He told us that he had known Southey long and well, from
early manhood to old age; for he was only twenty-nine when he came to
Keswick to reside. He had known Wordsworth too, and Coleridge, and
Lovell; and he had seen Southey and Wordsworth walking arm in arm
together in that churchyard. He seemed to revere Southey's memory, and
said that he had been much lamented, and that as many as a hundred people
came to the churchyard when he was buried. He spoke with great praise of
Mrs. Southey, his first wife, telling of her charity to the poor, and how
she was a blessing to the neighborhood; but he said nothing in favor of
the second Mrs. Southey, and only mentioned her selling the library, and
other things, after her husband's death, and going to London. Yet I
think she was probably a good woman, and meets with less than justice
because she took the place of another good woman, and had not time and
opportunity to prove herself as good. As for Southey himself, my idea
is, that few better or more blameless men have ever lived; but he seems
to lack color, passion, warmth, or something that should enable me to
bring him into close relation with myself. The graveyard where his body
lies is not so rural and picturesque as that where Wordsworth is buried;
although Skiddaw rises behind it, and the Greta is murmuring at no very
great distance away. But the spot itself has a somewhat bare and bold
aspect, with no shadow of trees, no shrubbery.
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