ABSTRACT
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 fiftythree 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 . . . we returned to dinner, which was very simple, for, though he has an office under the government and a patrimony besides, yet each is inconsiderable . . .
