-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