The deference of the latter opinion conveyed in this letter is perhaps one of the most delightful characteristics of the genius of Sir Walter Scott,--especially if we admit the position of the writer in the _Edinburgh Review,_ that no writer has ever enjoyed in his life-time so extensive a popularity as the Author of Waverley. His love of fame and acquisition of honourable distinction all over the world had not the common effect of making him vain. Hear, in proof, the following unassuming declaration, from the delightful autobiographic sketch to a late edition of _Rokeby_:-- "I shall not, I believe, be accused of ever having attempted to usurp a superiority over many men of genius, my contemporaries; but, in point of popularity, not of actual talent, the caprice of the public has certainly given me such a temporary superiority over men, of whom, in regard to poetical fancy and feeling, I scarcely thought myself worthy to loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it would be absurd affectation in me to deny, that I conceived myself to understand more perfectly than many of my contemporaries, the manner most likely to interest the great mass of mankind. Yet, even with this belief, I must truly and fairly say, that I always considered myself rather as one who held the bets, in time to be paid over to the winner, than as having any pretence to keep them in my own right." Mr. Cunningham well observes--"Though the most accomplished author of his day, yet he had none of the airs of authorship." He continues--"He was a proud man; not a proud poet, or historian, or novelist." His was the pride of ancestry--a weakness, to be sure, but of a venial nature: "he loved to be looked on as a gentleman of old family, who _built Abbotsford_, and laid out its garden, and planted its avenues, rather than a genius, whose works influenced mankind, and diffused happiness among millions." His own narrative will best illustrate his labours of leisure at Abbotsford. He writes of that period which men familiarly call _the turn of life_:--"With the satisfaction of having attained the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, I commenced my improvements, as delightful in their progress as those of the child who first makes a dress for a new doll. The nakedness of the land was in time hidden by woodlands of considerable extent--the smallest possible of cottages was progressively expanded into a sort of dream of a mansion-house, whimsical in the exterior, but convenient within. Nor did I forget what was the natural pleasure of every man who has been a reader--I mean the filling the shelves of a tolerably large library. All these objects I kept in view, to be executed as convenience should serve; and although I knew many years should elapse before they could be attained, I was of a disposition to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, 'Time and I against any two.'" * * * * *