of life, would doubtless have
operated upon me. My friendships were formed, - my place in society fixed, - my
life had attained its middle course. My condition in society was higher perhaps
than I deserved, certainly as high as I wished, and there was scarce any degree
of literary success which could have greatly altered or improved my personal
condition.
    I was not, therefore, touched by the spur of ambition, usually stimulating
on such occasions; and yet I ought to stand exculpated from the charge of
ungracious or unbecoming indifference to public applause. I did not the less
feel gratitude for the public favour, although I did not proclaim it, - as the
lover who wears his mistress's favour in his bosom, is as proud, though not so
vain of possessing it, as another who displays the token of her grace upon his
bonnet. Far from such an ungracious state of mind, I have seldom felt more
satisfaction than when, returning from a pleasure voyage, I found Waverley in
the zenith of popularity, and public curiosity in full cry after the name of the
author. The knowledge that I had the public approbation, was like having the
property of a hidden treasure, not less gratifying to the owner than if all the
world knew that it was his own. Another advantage was connected with the secrecy
which I observed. I could appear, or retreat from the stage at pleasure, without
attracting any personal notice or attention, other than what might be founded on
suspicion only. In my own person also, as a successful author in another
department of literature, I might have been charged with too frequent intrusions
on the public patience; but the Author of Waverley was in this respect as
impassable to the critic, as the Ghost of Hamlet to the partisan of Marcellus.
Perhaps the curiosity of the public, irritated by the existence of a secret, and
kept afloat by the discussions which took place on the subject from time to
time, went a good way to maintain an unabated interest in these frequent
publications. There was a mystery concerning the author, which each new novel
was expected to assist in unravelling, although it might in other respects rank
lower than its predecessors.
    I may perhaps be thought guilty of affectation, should I allege as one
reason of my silence, a secret dislike to enter on personal discussions
concerning my own literary labours. It is in every case a dangerous intercourse
for an author to be dwelling continually among those who make his writings a
frequent and familiar subject of conversation, but who must necessarily be
partial judges of works composed in their own society.