The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. 327
or in any other assembly of Scotsmen, can never be received, not, he would
say, with ordinary feelings of pleasure or of delight, but with those of rapture or enthusiasm. In doing so he felt that he stood in a somewhat new
situation. Whoever had been called upon to propose the health of his lion.
Friend to whom he alluded, some time ago, would have found himself
enabled, from the mystery in which certain matters were involved, to
gratify himself and his auditors by allusions which found a responding
chord in their own feelings, and to deal in the language, the sincere language, of panegyric, without intruding on the modesty of the great individual to whom he referred. But it was no longer possible, consistently with
the respect to one's auditors, to use upon this subject terms either of mystification, or of obscure or indirect allusion. The clouds have been dispelled
-the darkness visible has been cleared away -and the Great Unknownthe minstrel of our native land-the mighty magician who has rolled back
the current of time, and conjured up before our living senses the men and
the manners of days which have long passed away, stands revealed to the
hearts and the eyes of his affectionate and admiring countrymen. If he
himself were capable of imagining all that belonged to this mighty subject
-were he even able to give utterance to all that, as a friend, as a man, and
as a Scotsman, he mudst feel regarding it; yet knowing, as he well did, that
this illustrious individual was not more distinguished for his towering
talents, than for those feelings which rendered such allusions ungrateful to
himself, however sparingly introduced, he would, on that account, still refrain from doing that which would otherwise be no less pleasing to him
than to his audience. But this, his Lordship hoped, he would be allowed to
say, (his auditors would not pardon him were he to say less,) we owe to
him, as a people, a large and heavy debt of gratitude. He it is who has
opened to foreigners the grand and characteristic beauties of our country.
It is to him that we owe that our gallant ancestors, and the struggles of our
illustrious patriots,-who fought and bled in order to obtain and secure that
independence and that liberty we now enjoy, - have obtained a fame no
longer confined to the boundaries of a remote and comparatively obscure
nation, and who has called down upon their struggles for glory and freedom
the admiration of foreign countries. He it is who has conferred a new reputation on our national character, and bestowed on Scotland an imperishable name, were it only by her having given birth to himself. (Loud and
rapturous applause.)
Sir WALTER SCOTT certainly did not think that, in coming here to-day, he
would have the task of acknowledging, before three hundred gentlemen, a
secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than twenty
people, had been remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his
country, and might be understood to be on trial before Lord Meadowbank
as an offender; yet he was sure that every impartial jury would bring in a
verdict of Not Proven. He did not now think it necessary to enter into the
reasons of his long silence. Perhaps caprice might have a considerable
share in it. He had now to say, however, that the merits of these works,
if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (Long
and loud cheering.) He was afraid to think on what he had done- " look
on't again I dare not." He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he knew
that it would be reported to the public. He meant, then, seriously to state,
that when he said he was the author, he was the total and undivided author.
With the exception of quotations, there was not a single word that was not
derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand
was now broken, and the book buried. You will allow me farther to say,
with Prospero, it is your breath that has filled my sails, and to crave one
single toast in the capacity of the author of these novels; and he would
dedicate a bumper to the health of one who has represented some of those
characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree