time, I felt some alarm that I might acquire those habits of jealousy
and fretfulness which have lessened, and even degraded, the character
even of great authors, and rendered them, by their petty squabbles and
mutual irritability, the laughing-stock of the people of the world.
I resolved, therefore, in this respect to guard my breast--perhaps an
unfriendly critic may add, my brow--with triple brass, [Not altogether
impossible, when it is considered that I have been at the bar since
1792. (Aug. 1831.)] and as much as possible to avoid resting my thoughts
and wishes upon literary success, lest I should endanger my own peace of
mind and tranquillity by literary failure. It would argue either stupid
apathy or ridiculous affectation to say that I have been insensible to
the public applause, when I have been honoured with its testimonies;
and still more highly do I prize the invaluable friendships which
some temporary popularity has enabled me to form among those of my
contemporaries most distinguished by talents and genius, and which I
venture to hope now rest upon a basis more firm than the circumstances
which gave rise to them. Yet, feeling all these advantages as a man
ought to do, and must do, I may say, with truth and confidence, that I
have, I think, tasted of the intoxicating cup with moderation, and
that I have never, either in conversation or correspondence, encouraged
discussions respecting my own literary pursuits. On the contrary, I
have usually found such topics, even when introduced from motives most
flattering to myself, Rather embarrassing and disagreeable.

I have now frankly told my motives for concealment, so far as I am
conscious of having any, and the public will forgive the egotism of the
detail, as what is necessarily connected with it. The author, so long
and loudly called for, has appeared on the stage, and made his obeisance
to the audience. Thus far his conduct is a mark of respect. To linger in
their presence would be intrusion.

I have only to repeat that I avow myself in print, as formerly in words,
the sole and unassisted author of all the Novels published as works of
"The Author of Waverley." I do this without shame, for I am unconscious
that there is any thing in their composition which deserves reproach,
either on the score of religion or morality; and without any feeling of
exultation, because, whatever may have been their temporary success,
I am well aware how much their reputation depen