ut by the ante-chamber about the time we came through the
corridor.

There would be an impropriety in my relating all that passed in this
interview; but we talked over a matter of business, and then the
conversation was more general. You will remember that Sir Walter was
still the _Unknown_[14] and that he was believed to be in Paris in search
of facts for the Life of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the former
circumstance, he spoke of his works with great frankness and simplicity,
and without the parade of asking any promises of secrecy. In short, as
he commenced in this style, his authorship was alluded to by us both
just as if it had never been called in question. He asked me if I had a
copy of the ---- by me, and on my confessing I did not own a single
volume of anything I had written, he laughed, and said he believed that
most authors had the same feeling on the subject: as for himself, he
cared not if he never saw a Waverley novel again, as long as he lived.
Curious to know whether a writer as great and as practised as he felt
the occasional despondency which invariably attends all my own little
efforts of this nature, I remarked that I found the mere composition of
a tale a source of pleasure, so much so, that I always invented twice as
much as was committed to paper in my walks, or in bed, and in my own
judgment much the best parts of the composition never saw the light; for
what was written was usually written at set hours, and was a good deal a
matter of chance, and that going over and over the same subject in
proofs disgusted me so thoroughly with the book, that I supposed every
one else would be disposed to view it with the same eyes. To this he
answered that he was spared much of the labour of proofreading,
Scotland, he presumed, being better off than America in this respect;
but still be said he "would as soon see his dinner again after a hearty
meal as to read one of his own tales when he was fairly rid of it."

[Footnote 14: He did not avow himself for several months afterwards.]

He sat with me nearly an hour, and he manifested, during the time the
conversation was not tied down to business, a strong propensity to
humour. Having occasion to mention our common publisher in Paris, he
quaintly termed him, with a sort of malicious fun, "our Gosling;"[15]
adding, that he hoped he, at least, "laid golden eggs."

[Footnote 15: His name was Gosselin.]

I hoped that he had found the facilities he desired, in obtai