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.'"

* * * * *

*** In the preceding account we have purposely abstained from
reference to the position of the affairs of Sir Walter Scott, from our
inability to obtain any decisive information on the subject. The most
pleasing and the latest intelligence will be found in the _Morning