That day is passed: even the critical world returns to its
first fancies. In the words of Carlyle, a great balance-striker of
literary fame, speaking in 1838: "It were late in the day to write
criticisms on those metrical romances; at the same time, the great
popularity they had seems natural enough. In the first place, there was
the indisputable impress of worth, of genuine human force in them ...
Pictures were actually painted and presented; human emotions conceived and
sympathized with. Considering that wretched Dellacruscan and other
vamping up of wornout tattlers was the staple article then, it may be
granted that Scott's excellence was superior and supreme." Without
preferring any claim to epic grandeur, or to a rank among the few great
poets of the first class, Scott is entitled to the highest eminence in
minstrelic power. He is the great modern troubadour. His descriptions of
nature are simple and exquisite. There is nothing in this respect more
beautiful than the opening of _The Lady of the Lake_.
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