"I added, 'But what do you think, Scott, of the bits of flaming paper
that are pasted on the flanks of the poor jades? If we could but stick
certain small documents on your back, and set fire to them, I think you
might submit for a time to the pricking of the spur.' He laughed, and
said, 'Ay! Ay! - these weary bills, if they were but as the thing that is
not - come, cheer me up with an account of the Roman Carnival.' And,
accordingly, with my endeavour to do so, he seemed as much interested as
if nothing had happened to discompose the usual tenor of his mind, but
still our conversation ever and anon dropt back into the same subject,
in the course of which he said to me, 'Do you know I experience a sort
of determined pleasure in confronting the very worst aspect of this
sudden reverse, - in standing, as it were, in the breach that has
overthrown my fortunes, and saying, Here I stand, at least an honest
man. And God knows, if I have enemies, this I may at least with truth
say, that I have never wittingly given cause of enmity in the whole
course of my life, for even the burnings of political hate seemed to
find nothing in my nature to feed the flame. I am not conscious of
having borne a grudge towards any man, and at this moment of my
overthrow, so help me God, I wish well and feel kindly to every one. And
if I thought that any of my works contained a sentence hurtful to any
one's feelings, I would burn it. I think even my novels (for he did not
disown any of them) are free from that blame.'
"He had been led to make this protestation from my having remarked to
him the singularly general feeling of goodwill and sympathy towards him
which every one was anxious to testify upon the present occasion. The
sentiments of resignation and of cheerful acquiescence in the
dispensation of the Almighty which he expressed were those of a
Christian thankful for the blessings left, and willing, without
ostentation, to do his best. It was really beautiful to see the workings
of a strong and upright mind under the first lash of adversity calmly
reposing upon the consolation afforded by his own integrity and manful
purposes. 'Lately,' he said, 'you saw me under the apprehension of the
decay of my mental faculties, and I confess that I was under mortal fear
when I found myself writing one word for another, and misspelling every
word, but that wore off, and was perhaps occasioned by the effects of
the medicine I had been taking, but have I not reason to be thankful
that that misfortune did not assail me? - Ay! few have more reason to
feel grateful to the Disposer of all events than I have.'" - _Mr. Skene's
Reminiscences._
[135] "The energy with which Sir Walter had set about turning his
resources, both present and past, to immediate account, with a view to
prove to his creditors, with as little delay as possible, that all that
could depend upon himself should be put in operation to retrieve his
affairs, made him often reluctant to quit his study however much he
found himself exhausted. However, the employment served to occupy his
mind, and prevent its brooding over the misfortune which had befallen
him, and joined to the natural contentedness of his disposition
prevented any approach of despondency. 'Here is an old effort of mine to
compose a melo-drama' (showing me one day a bundle of papers which he
had found in his repositories). 'This trifle would have been long ago
destroyed had it not been for our poor friend Kinnedder, who arrested my
hand as he thought it not bad, and for his sake it was kept. I have just
read it over, and, do you know, with some satisfaction. Faith, I have
known many worse things make their way very well in the world, so, God
willing, it shall e'en see the light, if it can do aught in the hour of
need to help the hand that fashioned it.' Upon asking the name of this
production, he said, 'I suspect I must change it, having already
forestalled it by the _Fortunes of Nigel_. I had called it the _Fortunes
of Devorgoil_, but we must not begin to double up in that way, for if
you leave anything hanging loose, you may be sure that some malicious
devil will tug at it. I think I shall call it _The Doom of Devorgoil_.
It will make a volume of itself, and I do not see why it should not come
out by particular desire as a fourth volume to _Woodstock_. They have
some sort of connection, and it would not be a difficult matter to bind
the connection a little closer. As the market goes, I have no doubt of
the Bibliopolist pronouncing it worth £1000, or £1500.' I asked him if
he meant it for the stage. 'No, no; the stage is a sorry job, that
course will not do for these hard days; besides, there is too much
machinery in the piece for the stage.' I observed that I was not sure of
that, for pageant and machinery was the order of the day, and had
Shakespeare been of this date he might have been left to die a
deer-stealer. 'Well, then, with all my heart, if they can get the beast
to lead or to drive, they may bring it on the stage if they like. It is
a sort of goblin tale, and so was the _Castle Spectre_, which had its
run.' I asked him if the _Castle Spectre_ had yielded Lewis much.
'Little of that, in fact to its author absolutely nothing, and yet its
merits ought to have brought something handsome to poor Mat. But
Sheridan, then manager, you know, generally paid jokes instead of cash,
and the joke that poor Mat got was, after all, not a bad one. Have you
heard it? Don't let me tell you a story you know.' As I had not heard
it, he proceeded. 'Well, they were disputing about something, and Lewis
had clenched his argument by proposing to lay a bet about it. I shall
lay what you ought long ago to have paid me for my _Castle, Spectre_.'
"No, no, Mat," said Sheridan, "I never lay large bets; but come, I will
bet a trifle with you - I'll bet what the _Castle Spectre_ was worth."
Now Constable managed differently; he paid well and promptly, but devil
take him, it was all spectral together. Moonshine and no merriment. He
sowed my field with one hand, and as liberally scattered the tares with
the other.'" - _Mr. Skene's Reminiscences._
[136] These two gentlemen were at this time Directors of the Bank of
Scotland.
[137] Sir W. Forbes and Co.'s Banking House.
[138] An extract from what is probably the letter to Laidlaw written on
this day was printed in _Chambers's Journal_ for July 1845. The italics
are the editor's: -
"For you, my dear friend, we must part - that is, as laird and
factor - and it rejoices me to think that your patience and endurance,
which set me so good an example, are like to bring round better days.
You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the
least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you.
But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I will have the
advantage of your company and advice, and probably your service as
amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in
affluence, and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have
honorable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to
observe the most strict privacy, the better to save expense, and also
time. Lady Scott's spirits were affected at first, but she is getting
better. _For myself, I feel_ _like the Eildon Hills - quite firm, though
a little cloudy._
"I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all that
society can show, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am
satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit. What can I say
more, except that I will write to you the instant I know what is to be
done."
[139] _Life of Bonaparte_. (?)
[140] "In the management of his Trust," Mr. Gibson remarks, "everything
went on harmoniously - the chief labour devolving upon myself, but my
co-Trustees giving their valuable aid and advice when
required." - _Reminiscences_, p. 16.
[141] The total liabilities of the three firms amounted in round numbers
to nearly half-a-million sterling. Sir Walter, as the partner of
Ballantyne and Co., was held responsible for about £130,000; - this large
sum was ultimately paid in full by Scott and his representatives. The
other two firms paid their creditors about 10 per cent, of the amounts
due. It must be kept in mind, however, as far as Constable's house was
concerned, that their property appears to have been foolishly sacrificed
by forced sales of copyrights and stock.
[142] Mr. Gordon was at this time Scott's amanuensis; he _copied_, that
is to say, the MS. for press. - J.G.L.
FEBRUARY.
_February_ 1. - A most generous letter (though not more so than I
expected) from Walter and Jane, offering to interpose with their
fortune, etc. God Almighty forbid! that were too unnatural in me to
accept, though dutiful and affectionate in them to offer. They talk of
India still. With my damaged fortune I cannot help them to remain by
exchange, and so forth. He expects, if they go, to go out eldest
Captain, when, by staying two or three years, he will get the step of
Major. His whole thoughts are with his profession, and I understand that
when you quit or exchange, when a regiment goes on distant or
disagreeable service, you are not accounted as serious in your
profession; God send what is for the best! Remitted Charles a bill for
£40 - £35 advance at Christmas makes £75. He must be frugal.
Attended the Court, and saw J.B. and Cadell as I returned. Both very
gloomy. Came home to work, etc., about two.
_February_ 2. - An odd visit this morning from Miss Jane Bell of North
Shields, whose law-suit with a Methodist parson of the name of Hill made
some noise. The worthy divine had in the basest manner interfered to
prevent this lady's marriage by two anonymous letters, in which he
contrived to refer the lover, to whom they were addressed, for further
corroboration to _himself_. The whole imposition makes the subject of a
little pamphlet published by Marshall, Newcastle. The lady ventured for
redress into the thicket of English law - lost one suit - gained another,
with £300 damages, and was ruined. The appearance and person of Miss
Bell are prepossessing. She is about thirty years old, a brunette, with
regular and pleasing features, marked with melancholy, - an enthusiast in
literature, and probably in religion. She had been at Abbotsford to see
me, and made her way to me here, in the vain hope that she could get her
story worked up into a novel; and certainly the thing is capable of
interesting situations. It throws a curious light upon the aristocratic
or rather hieratic influence exercised by the Methodist preachers within
the _connection_, as it is called. Admirable food this would be for the
_Quarterly_, or any other reviewers who might desire to feed fat their
grudge against these sectarians. But there are two reasons against such
a publication. First, it would do the poor sufferer no good. Secondly,
it might hurt the Methodistic connection very much, which I for one
would not like to injure. They have their faults, and are peculiarly
liable to those of hypocrisy, and spiritual ambition, and priestcraft.
On the other hand, they do infinite good, carrying religion into classes
in society where it would scarce be found to penetrate, did it rely
merely upon proof of its doctrines, upon calm reasoning, and upon
rational argument. Methodists add a powerful appeal to the feelings and
passions; and though I believe this is often exaggerated into absolute
enthusiasm, yet I consider upon the whole they do much to keep alive a
sense of religion, and the practice of morality necessarily connected
with it. It is much to the discredit of the Methodist clergy, that when
this calumniator was actually convicted of guilt morally worse than many
men are hanged for, they only degraded him from the _first_ to the
_second_ class of their preachers, - leaving a man who from mere hatred
at Miss Bell's brother, who was a preacher like himself, had proceeded
in such a deep and infamous scheme to ruin the character and destroy the
happiness of an innocent person, in possession of the pulpit, and an
authorised teacher of others. If they believed him innocent they did too
much - if guilty, far too little.[143]
I wrote to my nephew Walter to-day, cautioning him against a little
disposition which he has to satire or _méchanceté_, which may be a great
stumbling-block in his course in life. Otherwise I presage well of him.
He is lieutenant of engineers, with high character for mathematical
science - is acute, very well-mannered, and, I think, good-hearted. He
has seen enough of the world too, to regulate his own course through
life, better than most lads at his age.
_February_ 3. - This is the first morning since my troubles that I felt
at awaking
"I had drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep."[144]
I made not the slightest pause, nor dreamed a single dream, nor even
changed my side. This is a blessing to be grateful for. There is to be a
meeting of the creditors to-day, but I care not for the issue. If they
drag me into the Court, _obtorto collo_, instead of going into this
scheme of arrangement, they would do themselves a great injury, and,
perhaps, eventually do me good, though it would give me much pain. James
Ballantyne is severely critical on what he calls imitations of Mrs.
Radcliffe in _Woodstock_. Many will think with him, yet I am of opinion
he is quite wrong, or, as friend J. F[errier] says, _vrong_[145] In the
first place, I am to look on the mere fact of another author having
treated a subject happily as a bird looks on a potato-bogle which scares
it away from a field otherwise as free to its depredations as any one's
else! In 2d place, I have taken a wide difference: my object is not to
excite fear of supernatural tilings in my reader, but to show the effect
of such fear upon the agents in the story - one a man of sense and
firmness - one a man unhinged by remorse - one a stupid uninquiring
clown - one a learned and worthy, but superstitious divine. In the third
place, the book turns on this hinge, and cannot want it. But I will try
to insinuate the refutation of Aldiboronti's exception into the
prefatory matter.
From the 19th January to the 2d February inclusive is exactly fifteen
days, during which time, with the intervention of some days' idleness,
to let imagination brood on the task a little, I have written a volume.
I think, for a bet, I could have done it in ten days. Then I must have
had no Court of Session to take me up two or three hours every morning,
and dissipate my attention and powers of working for the rest of the
day. A volume, at cheapest, is worth £1000. This is working at the rate
of £24,000 a year; but then we must not bake buns faster than people
have appetite to eat them. They are not essential to the market, like
potatoes.
John Gibson came to tell me in the evening that a meeting to-day had
approved of the proposed trust. I know not why, but the news gives me
little concern. I heard it as a party indifferent. I remember hearing
that Mandrin[146] testified some horror when he found himself bound
alive on the wheel, and saw an executioner approach with a bar of iron
to break his limbs. After the second and third blow he fell a-laughing,
and being asked the reason by his confessor, said he laughed at his own
folly which had anticipated increased agony at every blow, when it was
obvious that the _first_ must have jarred and confounded the system of
the nerves so much as to render the succeeding blows of little
consequence. I suppose it is so with the moral feelings; at least I
could not bring myself to be anxious whether these matters were settled
one way or another.
_February_ 4. - Wrote to Mr. Laidlaw to come to town upon Monday and see
the trustees. To farm or not to farm, that is the question. With our
careless habits, it were best, I think, to risk as little as possible.
Lady Scott will not exceed with ready money in her hand; but calculating
on the produce of a farm is different, and neither she nor I are capable
of that minute economy. Two cows should be all we should keep. But I
find Lady S. inclines much for the four. If she had her youthful
activity, and could manage things, it would be well, and would amuse
her. But I fear it is too late a week.
Returned from Court by Constable's, and found Cadell had fled to the
sanctuary, being threatened with ultimate diligence by the Bank of
Scotland. If this be a vindictive movement, it is harsh, useless, and
bad of them, and flight, on the contrary, seems no good sign on his
part. I hope he won't prove his father or grandfather at Prestonpans: -
"Cadell dressed among the rest,
Wi' gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding grey he rode that day,
Wi' pistols set before, man.
The cause was gude, he'd spend his blude
Before that he would yield, man,
But the night before he left the corps,
And never faced the field, man."[147]
Harden and Mrs. Scott called on Mamma. I was abroad. Henry called on me.
Wrote only two pages (of manuscript) and a half to-day. As the boatswain
said, one can't dance always _nowther_, but, were we sure of the
quality of the stuff, what opportunities for labour does this same
system of retreat afford us! I am convinced that in three years I could
do more than in the last ten, but for the mine being, I fear, exhausted.
Give me my popularity - _an awful postulate!_ - and all my present
difficulties shall be a joke in five years; and it is _not_ lost yet, at
least.
_February_ 5. - Rose after a sound sleep, and here am I without bile or
anything to perturb my inward man. It is just about three weeks since so
great a change took place in my relations in society, and already I am
indifferent to it. But I have been always told my feelings of joy and
sorrow, pleasure and pain, enjoyment and privation, are much colder than
those of other people.
"I think the Romans call it stoicism."[148]
Missie was in the drawing-room, and overheard William Clerk and me
laughing excessively at some foolery or other in the back-room, to her
no small surprise, which she did not keep to herself. But do people
suppose that he was less sorry for his poor sister,[149] or I for my
lost fortune? If I have a very strong passion in the world, it is
_pride_, and that never hinged upon world's gear, which was always with
me - Light come, light go.
_February_ 6. - Letters received yesterday from Lord Montagu, John
Morritt, and Mrs. Hughes - kind and dear friends all - with solicitous
inquiries. But it is very tiresome to tell my story over again, and I
really hope I have few more friends intimate enough to ask me for it. I
dread letter-writing, and envy the old hermit of Prague, who never saw
pen or ink. What then? One must write; it is a part of the law we live
on. Talking of writing, I finished my six pages, neat and handsome,
yesterday. _N.B._ At night I fell asleep, and the oil dropped from the
lamp upon my manuscript. Will this extreme unction make it go smoothly
down with the public?
Thus idly we "profane the sacred time"
By silly prose, light jest, and lighter rhyme.[150]
I have a song to write, too, and I am not thinking of it. I trust it
will come upon me at once - a sort of catch it should be.[151] I walked
out, feeling a little overwrought. Saw Constable and turned over
Clarendon. Cadell not yet out of hiding. This is simple work. Obliged to
borrow £240, to be refunded in spring, from John Gibson, to pay my
nephew's outfit and passage to Bombay. I wish I could have got this
money otherwise, but I must not let the orphan boy, and such a clever
fellow, miscarry through my fault. His education, etc., has been at my
expense ever since he came from America.
_February_ 7. - Had letters yesterday from Lady Davy and Lady Louisa
Stuart,[152] two very different persons. Lady Davy, daughter and
co-heiress of a wealthy Antigua merchant, has been known to me all my
life. Her father was a relation of ours of a Scotch calculation. He was
of a good family, Kerr of Bloodielaws, but decayed. Miss Jane Kerr
married first Mr. Apreece, son of a Welsh Baronet. The match was not
happy. I had lost all acquaintance with her for a long time, when about
twenty years ago we renewed it in London. She was then a widow, gay,
clever, and most actively ambitious to play a distinguished part in
London society. Her fortune, though handsome and easy, was not large
enough to make way by dint of showy entertainments, and so forth. So she
took the _blue_ line, and by great tact and management actually
established herself as a leader of literary fashion. Soon after, she
visited Edinburgh for a season or two, and studied the Northern Lights.
One of the best of them, poor Jack Playfair,[153] was disposed "to shoot
madly from his sphere,"[154] and, I believe, asked her, but he was a
little too old. She found a fitter husband in every respect in Sir
Humphry Davy, to whom she gave a handsome fortune, and whose splendid
talents and situation as President of the Royal Society gave her
naturally a distinguished place in the literary society of the
Metropolis. Now this is a very curious instance of an active-minded
woman forcing her way to the point from which she seemed furthest
excluded. For, though clever and even witty, she had no peculiar
accomplishment, and certainly no good taste either for science or
letters naturally. I was once in the Hebrides with her, and I admired to
observe how amidst sea-sickness, fatigue, some danger, and a good deal
of indifference as to what she saw, she gallantly maintained her
determination to see everything.[155] It marked her strength of
character, and she joined to it much tact, and always addressed people
on the right side. So she stands high, and deservedly so, for to these
active qualities, more French I think than English, and partaking of the
Creole vivacity and suppleness of character, she adds, I believe,
honourable principles and an excellent heart. As a lion-catcher, I could
pit her against the world. She flung her lasso (see Hall's _South
America_) over Byron himself. But then, poor soul, she is not happy. She
has a temper, and Davy has a temper, and these tempers are not one
temper, but two tempers, and they quarrel like cat and dog, which may
be good for stirring up the stagnation of domestic life, but they let
the world see it, and that is not so well. Now in all this I may be
thought a little harsh on my friend, but it is between my _Gurnal_ and
me, and, moreover, I would cry heartily if anything were to ail my
little cousin, though she be addicted to rule the Cerulean
atmosphere.[156] Then I suspect the cares of this as well as other
empires overbalance its pleasures. There must be difficulty in being
always in the right humour to hold a court. There are usurpers to be
encountered, and insurrections to be put down, an incessant troop,
_bienséances_ to be discharged, a sort of etiquette which is the curse
of all courts. An old lion cannot get hamstrung quietly at four hundred
miles distance, but the Empress must send him her condolence and a pot
of lipsalve. To be sure the monster is consanguinean, as Sir Toby
says.[157]
Looked in at Constable's coming home; Cadell emerged from Alsatia;
borrowed Clarendon. Home by half-past twelve.
My old friend Sir Peter Murray[158] called to offer his own assistance,
Lord Justice-Clerk's, and Abercromby's, to negotiate for me a seat upon
the Bench [of the Court of Session] instead of my Sheriffdom and
Clerkship. I explained to him the use which I could make of my pen was
not, I thought, consistent with that situation; and that, besides, I had
neglected the law too long to permit me to think of it; but this was
kindly and honourably done. I can see people think me much worse off
than I think myself. They may be right; but I will not be beat till I
have tried a rally, and a bold one.
_February_ 8. - Slept ill, and rather bilious in the morning. Many of the
Bench now are my juniors. I will not seek _ex eleemosynâ_ a place
which, had I turned my studies that way, I might have aspired to long
ago _ex meritis_. My pen should do much better for me than the odd £1000
a year. If it fails, I will lean on what they leave me. Another chance
might be, if it fails, in the patronage which might, after a year or
two, place me in Exchequer. But I do not count on this unless, indeed,
the D[uke] of B[uccleuch], when he comes of age, should choose to make
play.
Got to my work again, and wrote easier than the two last days.
Mr. Laidlaw[159] came in from Abbotsford and dined with us. We spent the
evening in laying down plans for the farm, and deciding whom we should
keep and whom dismiss among the people. This we did on the true
negro-driving principle of self-interest, the only principle I know
which _never_ swerves from its objects. We chose all the active, young,
and powerful men, turning old age and infirmity adrift. I cannot help
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