He walked out into the entry with me, and then asked me to go again into the dining-room, to look at an oak chest or cabinet he had there—­a piece of old furniture curiously carved.  It bore a Latin inscription, which stated that it was made 300 years ago, for William Wordsworth, who was the son of, &c. &c. giving the ancestors of said William for many generations, and ending, ‘on whose souls may God have mercy.’  This Wordsworth repeated twice, and in an emphatic way, as he read the inscription.  It seemed to me that he took comfort in the religious spirit of his ancestors, and that he was also adopting the solemn ejaculation for himself.  There was something very impressive in his manner.

I asked to see the cast from Chantrey’s bust of him, which he at once showed me; also a crayon sketch by Haydon, which, I understood him to say, West had pronounced the finest crayon he had ever seen.  He referred also to another sketch, by Margaret Gillies, I think, which was there.

We then went out together on the lawn, and stood for a while to enjoy the views, and he pulled open the shrubbery or hedge in places, that I might see to better advantage.  He accompanied me to the gate, and then said if I had a few minutes longer to spare he would like to show me the waterfall which was close by—­the lower fall of Rydal.  I gladly assented, and he led the way across the grounds of Lady Fleming, which were opposite to his own, to a small summer-house.  The moment we opened the door, the waterfall was before us; the summer-house being so placed as to occupy the exact spot from which it was to be seen; the rocks and shrubbery around closing it in on every side.  The effect was magical.  The view from the rustic house, the rocky basin into which the water fell, and the deep shade in which the whole was enveloped, made it a lovely scene.  Wordsworth seemed to have much pleasure in exhibiting this beautiful retreat; it is described in one of his earlier poems, ’The Evening Walk.’

As we returned together he walked very slowly, occasionally stopping when he said anything of importance; and again I noticed that looking into remote space of which I have already spoken.  His eyes, though not glistening, had yet in them the fire which betokened the greatness of his genius.  This no painter could represent, and this it was which gave to his countenance its high intellectual expression.

* * * * *

Hartley Coleridge he spoke of with affection....  ’There is a single line,’ he added, ’in one of his father’s poems which I consider explains the after-life of the son.  He is speaking of his own confinement in London, and then says,

    “But thou, my child, shalt wander like a breeze.”

* * * * *

Of Southey he said that he had had the misfortune to outlive his faculties.  His mind, he thought, had been weakened by long watching by the sick-bed of his wife, who had lingered for years in a very distressing state.