ABSTRACT
277Tuesday, 12th.—I received Walter Scott’s Rokeby. I gazed at it with a transport of impatience, and began reading it in bed. I am already in the first canto:—my soul has glowed with what he justly terms “the art unteachable.” My veins have thrilled; my heart has throbbed; my eyes have filled with tears—during its perusal. The poet who can thus master the passions to do his bidding, must be indeed a poet * .
