that I had come thus far to see a poet, and he was chanting poems to me, I saw that he was right and I was wrong, and gladly gave myself up to hear.  He never was in haste to publish; partly because he corrected a good deal....  He preferred such of his poems as touched the affections to any others; for whatever is didactic—­what theories of society, and so on—­might perish quickly, but whatever combined a truth with an affection was good to-day and good for ever” (English Traits, ch. i.).

Wordsworth was far too wise to encourage the pilgrims to turn into abiding sojourners in his chosen land.  Clough has described how, when he was a lad of eighteen (1837), with a mild surprise he heard the venerable poet correct the tendency to exaggerate the importance of flowers and fields, lakes, waterfalls, and scenery.  “People come to the Lakes,” said Wordsworth, “and are charmed with a particular spot, and build a house, and find themselves discontented, forgetting that these things are only the sauce and garnish of life.”

In spite of a certain hardness and stiffness, Wordsworth must have been an admirable companion for anybody capable of true elevation of mind.  The unfortunate Haydon says, with his usual accent of enthusiasm, after a saunter at Hampstead, “Never did any man so beguile the time as Wordsworth.  His purity of heart, his kindness, his soundness of principle, his information, his knowledge, and the intense and eager feelings with which he pours forth all he knows, affect, interest, and enchant one” (Autobiog. i. 298, 384).  The diary of Crabb Robinson, the correspondence of Charles Lamb, the delightful autobiography of Mrs. Fletcher, and much less delightfully the autobiography of Harriet Martineau, all help us to realise by many a trait Wordsworth’s daily walk and conversation.  Of all the glimpses that we get, from these and many other sources, none are more pleasing than those of the intercourse between Wordsworth and Scott.  They were the two manliest and most wholesome men of genius of their time.  They held different theories of poetic art, but their affection and esteem for one another never varied, from the early days when Scott and his young wife visited Wordsworth in his cottage at Grasmere, down to that sorrowful autumn evening (1831) when Wordsworth and his daughter went to Abbotsford to bid farewell to the wondrous potentate, then just about to start on his vain search for new life, followed by “the might of the whole earth’s good wishes.”

Of Wordsworth’s demeanour and physical presence, De Quincey’s account, silly, coxcombical, and vulgar, is the worst; Carlyle’s, as might be expected from his magical gift of portraiture, is the best.  Carlyle cared little for Wordsworth’s poetry, had a real respect for the antique greatness of his devotion to Poverty and Peasanthood, recognised his strong intellectual powers and strong character, but thought him rather dull, bad-tempered, unproductive,