Above the writers I have discussed so far, indeed above all the writers of his era, towers the figure of Walter Scott. His enormous stature, as measured by the student of sales, is, of course, of a peculiar sort. It combines with his reduced presence in the current canon to make up a confusing image; an image that at once commands respect and provokes critique. His accomplishment remains, I think, almost unparalleled, even in our era of smash hits and giant blockbusters. In the first thirty years of the nineteenth century, he published roughly thirty popular books: books whose sale was markedly profitable for those involved. This number does not include the ten or so books that either were not terribly successful or which were designed for a small audience. As far as I know, no one ever lost money publishing a book written by Walter Scott.

Scott's only possible rival is Byron, whose poetry eclipsed Scott's, and whose commercial stature is imposing. Not, I think, equally imposing, as Byron would have been the first to admit. Byron's whole career fits neatly within the middle-to-late period of Scott's. When Byron eclipsed him in the poetry market, Scott simply wrote novels instead; and when Byron expired, romantically, on the fields of Greece, Scott remained to mourn him, and to write successfully after him. He was, as Carlyle said, a markedly healthy man, perhaps the healthiest poet that ever lived.