Walter Scott - The Man Behind the Books. Walter Scott
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has been excited, to explain and to resume parts of the story which should have been told before. Scenes of mere amusement are often introduced betwixt the crisis of the plot and the final catastrophe. This is impolitic. But the scenes and characters are traced by a firm, bold, and true pencil, and my very criticism shows that the catastrophe is interesting, — otherwise who would care for its being interrupted?
March 16. — The same record applies to these three days. From seven to halfpast nine writing — from halfpast nine to a quarter past ten a hearty breakfast. From eleven or thereby, to one or two, wrote again, and from one or two ride, drive, or walk till dinner-time — for two or three hours — five till seven, dine and rest yourself — seven till nine, wrote two pages more, from nine to quarter past ten lounge, read the papers, and then go to bed. If your story is tolerably forward you may, I think, keep at this rate for twelve days, which would be a volume. But no brain could hold it out longer. Wrote two additional leaves in the evening.
March 17. — Sent away copy this morning to J.B. with proofs. I then wrote all the day till two o’clock, walked round the thicket and by the waterside, and returning set to work again. So that I have finished five leaves before dinner, and may discuss two more if I can satisfy myself with the way of winding up the story. There are always at the end such a plaguey number of stitches to take up, which usually are never so well done but they make a botch. I will try if the cigar will inspire me. Hitherto I have been pretty clear, and I see my way well enough, only doubt of making others see it with sufficient simplicity. But it is near five, and I am too hungry to write more.
“Ego nunquam potui scribere jejunus.”
March 18. — I was sorely worried by the black dog this morning, that vile palpitation of the heart — that tremor cordis — that hysterical passion which forces unbidden sighs and tears, and falls upon a contented life like a drop of ink on white paper, which is not the less a stain because it conveys no meaning. I wrought three leaves, however, and the story goes on. I dined at the Club of the Selkirkshire yeomanry, now disbanded.
“The Eldrich knight gave up his arms
With many a sorrowful sigh.”
The dissolution of the Yeomanry was the act of the last ministry. The present did not alter the measure on account of the expense saved. I am one of the oldest, if not the very oldest Yeoman in Scotland, and have seen the rise, progress, and now the fall of this very constitutional part of the national force. Its efficacy, on occasions of insurrection, was sufficiently proved in the Radical time. But besides, it kept up a spirit of harmony between the proprietors of land and the occupiers, and made them known to and beloved by each other; and it gave to the young men a sort of military and highspirited character, which always does honour to a country. The manufacturers are in great glee on this occasion. I wish Parliament, as they have turned the Yeoman adrift somewhat scornfully, may not have occasion to roar them in again.
March 19. — I applied myself again to my labour, my mind flowing in a less, gloomy current than yesterday. I laboured with little interruption, excepting a walk as far as Faldonside with the dogs, and at night I had not finished more than three leaves. But, indeed, it is pretty fair; I must not work my brains too hard, in case of provoking the hypochondria which extreme exertion or entire indolence are equally unfavourable to.
March 20. — Thomson breakfasted. I left him soon, being desirous to finish my labours. The volume is finished, all but one fourth or somewhat shorter; four days should despatch it easily, but I have letters to write and things are getting into disorder. I took a drive with my daughter, for exercise, and called at Huntly Burn. This evening went on with work as usual; there was not above four pages finished, but my conscience is quiet on my exertions.
March 21. — I received young Whytbank to breakfast, and talked genealogy, which he understands well; I have not a head for it. I only value it as interspersed with anecdote. Whytbank’s relationship and mine exists by the Shaws. A younger brother of Shaw of Sauchie, afterwards Greenock, chief of the name, was minister of the Kirk of Selkirk. My great-grandfather, John Rutherford, minister of the gospel at Yarrow, married one of this reverend gentleman’s daughters; and John Pringle, rector of Fogo, great-grandfather of the present Whytbank, married another. It was Christian Shaw, my grandmother, who possessed the manuscript respecting the murder of the Shaws by the Master of Sinclair. She could not, according to the reckoning of that age, be a distant relation. Whytbank parted, agreeing to return to dinner to meet the bride and bridegroom. I had little time to write, for Colonel Russell, my cousin, called between one and two, and he also agreed to stay dinner; so I had a walk of three hours with him in the plantations. At dinner we had Mr. and Mrs. Bruce, Mr. Scrope, Mrs. and Dr. Brewster, Whytbank, Russell, and young Nicol Milne, who will be a pleasant lad if he had a little polish. I was glad of the society, as I had rather felt the besoin de parler, which was perhaps one cause of my recent dumps. Scrope and Colonel Russell stayed all night; the rest went home.
March 22. — Had a packet from James — low about the novel; but I had another from Cadell equally uppish. He proposes for three novels in eighteen months, which would be £12,600. Well, I like the bookseller’s predictions better than the printer’s. Neither are bad judges; but James, who is the best, is not sensible of historical descriptions, and likes your novel style out and out.
Cadell’s letter also contained a state of cash matters, since much improved. I will arrange them a day or two hence. I wrote to-day and took a long walk. The thought more than once passed over me, Why go to London? I shall but throw away £150 or £200 which were better saved. Then on the other hand, it is such a gratification to see all the children that I must be tempted. If I were alone, I could scrub it, but there’s no doing that with Anne.
March 23. — I wrought regularly till one, and then took the wood and marked out to Tom the places I would have thinned, particularly at the Carlin’s hole, which will require much thinning. I had a letter from Cadell stating that 3000 Tales of a Grandfather must go to press, bringing a return to me of £240, the price being £80 per thousand. This is snug enough, and will prettily cover my London journey, and I really think ought in fairness to silence my prudential remorse. With my usual delight in catching an apology for escaping the regular task of the day, I threw by the novel of St. Valentine’s Eve and began to run through and correct the Grandfather’s Tales for the press. If I live to finish them, they will be a good thing for my younger children. If I work to the amount of £10,000 a year for the creditors, I think I may gain a few hundreds for my own family at by-hours.
March 24. — Sent copy and proof to J.B. I continued my revision of the Tales of a Grandfather till halfpast one. Then went to Torwoodlee to wait on George Pringle and his bride. We did not see the young people, but the old Laird and Miss Pringle gave us a warm reception, and seemed very happy on the occasion. We had friends to dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Theobald, Charles Kerr and his wife, my old acquaintance Magdalen Hepburn, whose whole [kin] was known to me and mine. I have now seen the fifth generation of the family in Mrs. Kerr’s little girl, who travels with them. Well — I partly wish we had been alone. Yet it is perhaps better. We made our day out tolerably well, having the advantage of Mr. Davidoff and his friend Mr. Collyer to assist us.
March 25. — Mr. and Mrs. Kerr left us, Mr. Davidoff and Mr. Collyer also. Mr. Davidoff showed himself a good deal affected. I hope well of this young nobleman, and trust the result will justify my expectations, but it may be doubted if his happiness be well considered by those who send a young person, destined to spend his life under a despotic government, to receive the ideas and opinions of such a people as we are:
“where ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.”
We drove as far as Yair with Mr. and Mrs. Theobald. The lady read after dinner — and read well.
March 26. — The Theobalds left us, giving me time to work a little. A walk of two hours diversified my day. I received Cadell’s scheme for the new edition. I fear the trustees will think Cadell’s plan expensive in the execution. Yet he is right; for, to ensure a return of speedy sale,