age, to find Mr. Westall's
pictures, which always seem _fac-similes_ of the persons represented,
with ancient costume and a theatrical air. This may be a compliment to
Mr. Westall, but it is not one to Walter Scott. The truth is, there is a
modern air in the midst of the antiquarian research of Mr. Scott's
poetry. It is history or tradition in masquerade. Not only the crust of
old words and images is worn off with time,--the substance is grown
comparatively light and worthless. The forms are old and uncouth; but
the spirit is effeminate and frivolous. This is a deduction from the
praise I have given to his pencil for extreme fidelity, though it has
been no obstacle to its drawing-room success. He has just hit the town
between the romantic and the fashionable; and between the two, secured
all classes of readers on his side. In a word, I conceive that he is to
the great poet, what an excellent mimic is to a great actor. There is no
determinate impression left on the mind by reading his poetry. It has no
results. The reader rises up from the perusal with new images and
associations, but he remains the same man that he was before. A great
mind is one that moulds the minds of others. Mr. Scott has put the
Border Minstrelsy and scattered traditions of the country into easy,
animated verse. But the Notes to his poems are just as entertaining as
the poems themselves, and his poems are only entertaining.

Mr. Wordsworth is the most original poet now living. He is the
reverse of Walter Scott in his defects and excellences. He has nearly
all that the other wants, and wants all that the other possesses. His
poetry is not external, but internal; it does not depend upon tradition,
or story, or old song; he furnishes it from his own mind, and is his own
subject. He is the poet of mere sentiment. Of many of the Lyrical
Ballads, it is not possible to speak in terms of too high praise, such
as Hart-leap Well, the Banks of the Wye, Poor Susan, parts of the
Leech-gatherer, the lines to a Cuckoo, to a Daisy, the Complaint,
several of the Sonnets, and a hundred others of inconceivable beauty, of
perfect originality and pathos. They open a finer and deeper vein of
thought and feeling than any poet in modern times has done, or
attempted. He has produced a deeper impression, and on a smaller circle,
than any other of his contemporaries. His powers have been mistaken by
the age, nor does he exactly understand them himself.