this, for a guinea cannot do the work of five; but I will contrive to
make it easier to the sufferers.
_February_ 9. - A stormy morning, lowering and blustering, like our
fortunes. _Mea virtute me involvo._ But I must say to the Muse of
fiction, as the Earl of Pembroke said to the ejected nuns of Wilton, "Go
spin, you jades, go spin!" Perhaps she has no _tow_ on her _rock_.[160]
When I was at Kilkenny last year we went to see a nunnery, but could not
converse with the sisters because they were in strict retreat. I was
delighted with the red-nosed Padre, who showed us the place with a sort
of proud, unctuous humiliation, and apparent dereliction of the world,
that had to me the air of a complete Tartuffe; a strong, sanguine,
square-shouldered son of the Church, whom a Protestant would be apt to
warrant against any sufferings he was like to sustain by privation. My
purpose, however, just now was to talk of the "strict retreat," which
did not prevent the nuns from walking in their little garden, breviary
in hand, peeping at us, and allowing us to peep at them. Well, now, _we_
are in _strict retreat_; and if we had been so last year, instead of
gallivanting to Ireland, this affair might not have befallen - if
literary labour could have prevented it. But who could have suspected
Constable's timbers to have been rotten from the beginning?
Visited the Exhibition on my way home from the Court. The new rooms are
most splendid, and several good pictures. The Institution has subsisted
but five years, and it is astonishing how much superior the worst of the
present collection are to the teaboard-looking things which first
appeared. John Thomson, of Duddingston, has far the finest picture in
the Exhibition, of a large size - subject _Dunluce_, a ruinous castle of
the Antrim family, near the Giant's Causeway, with one of those terrible
seas and skies which only Thomson can paint. Found Scrope there
improving a picture of his own, an Italian scene in Calabria. He is, I
think, greatly improved, and one of the very best amateur painters I
ever saw - Sir George Beaumont scarcely excepted. Yet, hang it, _I do_
except Sir George.
I would not write to-day after I came home. I will not say could not,
for it is not true; but I was lazy; felt the desire _far niente_, which
is the sign of one's mind being at ease. I read _The English in
Italy_,[161] which is a clever book.
Byron used to kick and frisk more contemptuously against the literary
gravity and slang than any one I ever knew who had climbed so high.
Then, it is true, I never knew any one climb so high; and before you
despise the eminence, carrying people along with you, as convinced that
you are not playing the fox and the grapes, you must be at the top.
Moore told me some delightful stories of him. One was that while they
stood at the window of Byron's Palazzo in Venice, looking at a beautiful
sunset, Moore was naturally led to say something of its beauty, when
Byron answered in a tone that I can easily conceive, "Oh! come, d - n me,
Tom, don't be poetical." Another time, standing with Moore on the
balcony of the same Palazzo, a gondola passed with two English
gentlemen, who were easily distinguished by their appearance. They cast
a careless look at the balcony and went on. Byron crossed his arms, and
half stooping over the balcony said, "Ah! d - n ye, if ye had known what
two fellows you were staring at, you would have taken a longer look at
us." This was the man, quaint, capricious, and playful, with all his
immense genius. He wrote from impulse, never from effort; and therefore
I have always reckoned Burns and Byron the most genuine poetical
geniuses of my time, and half a century before me. We have, however,
many men of high poetical talent, but none, I think, of that
ever-gushing and perennial fountain of natural water.
Mr. Laidlaw dined with us. Says Mr. Gibson told him he would dispose of
my affairs, were it any but S.W.S.[162] No doubt, so should I, and am
wellnigh doing so at any rate. But, _fortuna juvante!_ much may be
achieved. At worst, the prospect is not very discouraging to one who
wants little. Methinks I have been like Burns's poor labourer,
"So constantly in Ruin's sight,
The view o't gives me little fright."
_[Edinburgh,] February_ 10. - Went through, for a new day, the task of
buttoning, which seems to me somehow to fill up more of my morning than
usual - not, certainly, that such is really the case, but that my mind
attends to the process, having so little left to hope or fear. The half
hour between waking and rising has all my life proved propitious to any
task which was exercising my invention.[163] When I get over any knotty
difficulty in a story, or have had in former times to fill up a passage
in a poem, it was always when I first opened my eyes that the desired
ideas thronged upon me. This is so much the case that I am in the habit
of relying upon it, and saying to myself, when I am at a loss, "Never
mind, we shall have it at seven o'clock to-morrow morning." If I have
forgot a circumstance, or a name, or a copy of verses, it is the same
thing. There is a passage about this sort of matutinal inspiration in
the Odyssey,[164] which would make a handsome figure here if I could
read or write Greek. I will look into Pope for it, who, ten to one, will
not tell me the real translation. I think the first hour of the morning
is also favourable to the bodily strength. Among other feats, when I was
a young man, I was able at times to lift a smith's anvil with one hand,
by what is called the _horn_, or projecting piece of iron on which
things are beaten to turn them round. But I could only do this before
breakfast, and shortly after rising. It required my full strength,
undiminished by the least exertion, and those who choose to try it will
find the feat no easy one. This morning I had some good ideas respecting
_Woodstock_ which will make the story better. The devil of a difficulty
is, that one puzzles the skein in order to excite curiosity, and then
cannot disentangle it for the satisfaction of the prying fiend they have
raised. A letter from Sir James Mackintosh of condolence, prettily
expressed, and which may be sung to the old tune of "Welcome, welcome,
brother Debtor." A brother son of chivalry dismounted by mischance is
sure to excite the compassion of one laid on the arena before him.
Yesterday I had an anecdote from old Sir James Steuart Denham,[165]
which is worth writing down. His uncle, Lord Elcho, was, as is well
known, engaged in the affair of 1745. He was dissatisfied with the
conduct of matters from beginning to end. But after the left wing of the
Highlanders was repulsed and broken at Culloden, Elcho rode up to the
Chevalier and told him all was lost, and that nothing remained except to
charge at the head of two thousand men, who were still unbroken, and
either turn the fate of the day or die sword in hand, as became his
pretensions. The Chevalier gave him some evasive answer, and, turning
his horse's head, rode off the field. Lord Elcho called after him (I
write the very words), "There you go for a damned cowardly Italian," and
never would see him again, though he lost his property and remained an
exile in the cause. Lord Elcho left two copies of his memoirs, one with
Sir James Steuart's family, one with Lord Wemyss. This is better
evidence than the romance of Chevalier Johnstone; and I have little
doubt it is true. Yet it is no proof of the Prince's cowardice, though
it shows him to have been no John of Gaunt. Princes are constantly
surrounded with people who hold up their own _life_ and _safety_ to them
as by far the most important stake in any contest; and this is a
doctrine in which conviction is easily received. Such an eminent person
finds everybody's advice, save here and there that of a desperate Elcho,
recommend obedience to the natural instinct of self-preservation, which
very often men of inferior situations find it difficult to combat, when
all the world are crying to them to get on and be damned, instead of
encouraging them to run away. At Prestonpans the Chevalier offered to
lead the van, and he was with the second line, which, during that brief
affair, followed the first very close. Johnstone's own account,
carefully read, brings him within a pistol-shot of the first line. At
the same time, Charles Edward had not a head or heart for great things,
notwithstanding his daring adventure; and the Irish officers, by whom he
was guided, were poor creatures. Lord George Murray was the soul of the
undertaking.[166]
_February 11_. - Court sat till half-past one. I had but a trifle to do,
so wrote letters to Mrs. Maclean Clephane and nephew Walter. Sent the
last, £40 in addition to £240 sent on the 6th, making his full equipment
£280. A man, calling himself Charles Gray of Carse, wrote to me,
expressing sympathy for my misfortunes, and offering me half the profits
of what, if I understand him right, is a patent medicine, to which I
suppose he expects me to stand trumpeter. He endeavours to get over my
objections to accepting his liberality (supposing me to entertain them)
by assuring me his conduct is founded on a _sage selfishness_. This is
diverting enough. I suppose the Commissioners of, Police will next send
me a letter of condolence, begging my acceptance of a broom, a shovel,
and a scavenger's greatcoat, and assuring me that they had appointed me
to all the emoluments of a well-frequented crossing. It would be doing
more than they have done of late for the cleanliness of the streets,
which, witness my shoes, are in a piteous pickle. I thanked the selfish
sage with due decorum - for what purpose can anger serve? I remember once
before, a mad woman, from about Alnwick, baited me with letters and
plans - first for charity to herself or some _protégé_. I gave my guinea.
Then she wanted to have half the profit of a novel which I was to
publish under my name and auspices. She sent me the manuscript, and a
_moving_ tale it was, for some of the scenes lay in the _cabinet Ã
l'eau._ I declined the partnership. Lastly, my fair correspondent
insisted I was a lover of speculation, and would be much profited by
going shares in a patent medicine which she had invented for the benefit
of little babies, I believe. I dreaded to have anything to do with such
a Herod-like affair, and begged to decline the honour of her
correspondence in future. I should have thought the thing a quiz, but
that the novel was real and substantial. Anne goes to Ravelston to-day
to remain to-morrow. Sir Alexander Don called, and we had a good laugh
together.
_February_ 12. - Having ended the second volume of _Woodstock_ last
night, I have to begin the third this morning. Now I have not the
slightest idea how the story is to be wound up to a catastrophe. I am
just in the same case as I used to be when I lost myself in former days
in some country to which I was a stranger. I always pushed for the
pleasantest road, and either found or made it the nearest. It is the
same in writing, I never could lay down a plan - or, having laid it down,
I never could adhere to it; the action of composition always diluted
some passages, and abridged or omitted others; and personages were
rendered important or insignificant, not according to their agency in
the original conception of the plan, but according to the success, or
otherwise, with which I was able to bring them out. I only tried to make
that which I was actually writing diverting and interesting, leaving the
rest to fate. I have been often amused with the critics distinguishing
some passages as particularly laboured, when the pen passed over the
whole as fast as it could move, and the eye never again saw them, except
in proof. Verse I write twice, and sometimes three times over. This may
be called in Spanish the _Dar donde diere_ mode of composition, in
English _hab nab at a venture_; it is a perilous style, I grant, but I
cannot help it. When I chain my mind to ideas which are purely
imaginative - for argument is a different thing - it seems to me that the
sun leaves the landscape, that I think away the whole vivacity and
spirit of my original conception, and that the results are cold, tame,
and spiritless. It is the difference between a written oration and one
bursting from the unpremeditated exertions of the speaker, which have
always something the air of enthusiasm and inspiration. I would not have
young authors imitate my carelessness, however; _consilium non currum
eape_.
Read a few pages of Will D'Avenant, who was fond of having it supposed
that Shakespeare intrigued with his mother. I think the pretension can
only be treated as Phaeton's was, according to Fielding's farce -
"Besides, by all the village boys I'm shamed,
You, the sun's son, you rascal? - you be damn'd."
Egad - I'll put that into _Woodstock_.[167] It might come well from the
old admirer of Shakespeare. Then Fielding's lines were not written. What
then? - it is an anachronism for some sly rogue to detect. Besides, it is
easy to swear they were written, and that Fielding adopted them from
tradition. Walked with Skene on the Calton Hill.
_February_ 13. - The Institution for the Encouragment of the Fine Arts
opens to-day, with a handsome entertainment in the Exhibition-room, as
at Somerset House. It strikes me that the direction given by amateurs
and professors to their _protégés_ and pupils, who aspire to be artists,
is upon a pedantic and false principle. All the Fine Arts have it for
their highest and more legitimate end and purpose, to affect the human
passions, or smooth and alleviate for a time the more unquiet feelings
of the mind - to excite wonder, or terror, or pleasure, or emotion of
some kind or other. It often happens that, in the very rise and origin
of these arts, as in the instance of Homer, the principal object is
obtained in a degree not equalled by his successors. But there is a
degree of execution which, in more refined times, the poet or musician
begins to study, which gives a value of its own to their productions of
a different kind from the rude strength of their predecessors. Poetry
becomes complicated in its rules - music learned in its cadences and
harmonies - rhetoric subtle in its periods. There is more given to the
labour of executing - less attained by the effect produced. Still the
nobler and popular end of these arts is not forgotten; and if we have
some productions too learned, too _recherchés_ for public feeling, we
have, every now and then, music that electrifies a whole assembly,
eloquence which shakes the forum, and poetry which carries men up to the
third heaven. But in painting it is different; it is all become a
mystery, the secret of which is lodged in a few connoisseurs, whose
object is not to praise the works of such painters as produce effect on
mankind at large, but to class them according to their proficiency in
the inferior rules of the art, which, though most necessary to be taught
and learned, should yet only be considered as the _Gradus ad
Parnassum_ - the steps by which the higher and ultimate object of a great
popular effect is to be attained. They have all embraced the very style
of criticism which induced Michael Angelo to call some Pope a poor
creature, when, turning his attention from the general effect of a noble
statue, his Holiness began to criticise the hem of the robe. This seems
to me the cause of the decay of this delightful art, especially in
history, its noblest branch. As I speak to myself, I may say that a
painting should, to be excellent, have something to say to the mind of a
man, like myself, well-educated, and susceptible of those feelings which
anything strongly recalling natural emotion is likely to inspire. But
how seldom do I see anything that moves me much! Wilkie, the far more
than Teniers of Scotland, certainly gave many new ideas. So does Will
Allan, though overwhelmed with their rebukes about colouring and
grouping, against which they are not willing to place his general and
original merits. Landseer's dogs were the most magnificent things I ever
saw - leaping, and bounding, and grinning on the canvas. Leslie has great
powers; and the scenes from Moliere by [Newton] are excellent. Yet
painting wants a regenerator - some one who will sweep the cobwebs out of
his head before he takes the palette, as Chantrey has done in the sister
art. At present we are painting pictures from the ancients, as authors
in the days of Louis Quatorze wrote epic poems according to the recipe
of Madame Dacier and Co. The poor reader or spectator has no remedy; the
compositions are _secundum artem_, and if he does not like them, he is
no judge - that's all.
_February 14_ - I had a call from Glengarry[168] yesterday, as kind and
friendly as usual. This gentleman is a kind of Quixote in our age,
having retained, in their full extent, the whole feelings of clanship
and chieftainship, elsewhere so long abandoned. He seems to have lived a
century too late, and to exist, in a state of complete law and order,
like a Glengarry of old, whose will was law to his sept. Warmhearted,
generous, friendly, he is beloved by those who know him, and his efforts
are unceasing to show kindness to those of his clan who are disposed
fully to admit his pretensions. To dispute them is to incur his
resentment, which has sometimes broken out in acts of violence which
have brought him into collision with the law. To me he is a treasure, as
being full of information as to the history of his own clan, and the
manners and customs of the Highlanders in general. Strong, active, and
muscular, he follows the chase of the deer for days and nights together,
sleeping in his plaid when darkness overtakes him in the forest. He was
fortunate in marrying a daughter of Sir William Forbes, who, by yielding
to his peculiar ideas in general, possesses much deserved influence with
him. The number of his singular exploits would fill a volume[169]; for,
as his pretensions are high, and not always willingly yielded to, he is
every now and then giving rise to some rumour. He is, on many of these
occasions, as much sinned against as sinning; for men, knowing his
temper, sometimes provoke him, conscious that Glengarry, from his
character for violence, will always be put in the wrong by the public. I
have seen him behave in a very manly manner when thus tempted. He has of
late prosecuted a quarrel, ridiculous enough in the present day, to have
himself admitted and recognised as Chief of the whole Clan Ranald, or
surname of Macdonald. The truth seems to be, that the present Clanranald
is not descended from a legitimate Chieftain of the tribe; for, having
accomplished a revolution in the sixteenth century, they adopted a
Tanist, or Captain - that is, a Chief not in the direct line of
succession, a certain Ian Moidart, or John of Moidart, who took the
title of Captain of Clanranald, with all the powers of Chief, and even
Glengarry's ancestor recognised them as chiefs _de facto_ if not _de
jure_. The fact is, that this elective power was, in cases of insanity,
imbecility, or the like, exercised by the Celtic tribes; and though Ian
Moidart was no chief by birth, yet by election he became so, and
transmitted his power to his descendants, as would King William III., if
he had had any. So it is absurd to set up the _jus sanguinis_ now, which
Glengarry's ancestors did not, or could not, make good, when it was a
right worth combating for. I wrought out my full task yesterday.
Saw Cadell as I returned from the Court. He seems dejected, apprehensive
of another trustee being preferred to Cowan, and gloomy about the extent
of stock of novels, etc., on hand. He infected me with his want of
spirits, and I almost wish my wife had not asked Mr. Scrope and Charles
K. Sharpe for this day. But the former sent such loads of game that Lady
Scott's gratitude became ungovernable. I have not seen a creature at
dinner since the direful 17th January, except my own family and Mr.
Laidlaw. The love of solitude increases by indulgence; I hope it will
not diverge into misanthropy. It does not mend the matter that this is
the first day that a ticket for sale is on my house. Poor No. 39.[170]
One gets accustomed even to stone walls, and the place suited me very
well. All our furniture, too, is to go - a hundred little articles that
seemed to me connected with all the happier years of my life. It is a
sorry business. But _sursum corda_.
My two friends came as expected, also Missie, and stayed till half-past
ten. Promised Sharpe the set of Piranesi's views in the dining-parlour.
They belonged to my uncle, so I do not like to sell them.[171]
_February_ 15. - Yesterday I did not write a line of _Woodstock_. Partly,
I was a little out of spirits, though that would not have hindered.
Partly, I wanted to wait for some new ideas - a sort of collecting of
straw to make bricks of. Partly, I was a little too far beyond the
press. I cannot pull well in long traces, when the draught is too far
behind me. I love to have the press thumping, clattering, and banging in
my rear; it creates the necessity which almost always makes me work
best. Needs must when the devil drives - and drive he does even according
to the letter. I must work to-day, however. Attended a meeting of the
Faculty about our new library. I spoke - saying that I hoped we would now
at length act upon a general plan, and look forward to commencing upon
such a scale as would secure us at least for a century against the petty
and partial management, which we have hitherto thought sufficient, of
fitting up one room after another. Disconnected and distant, these have
been costing large sums of money from time to time, all now thrown away.
We are now to have space enough for a very large range of buildings,
which we may execute in a simple taste, leaving Government to ornament
them if they shall think proper - otherwise, to be plain, modest, and
handsome, and capable of being executed by degrees, and in such
portions as convenience may admit of.
Poor James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, came to advise with me about his
affairs, - he is sinking under the times; having no assistance to give
him, my advice, I fear, will be of little service. I am sorry for him if
that would help him, especially as, by his own account, a couple of
hundred pounds would carry him on.
_February_ 16. - -"Misfortune's gowling bark"[172] comes louder and
louder. By assigning my whole property to trustees for behoof of
creditors, with two works in progress and nigh publication, and with all
my future literary labours, I conceived I was bringing into the field a
large fund of payment, which could not exist without my exertions, and
that thus far I was entitled to a corresponding degree of indulgence. I
therefore supposed, on selling this house, and various other property,
and on receiving the price of _Woodstock_ and _Napoleon_, that they
would give me leisure to make other exertions, and be content with the
rents of Abbotsford, without attempting a sale. This would have been the
more reasonable, as the very printing of these works must amount to a
large sum, of which they will reap the profits. In the course of this
delay I supposed I was to have the chance of getting some insight both
into Constable's affairs and those of Hurst and Robinson. Nay, employing
these houses, under precautions, to sell the works, the publisher's
profit would have come in to pay part of their debts. But Gibson last
night came in after dinner, and gave me to understand that the Bank of
Scotland see this in a different point of view, and consider my
contribution of the produce of past, present, and future labours, as
compensated in full by their accepting of the trust-deed, instead of
pursuing the mode of sequestration, and placing me in the _Gazette_.
They therefore expected the trustees instantly to commence a law-suit
to reduce the marriage settlement, which settles the estate upon Walter,
thus loading me with a most expensive suit, and, I suppose, selling
library and whatever they can lay hold on.
Now this seems unequal measure, and would besides of itself totally
destroy any power of fancy or genius, if it deserves the name, which may
remain to me. A man cannot write in the House of Correction; and this
species of _peine forte et dure_ which is threatened would render it
impossible for one to help himself or others. So I told Gibson I had my
mind made up as far back as the 24th of January, not to suffer myself to
be harder pressed than law would press me. If this great commercial
company, through whose hands I have directed so many thousands, think