain that no consideration would ever have induced Wordsworth to burden himself

with a lady's reticule, parasol, shawl, or anything exacting trouble and attention. Mighty must be the danger which would induce him to lead her horse by the bridle. Nor would he, without some demur, stop to offer his hand over a stile. Freedomunlimited, careless, insolent freedom-unoccupied possession of his own arms-absolute control over his own legs and motions these have always been so essential to his comfort, that, in any case where they were likely to become questionable, he would have declined to make one of the party. DEQUINCEY, THOMAS, 1839-54, The Lake Poets: William Wordsworth, Works, ed. Masson, vol. II, pp. 242, 262.

Gurney Hoare brought us the good news that William Wordsworth was staying at old Mrs. Hoare's; so thither he took us. He is a man of middle height and not of very striking appearance; the lower part of the face retreating a little; his eye of a somewhat French diplomatic character, with heavy eyelids, and none of the flashing which one connects with poetic genius. When speaking earnestly, his manner and voice become extremely energetic; and the peculiar emphasis, and even accent,