“Southey certainly is as elegant a writer as any in the kingdom.  But those who would love Southey as well as admire him, must see him, as I did, in the bosom, not only of one lovely family, but of three, all attached to him as a father, and all elegantly maintained and educated, it is generally said, by his indefatigable pen.  The whole of Southey’s conversation and economy, both at home and afield, left an impression of veneration on my mind, which no future contingency shall ever either extinguish or injure.  Both his figure and countenance are imposing, and deep thought is strongly marked in his dark eye; but there is a defect in his eyelids, for these he has no power of raising; so that, when he looks up, he turns up his face, being unable to raise his eyes; and when he looks towards the top of one of his romantic mountains, one would think he was looking at the zenith.  This peculiarity is what will most strike every stranger in the appearance of the accomplished laureate.  He does not at all see well at a distance, which made me several times disposed to get into a passion with him, because he did not admire the scenes which I was pointing out.  We have only exchanged a few casual letters since that period, and I have never seen this great and good man again.”

In the Recollections of Wordsworth we find related the affront which led to Hogg’s caricature of Wordsworth’s style, an offence which shut out the Shepherd from the society of the amiable poet of the Lakes.

“This anecdote has been told and told again, but never truly; and was likewise brought forward in the ‘Noctes Ambrosianae,’ as a joke; but it was no joke; and the plain, simple truth of the matter was thus:—­

It chanced one night, when I was there, that there was a resplendent arch across the zenith from the one horizon to the other, of something like the aurora borealis, but much brighter.  It was a scene that is well remembered, for it struck the country with admiration, as such a phenomenon had never before been witnessed in such perfection; and, as far as I could learn, it had been more brilliant over the mountains and pure waters of Westmoreland than any where else.  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 Ryedale 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’em! it is neither mair nor less than joost a treeumphal airch, raised in honour of the meeting of the poets.’  ’That’s not amiss.—­Eh?