"Oh," said he, "quite fair; besides, there is not much
subject for criticism in this hasty sketch. The reviewers call it a
_falling off_; but I am sure there is no poet living who could have
written so many good lines on so meagre a subject, in so short a time.
Scott," he added, "is a fine poet, and a most amiable man. We are
great friends. As a prose writer, he has no rival; and has not been
approached since Cervantes, in depicting manners. His tales are my
constant companions. It is highly absurd his denying, what every one
that knows him believes, his being the author of these admirable
works. Yet no man is obliged to give his name to the public, except he
chooses so to do; and Scott is not likely to be compelled by the law,
for he does not write libels, nor a line of which he may be ashamed."
He said a great deal more in praise of his friend, for whom he had the
highest respect and regard. "I wish," added the poet, with feeling,
"it had been my good fortune to have had such a Mentor. No author," he
observed, "had deserved more from the public, or has been so liberally
rewarded. Poor Milton got only 15_l._ for his 'Paradise Lost,' while
a modern poet has as much for a stanza.
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