Walter Scott - The Man Behind the Books. Walter Scott
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and a good deal of a local antiquary. I showed him the plantations, going first round the terrace, then to the lake, then came down by the Rhymer’s Glen, and took carriage at Huntly Burn, almost the grand tour, only we did not walk from Huntly Burn. The Fergusons dined with us.
March 28. — Mr Thomson left us about twelve for Minto, parting a pleased guest, I hope, from a pleased landlord. When I see a “gemman as is a gemman,” as the blackguards say, why, I know how to be civil. After he left I set doggedly to work with Bonaparte, who had fallen a little into arrear. I can clear the ground better now by mashing up my old work in the Edinburgh Register with my new matter, a species of colcannen, where cold potatoes are mixed with hot cabbage. After all, I think Ballantyne is right, and that I have some talents for history-writing after all. That same history in the Register reads prettily enough. Coragio, cry Claymore. I finished five pages, but with additions from Register they will run to more than double I hope; like Puff in the Critic, be luxuriant.
Here is snow back again, a nasty, comfortless, stormy sort of a day, and I will work it off at Boney. What shall I do when Bonaparte is done? He engrosses me morning, noon, and night. Never mind; Komt Zeit komt Rath, as the German says. I did not work longer than twelve, however, but went out in as rough weather as I have seen, and stood out several snow blasts.
March 29, 30. —
“He walk’d and wrought, poor soul! What then?
Why, then he walk’d and wrought again.”
March 31. — Day varied by dining with Mr. Scrope, where we found Mr. Williams and Mr. Simson, both excellent artists. We had not too much of the palette, but made a very agreeable day out. I contrived to mislay the proof-sheets sent me this morning, so that I must have a revise. This frequent absence of mind becomes very exceeding troublesome. I have the distinct recollection of laying them carefully aside after I dressed to go to the Pavilion. Well, I have a head — the proverb is musty.
April
April 1. — The proofs are not to be found. Applications from R.P. G[illies]. I must do something for him; yet have the melancholy conviction that nothing will do him any good. Then he writes letters and expects answers. Then they are bothering me about writing in behalf of the oil-gas light, which is going to the devil very fast. I cannot be going a-begging for them or anybody. Please to look down with an eye of pity — a poor distressed creature! No, not for the last morsel of bread. A dry ditch and a speedy death is worth it all.
April 2. — Another letter from R.P.G. I shall begin to wish, like S., that he had been murthered and robbed in his walks between Wimbledon and London. John [Archibald] Murray and his young wife came to dinner, and in good time. I like her very much, and think he has been very lucky. She is not in the vaward of youth, but John is but two or three years my junior. She is pleasing in her manners, and totally free from affectation; a beautiful musician, and willingly exerts her talents in that way; is said to be very learned, but shows none of it. A large fortune is no bad addition to such a woman’s society.
April 3. — I had processes to decide; and though I arose at my usual hour, I could not get through above two of five proofs. After breakfast I walked with John Murray, and at twelve we went for Melrose, where I had to show the lions. We came back by Huntly Burn, where the carriage broke down, and gave us a pretty long walk home. Mr. Scrope dined with his two artists, and John [Thomson?]. The last is not only the best landscape-painter of his age and country, but is, moreover, one of the warmest-hearted men living, with a keen and unaffected feeling of poetry. Poor fellow! he has had many misfortunes in his family. I drank a glass or two of wine more than usual, got into good spirits, and came from Tripoli for the amusement of the good company. I was in good fooling.
April 4. — I think I have a little headache this morning; however, as Othello says, “That’s not much.” I saw our guests go off by seven in the morning, but was not in time to give them goodbye.
“And now again, boys, to the oar.”
I did not go to the oar though, but walked a good deal.
April 5. — Heard from Lockhart; the Duke of W[ellington] and Croker are pleased with my historical labours; so far well — for the former, as a soldier said of him, “I would rather have his long nose on my side than a whole brigade.” Well! something good may come of it, and if it does it will be good luck, for, as you and I know, Mother Duty, it has been a rummily written work. I wrote hard to-day.
April 6. — Do. Do. I only took one turn about the thicket, and have nothing to put down but to record my labours.
April 7. — The same history occurs; my desk and my exercise. I am a perfect automaton. Bonaparte runs in my head from seven in the morning till ten at night without intermission. I wrote six leaves to-day and corrected four proofs.
April 8. — Ginger, being in my room, was safely delivered in her basket of four puppies; the mother and children all doing well. Faith! that is as important an entry as my Journal could desire. The day is so beautiful that I long to go out. I won’t, though, till I have done something. A letter from Mr. Gibson about the trust affairs. If the infernal bargain with Constable go on well, there will be a pretty sop in the pan to the creditors; £35,000 at least. If I could work as effectually for three years more, I shall stand on my feet like a man. But who can assure success with the public?
April 9. — I wrote as hard to-day as need be, finished my neat eight pages, and, notwithstanding, drove out and visited at Gattonside. The devil must be in it if the matter drags out longer now.
April 10. — Some incivility from the Leith Bank, which I despise with my heels. I have done for settling my affairs all that any man — much more than most men — could have done, and they refuse a draught of £20, because, in mistake, it was £8 overdrawn. But what can be expected of a sow but a grumph? Wrought hard, hard.
April 11. — The parks were rouped for £100 a year more than they brought last year. Poor Abbotsford will come to good after all. In the meantime it is Sic vos non vobis — but who cares a farthing? If Boney succeeds, we will give these affairs a blue eye, and I will wrestle stoutly with them, although
“My banks they are covered with bees,”
or rather with wasps. A very tough day’s work.
April 12. — Ha-a-lt — as we used to say, my proof-sheets being still behind. Very unhandsome conduct on the part of the Blucher while I was lauding it so profusely. It is necessary to halt and close up our files — of correspondence I mean. So it is a chance if, except for contradiction’s sake, or upon getting the proof-sheets, I write a line to-day at Boney. I did, however, correct five revised sheets and one proof, which took me up so much of the day that I had but one turn through the courtyard. Owing to this I had some of my flutterings, my trembling exies, as the old people called the ague. Wrote a great many letters — but no “copy.”
April 13. — I have sometimes wondered with what regularity — that is, for a shrew of my impatient temper — I have been able to keep this Journal. The use of the first person being, of course, the very essence of a diary, I conceive it is chiefly vanity, the dear pleasure of writing about the best of good fellows, Myself, which gives me perseverance to continue this idle task. This morning I wrote till breakfast, then went out and marked trees to be cut for paling, and am just returned — and what does any one care? Ay, but, Gad! I care myself, though. We had at dinner to-day Mr. and Mrs. Cranstoun (Burns’s Maria of Ballochmyle), Mr. Bainbridge and daughters, and Colonel Russell.
April 14. — Went to Selkirk to try a fellow for an assault on Dr. Clarkson — fined him seven guineas, which, with his necessary expenses, will amount to ten guineas. It is rather too little; but as his income does not