than those of the intercourse between Wordsworth and Scott. They were
the two manliest and most wholesome men of genius of their time. They
held different theories of poetic art, but their affection and esteem
for one another never varied, from the early days when Scott and his
young wife visited Wordsworth in his cottage at Grasmere, down to that
sorrowful autumn evening (1831) when Wordsworth and his daughter went
to Abbotsford to bid farewell to the wondrous potentate, then just
about to start on his vain search for new life, followed by "the might
of the whole earth's good wishes."

Of Wordsworth's demeanour and physical presence, De Quincey's account,
silly, coxcombical, and vulgar, is the worst; Carlyle's, as might be
expected from his magical gift of portraiture, is the best. Carlyle
cared little for Wordsworth's poetry, had a real respect for the
antique greatness of his devotion to Poverty and Peasanthood,
recognised his strong intellectual powers and strong character, but
thought him rather dull, bad-tempered, unproductive, and almost
wearisome, and found his divine reflections and unfathomabilities
stinted, scanty, uncertain, palish. From these and many other
disparagements, one gladly passes to the picture of the poet as he was
in the flesh at a breakfast-party given by Henry Taylor, at a
tavern in St. James's Street, in 1840. The subject of the talk was
Literature, its laws, practices, and observances:--"He talked well in
his way; with veracity, easy brevity and force; as a wise tradesman
would of his tools and workshop, and as no unwise one could. His voice
was good, frank, and sonorous, though practically clear, distinct,
and forcible, rather than melodious; the tone of him business-like,
sedately confident; no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being
courteous: a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his mountain breezes,
sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all he said and did. You