What I Remember, Volume 2 | Page 6

and humble worshippers.
The evening, I think I may say the entire evening, was occupied by a
monologue addressed by the poet to my mother, who was of course
extremely well pleased to listen to it. I was chiefly occupied in talking
to my old schoolfellow, Herbert Hill, Southey's nephew, who also
passed the evening there, and with whom I had a delightful walk the
next day. But I did listen with much pleasure when Wordsworth recited
his own lines descriptive of Little Langdale. He gave them really
exquisitely. But his manner in conversation was not impressive. He sat
continuously looking down with a green shade over his eyes even
though it was twilight; and his mode of speech and delivery suggested
to me the epithet "maundering," though I was ashamed of myself for
the thought with reference to such a man. As we came away I
cross-examined my mother much as to the subjects of his talk. She said
it had been all about himself and his works, and that she had been
interested. But I could not extract from her a word that had passed
worth recording.
I do not think that he was popular with his neighbours generally. There
were stories current, at Lowther among other places, which imputed to
him a tendency to outstay his welcome when invited to visit in a house.
I suspect there was a little bit of a feud between him and my
brother-in-law, Mr. Tilley, who was the Post Office surveyor of the
district. Wordsworth as receiver of taxes, or issuer of licenses or
whatever it was, would have increased the profits of his place if the

mail coach had paid its dues, whether for taxes or license, at his end of
the journey instead of at Kendal, as had been the practice. But of course
any such change would have been as much to the detriment of the man
at Kendal as to Wordsworth's advantage. And my brother-in-law,
thinking such a change unjust, would not permit it.
I cannot say that on the whole the impression made on me by the poet
on that occasion (always with the notable exception of his recital of his
own poetry) was a pleasant one. There was something in the manner in
which he almost perfunctorily, as it seemed, uttered his long
monologue, that suggested the idea of the performance of a part got up
to order, and repeated without much modification as often as
lion-hunters, duly authorised for the sport in those localities, might call
upon him for it. I dare say the case is analogous to that of the hero and
the valet, but such was my impression.
CHAPTER II.
I had been for some time past, as has been said, trying my hand, not
without success, at a great variety of articles in all sorts of reviews,
magazines, and newspapers. I already considered myself a member of
the guild of professional writers. I had done much business with
publishers on behalf of my mother, and some for other persons, and
talked glibly of copyrights, editions, and tokens.
(I fancy, by the by, that the latter term has somewhat fallen out of use
in these latter days, whether from any change of the methods used by
printers or publishers I do not know. But it strikes me that many
youngsters, even of the scribbling tribe, may not know that the phrase
"a token" had no connection whatever with signs and wonders of any
sort, but simply meant two hundred and fifty copies.)
And being thus equipped, I began to think that it was time that I should
attempt a book. During a previous hurried scamper in Normandy I had
just a glimpse of Brittany, which greatly excited my desire to see more
of it. So I pitched on a tour in Brittany as the subject of my first
attempt.

Those were happy days, when all the habitable globe had not been run
over by thousands of tourists, hundreds of whom are desirous of
describing their doings in print--not but that the notion, whether a
publisher's or writer's notion, that new ground is needed for the
production of a good and amusing book of travels, is other than a great
mistake. I forget what proposing author it was, who in answer to a
publisher urging the fact that "a dozen writers have told us all about so
and so," replied, "But I have not told you what I have seen and thought
about it." But if I had been the publisher I should at once have asked to
see his MS. The days when a capital book may be written on a voyage
autour de ma chambre are as present as ever they were. And "A
Summer Afternoon's Walk to Highgate" might be the subject