iewer
has failed to do sufficient justice to the beauties which redeem the
imperfections of The Lord of the Isles--except as regards the whole
character of Bruce, its real hero, and the picture of the battle of
Bannockburn, which, now that one can compare these works from
something like the same point of view, does not appear to me in the
slightest particular inferior to the Flodden of Marmion.

This poem is now, I believe, about as popular as Rokeby; but it has
never reached the same station in general favor with the Lay, Marmion,
or The Lady of the Lake. The first edition of 1800 copies in quarto
was, however, rapidly disposed of, and the separate editions in 8vo,
which ensued before his poetical works were collected, amounted
together to 12,250 copies. This, in the case of almost any other
author, would have been splendid success; but as compared with what he
had previously experienced, even in his Rokeby, and still more so as
compared with the enormous circulation at once attained by Lord
Byron's early tales, which were then following each other in almost
breathless succession, the falling off was decided. One evening, some
days after the poem had been published, Scott requested James
Ballantyne to call on him, and the printer found him alone in his
library, working at the third volume of Guy Mannering. I give what
follows from Ballantyne's Memoranda:--

"'Well, James,' he said, '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 {p.022} 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, had given
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 poetical
popularity should have lasted so long, than that it should
have now at la