Chronicles of the Canongate | Page 9

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 depends upon the
caprice of fashion; and I have already mentioned the precarious tenure
by which it is held, as a reason for displaying no great avidity in
grasping at the possession.
I ought to mention, before concluding, that twenty persons, at least,
were, either from intimacy, or from the confidence which
circumstances rendered necessary, participant of this secret; and as
there was no instance, to my knowledge, of any one of the number
breaking faith, I am the more obliged to them, because the slight and
trivial character of the mystery was not qualified to inspire much

respect in those entrusted with it. Nevertheless, like Jack the
Giant-Killer, I was fully confident in the advantage of my "Coat of
Darkness;" and had it not been from compulsory circumstances, I
would have, indeed, been very cautious how I parted with it.
As for the work which follows, it was meditated, and in part printed,
long before the avowal of the novels took place, and originally
commenced with a declaration that it was neither to have introduction
nor preface of any kind. This long proem, prefixed to a work intended
not to have any, may, however, serve to show how human purposes in
the most trifling, as well as the most important affairs, are liable to be
controlled by the course of events. Thus we begin to cross a strong
river with our eyes and our resolution fixed on that point of the
opposite shore on which we purpose to land; but gradually giving way
to the torrent, are glad, by the aid perhaps of branch or bush, to
extricate ourselves at some distant and perhaps dangerous
landing-place, much farther down the stream than that on which we had
fixed our intentions.
Hoping that the Courteous Reader will afford to a known and familiar
acquaintance some portion of the favour which he extended to a
disguised candidate for his applause, I beg leave to subscribe myself his
obliged humble servant,
WALTER SCOTT.
ABBOTSFORD, OCTOBER 1, 1827.
*
Such was the little narrative which I thought proper to put forth in
October 1827; nor have I much to add to it now. About to appear for
the first time in my own name in this department of letters, it occurred
to me that something in the shape of a periodical publication might
carry with it a certain air of novelty, and I was willing to break, if I may
so express it, the abruptness