Adieu, my dear Southey; my best wishes attend all that you do, and my best congratulations every good that attends you—­yea even this, the very least of Providence’s mercies, as a poor clergyman said when pronouncing grace over a herring.  I should like to know how the prince received you; his address is said to be excellent, and his knowledge of literature far from despicable.  What a change of fortune even since the short time when we met!  The great work of retribution is now rolling onward to consummation, yet am I not fully satisfied—­pereat iste—­there will be no permanent peace in Europe till Buonaparte sleeps with the tyrants of old.

TO J.B.S.  MORRITT

A small anonymous sort of a novel

Edinburgh, 9 July, 1814.

MY DEAR MORRITT,

I owe you many apologies for not sooner answering your very entertaining letter upon your Parisian journey.  I heartily wish I had been of your party, for you have seen what I trust will not be seen again in a hurry; since, to enjoy the delight of a restoration, there is a necessity for a previous bouleversement of everything that is valuable in morals and policy which seems to have been the case in France since 1790.  The Duke of Buccleugh told me yesterday of a very good reply of Louis to some of his attendants, who proposed shutting the doors of his apartments to keep out the throng of people.  ’Open the door,’ he said, ’to John Bull; he has suffered a great deal in keeping the door open for me.’

Now, to go from one important subject to another, I must account for my own laziness, which I do by referring you to a small anonymous sort of a novel, in three volumes, Waverley, which you will receive by the mail of this day.  It was a very old attempt of mine to embody some traits of those characters and manners peculiar to Scotland, the last remnants of which vanished during my own youth, so that few or no traces now remain.  I had written great part of the first volume, and sketched other passages, when I mislaid the MS., and only found it by the merest accident as I was rummaging the drawers of an old cabinet; and I took the fancy of finishing it, which I did so fast, that the last two volumes were written in three weeks.  I had a great deal of fun in the accomplishment of this task, though I do not expect that it will be popular in the south, as much of the humour, if there be any, is local, and some of it even professional.  You, however, who are an adopted Scotchman, will find some amusement in it.  It has made a very strong impression here, and the good people of Edinburgh are busied in tracing the author, and in finding out originals for the portraits it contains.  In the first case, they will probably find it difficult to convict the guilty author, although he is far from escaping suspicion.  Jeffrey has offered to make oath that it is mine, and another great critic has tendered his affidavit ex contrario; so that these authorities have divided the Gude Town.  However, the thing has succeeded very well, and is thought highly of.  I don’t know if it has got to London yet.  I intend to maintain my incognito.  Let me know your opinion about it....