Walter Scott - The Man Behind the Books. Walter Scott
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kept the treaty open. If I give them 100 pages I should expect £500.
I was late at the Court and had little time to write any till after dinner, and then was not in the vein; so commentated.
February
February 1. — I had my two youths again to breakfast, but I did not say more about my determination, save that I would help them if I could make it convenient. The Chief Commissioner has agreed to let Heath have his pretty picture of a Study at Abbotsford, by Edwin Landseer, in which old Maida occurs. The youth Reynolds is what one would suppose his father’s son to be, smart and forward, and knows the world. I suppose I was too much fagged with sitting in the Court to-day to write hard after dinner, but I did work, however.
February 2. — Corrected proofs, which are now nearly up with me. This day was an idle one, for I remained in Court till one, and sat for my picture till halfpast three to Mr. Smith. He has all the steadiness and sense in appearance which his cousin R.P.G. lacks. Whether he has genius or no, I am no judge. My own portrait is like, but I think too broad about the jowls, a fault which they all fall into, as I suppose, by placing their subject upon a high stage and looking upwards to them, which must foreshorten the face. The Chief Baron and Chief Commissioner had the goodness to sit with me.
Dressed and went with Anne to dine at Pinkie House, where I met the President, Lady Charlotte, etc.; above all, Mrs. Scott of Gala, whom I had not seen for some time. We had much fun, and I was, as Sir Andrew Aguecheek says, in good fooling. A lively French girl, a governess I think, but very pretty and animated, seemed much amused with the old gentleman. Home at eleven o’clock.
By the by, Sir John Hope had found a Roman eagle on his estate in Fife with sundry of those pots and coffeepots, so to speak, which are so common: but the eagle was mislaid, so I did not see it.
February 3. — I corrected proofs and wrote this morning, — but slowly, heavily, lazily. There was a mist on my mind which my exertions could not dispel. I did not get two pages finished, but I corrected proofs and commentated.
February 4. — Wrote a little and was obliged to correct the Molière affair for R.P.G. I think his plan cannot go on much longer with so much weakness at the helm. A clever fellow would make it take the field with a vengeance, but poor G. will run in debt with the booksellers and let all go to the devil. I sent a long letter to Lockhart, received from Horace Smith, very gentlemanlike and well-written, complaining that Mr. Leigh Hunt had mixed him up, in his Life of Byron, with Shelley as if he had shared his irreligious opinions. Leigh Hunt afterwards at the request of Smith published a swaggering contradiction of the inference to be derived from the way in which he has named them together. Horatio Smith seems not to have relied upon his disclamation, as he has requested me to mention the thing to John Lockhart, and to some one influential about Ebony, which I have done accordingly.
February 5. — Concluded the first volume before breakfast. I am but indifferently pleased; either the kind of thing is worn out, or I am worn out myself, or, lastly, I am stupid for the time. The book must be finished, however. Cadell is greatly pleased with annotations intended for the new edition of the Waverley series. I believe that work must be soon sent to press, which would put a powerful wheel in motion to clear the ship. I went to the Parliament House, and in return strolled into Cadell’s, being rather anxious to prolong my walk, for I fear the constant sitting for so many hours. When I returned, the Duke of Buccleuch came in. He is looking very well, and stout, but melancholy about his sister, Lady Charlotte Stopford. He is fitting up a part of Bowhill and intends to shoot there this year. God send him life and health, for it is of immense consequence.
February 6. — This and visits wasted my time till past two, and then I slept half-an-hour from mere exhaustion. Went in the evening to the play, and saw that good old thing, an English tragedy, well got up. It was Venice Preserved. Mrs. H. Siddons played Belvidera with much truth, feeling, and tenderness, though short of her motherin-law’s uncommon majesty, which is a thing never to be forgotten. Mr. Young played Pierre very well, and a good Jaffier was supplied by a Mr. Vandenhoff. And so the day glided by; only three pages written, which, however, is a fair task.
February 7. — It was a Teind day, so no Court, but very little work. I wrote this morning till the boy made his appearance for proofs; then I had letters to write. Item, at five o’clock I set out with Charles for Dalkeith to present him to the young Duke.
I asked the Duke about poor Hogg. I think he has decided to take Mr. Riddell’s opinion; it is unlucky the poor fellow has ever taken that large and dear farm. Altogether Dalkeith was melancholy tonight, and I could not raise my spirits at all.
February 8. — I had a little work before dinner, but we are only seven pages into volume second. It is always a beginning, however; perhaps not a good one — I cannot tell. I went out to call on Gala and Jack Rutherfurd of Edgerstoun; saw the former, not the latter. Gala is getting much better. He talked as if the increase of his village was like to drive him over the hill to the Abbotsford side, which would greatly beautify that side and certainly change his residence for the better, only that he must remain some time without any appearance of plantation. The view would be enchanting.
I was tempted to buy a picture of Nell Gywnne, which I think has merit; at least it pleases me. Seven or eight years ago Graham of Gartmore bid for it against me, and I gave it up at twentyfive guineas. I have now bought it for £18, 18s. Perhaps there was folly in this, but I reckoned it a token of good luck that I should succeed in a wish I had formerly harboured in vain. I love marks of good luck even in trifles.
February 9. — Sent off three leaves of copy; this is using the press like the famished sailor who was fed by a comrade with shell-fish by one at a time. But better anything than stop, for the devil is to get set a-going again. I know no more than my old boots whether I am right or wrong, but have no very favourable anticipations.
As I came home from the Court about twelve I stepped into the Exhibition. It makes a very good show; the portraits are better than last year, those of Colvin Smith and Watson Gordon especially improve. Landseer’s Study at Abbotsford is in a capital light, and generally admired. I particularly distinguished John Thomson’s picture of Turnberry, which is of firstrate excellence. A picture by Scrope was also generally distinguished. It is a view in Calabria.
There is a rival Exhibition which does not hurt the earlier foundation, but rather excites emulation. I am told there are good paintings there. I came home with little goodwill to work, but I will compel myself to do something. Unluckily, I have again to go out to dinner to-day, being President of the Bannatyne.
The dinner was a pleasant one; about thirty members attended. I kept the chair till near eleven, and the company were very joyous.
February 10. — I set myself doggedly to work, and turned off six leaves before dinner. Had to dinner Sir John Pringle, my dear Gala and his lady, and young Mackenzie and Miss Jardine. I was quite pleased to see Gala so well recovered of the consequences of his frightful fall, which hung about him so long. He is one of the kindest and best-informed men whom I know.
February 11. — I had Charles Young to breakfast with us, who gave us some striking anecdotes of Talma during the Reign of Terror, which may figure in Napoleon to great advantage.
My son Charles left us this morning to take possession of his situation in the Foreign Office. He has been very lucky. Correcting sheets, etc., took up the morning hours. I wrote three leaves before two o’clock. Day bitter cold — with snow, a strong contrast to the mild weather we had last week.
Salutation of two old Scottish lairds: — ”Ye’re maist obedient hummil servant, Tannachy Tulloh.” — ”Your nain man, Kilspindie.”
Finished six pages, twentyfive pages of print that is, or about the thirteenth part of a volume. That would be a volume in a fortnight,