On his journeys, whether on foot or on a stage-coach, he was in the habit of spending much of his time in reading. The most attractive scenery had to share his attention with a book. He said, "I could have no pleasure at the sea-side without society. That is the one great want of my life, or rather the second,—the first being books." In a Christmas visit to Rydal, for a month or five weeks, he would read from ten to twenty volumes of such works as those of Arnold, Whately, and Isaac Taylor. Nor was he one of those who think they have read a work when they have only skimmed through it, and made themselves acquainted with its general contents. Sometimes he gives, in the Diary, an account of what he read, and there is a large bundle of separate papers, containing abstracts of books, plots of stories, and critical remarks.
In his case, however, there was no danger of becoming so absorbed in literature as to lose his interest in men. He was eminently social. But he liked to have to do with persons who had some individuality. It was an affliction to him to be obliged to spend several hours with one of those colourless beings, who have no opinions, tastes, or principles of their own. Writing from Germany to his brother, he said, "I love characters extremely." The words, "He is a character," are frequently the prelude to an interesting personal description. Of one whom he knew, he says, "All his conversation is ostentatious egotism; and yet it is preferable to the dry talk about the weather, which some men torment me with. The revelations of character are always interesting." This interest in
