When Sir Walter Scott was in Paris, he went to the English bookseller’s. None of the clerks knew who he was, so they treated him with ordinary politeness and no more.
When the writer had left, a buyer who had recognized him told them who he was, and they were very much astonished. Cooper, the American novelist, had been there a few days before, but he said who he was, and his looks and manners were so pompous as if he never forgot and never meant others to forget that he was “the American Walter Scott”. The real one never troubled himself about his own importance, for he knew he might safely leave the matter to others.