“Waverley,” the first of a series of novels unsurpassed for power, picturesqueness, and variety, as well as healthy sentiment and morality, was published anonymously in three volumes on the 7th July 1814. This edition of 1000 copies was sold within five weeks. A second of 2000 followed immediately, and a third and fourth, each of 1000, appeared in October and November of the same year. The mystery in which the author had chosen to shroud himself, and the high literary character of the work, had meanwhile given rise to an intensity of interest and speculation hitherto unparalleled in the history of literature. Scott was pressed by his few friends who were in the secret to own the authorship, and take to himself the laurels which were being freely handed about. He steadfastly refused, and wrote the following humorous reply to one of John Ballantyne’s expostulations:— “No, John, I will not own the book— I won’t, you _Picaroon_! When next I try St. Grubby’s brook, The A. of Wa—— shall bait the hook, And flat-fish bite as soon, As if before them they had got The worn-out _wriggler_—Walter Scott.” About 40,000 copies of “Waverley” were sold previous to the publication of the first uniform edition of the novels, with introductions and notes by the author, in 1829. “The Lord of the Isles,” which Scott alludes to as closing his poetic labours upon an extended scale, appeared on the 18th January 1815. This poem, the title of which was originally intended to be “The Nameless Glen,” was received with perhaps less favour than former ones. Regarding “The Lord of the Isles,” James Ballantyne had a somewhat delicate task to perform, of which he left the following account: “‘Well, James,’ said Scott to his printer, ‘I have given you a week; what are people saying about “The Lord of the Isles”?’ I hesitated a little, after the fashion of Gil Blas, but he speedily brought the matter to a point. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘speak out, my good fellow; what has put it into your head to be on so much ceremony _with me_ all of a sudden? But I see how it is, the result is given in one word—Disappointment!’ My silence admitted his inference to the fullest extent. His countenance certainly did look rather blank for a few seconds; in truth, he had been wholly unprepared for the event; for it is a singular fact that, before the public, or rather the booksellers, gave their decision, he no more knew whether he had written well or ill, than whether a die thrown out of a box was to turn up a ‘size’ or an ace. However, he instantly resumed his spirits, and expressed his wonder rather that his poetic popularity should have lasted so long, than that it should now at last have given way. At length he said, with perfect cheerfulness: ‘Well, well, James, so be it;—but, you know, we must not droop, for we can’t afford to give over. Since one line has failed, we must just stick to something else,’ and so he dismissed me, and resumed his novel.”