"In this place I feel a sort of pleasure, not unallied to pain, from the many recollections that every venerable tree, and every sunny bank, and every honeysuckle bower, occasions; and I have found something here that speaks to me in the voice of a valued friend--_Waverley_. The question that rises, it is perhaps improper to give utterance to. If so, let it pass as an exclamation.--Is it possible that Mr. Erskine can have written it? The poetry, I think, would prove a different descent in any court in Christendom. The turn of the phrases in many places is so peculiarly yours, that I fancy I hear your voice repeating them; and there wants but verse to make all Waverley an enchanting poem--varying to be sure from grave to gay, but with so deepening an interest as to leave an impression on the mind that few--very few poems--could awaken. But, why did not the author allow me to be his Gaelic Dragoman? Oh! Mr. ----, whoever you are, you might have safely trusted--M. M. C." There was one person with whom it would, of course, have been more than vain to affect any concealment. On the publication of the third edition, I find him writing thus to his brother Thomas, who had by this time gone to Canada as paymaster of the 70th regiment:-- DEAR TOM,--A novel here called Waverley has had enormous success. I sent you a copy, and will send you another, with The Lord of the Isles, which will be out at Christmas. The success which it has had, with some other circumstances, has induced people "To lay the bantling at a certain door, Where lying store of faults, they'd fain heap more."[102]