THE following papers, with two exceptions, were written in England, and
formed but part of an intended series for which I had made notes and
memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, however, circumstances
compelled me to send them piecemeal to the United States, where they
were published from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my
intention to publish them in England, being conscious that much of their
contents could be interesting only to American readers, and, in truth,
being deterred by the severity with which American productions had been
treated by the British press.
By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in this
occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic,
and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London Literary
Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish
them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to bring them
forward myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my
superintendence and revision. I accordingly took the printed numbers
which I had received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the
eminent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions,
and left them with him for examination, informing him that should he be
inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials enough on
hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed without any
communication from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I
construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged that
the numbers I had left with him might be returned to me. The following
was his reply:
MY DEAR SIR: I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your
kind intentions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned
respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled
with workpeople at this time, and I have only an office to transact
business in; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I should have done
myself the pleasure of seeing you.
If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present
work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it
which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us,
without which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging--but I will
do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to
attend to any future plan of yours.
With much regard, I remain, dear sir,
Your faithful servant,
JOHN MURRAY.
This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any further
prosecution of the matter, had the question of republication in Great
Britain rested entirely with me; but I apprehended the appearance of a
spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher,
having been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to
Edinburgh; but first I determined to submit my work to Sir-Walter (then
Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had
experienced from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the
favorable opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I
accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a parcel
by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had
had the pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken
place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of my pen
all-important to me; I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary
articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they would bear
European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be
inclined to be the publisher.
The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott’s address in
Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in the country. By
the very first post I received a reply, before he had seen my work.
“I was down at Kelso,” said he, “when your letter reached Abbotsford. I
am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, and do all
in my power to forward your views--I assure you nothing will give me
more pleasure.”
The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the quick
apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient good-will
which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me.
A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be set up
in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, and amply
furnished with all the necessary information. The appointment of the
editor, for which ample funds were provided, would be five hundred
pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable prospect of further
advantages. This situation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly
offered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of
a political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it
was desired to adopt might not suit me. “Yet I risk the question,” added
he, “because I know no man so well qualified for this important task,
and perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my
proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret and there
is no harm done. ‘And for my love I pray you wrong me not.’ If on the
contrary you think it could be made to suit you, let me know as soon as
possible, addressing Castle Street, Edinburgh.”
In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, “I am just come here,
and have glanced over the Sketch-Book. It is positively beautiful, and
increases my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties
there always are in managing such a matter, especially at the outset;
but we will obviate them as much as we possibly can.”
The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which underwent
some modifications in the copy sent:
“I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begun to
feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty; but, somehow or other,
there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing
into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises and
flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I
have myself.”
I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted for
the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by
the very constitution and habits of my mind. “My whole course of life,”
I observed, “has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically
recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no
command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings
of my mind as I would those of a weathercock. Practice and training
may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular
service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack.
“I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; writing when I
can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my residence and write
whatever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my
imagination; and hope to write better and more copiously by and by.
“I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering your
proposal than by showing what a very good-for-nothing kind of being I
am. Should Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I
have on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise; and it will be
something like trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who
may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another
time a silver tankard.”
In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining what
might have proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred to the original
subject of our correspondence; entered into a detail of the various
terms upon which arrangements were made between authors and booksellers,
that I might take my choice; expressing the most encouraging confidence
of the success of my work, and of previous works which I had produced
in America. “I did no more,” added he, “than open the trenches with
Constable; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to write to him,
you will find him disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of
attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place to
see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and whatever my
experience can command is most heartily at your command. But I can add
little to what I have said above, except my earnest recommendation to
Constable to enter into the negotiation.” *
* I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph
of Scott’s letter, which, though it does not relate to the
main subject of our correspondence, was too characteristic
to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss Sophia
Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father’s
poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the
“nigromancy” of the American press, by which a quart of wine
is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott observes: “In my
hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia’s name for the kind
attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I
am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her
acquainted with much more of papa’s folly than she would
ever otherwise have learned; for I had taken special care
they should never see any of those things during their
earlier years. I think I have told you that Walter is
sweeping the firmament with a feather like a maypole and
indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe--in other
words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th
Dragoons.”
Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had
determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to throw
my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim
according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon
received a reply:
“I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. It
is certainly not the very best way to publish on one’s own accompt; for
the booksellers set their face against the circulation of such works as
do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of
altogether damming up the road in such cases between the author and the
public, which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in
John Bunyan’s Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding’s
mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the
British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I
really was of that opinion.
“If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Blackwood’s
Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your works in the last
number: the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you
in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of very
considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected with
my family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and
illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration
of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when
Your name is up, and may go
From Toledo to Madrid.
“----And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the
middle of the month, and promise myself great pleasure in once again
shaking you by the hand.”
The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in London, as I had
resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown to fame, and without
any of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice.
Still some attention had been called to it by the extracts which had
previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word
spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair
circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was
over, and the sale was interrupted.
At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I
was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his
own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray
was quickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work
which he had previously declined. A further edition of the first volume
was struck off and the second volume was put to press, and from that
time Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings
with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained for him the
well-merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers.
Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began
my literary career in Europe; and I feel that I am but discharging, in
a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that
golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obligations to him. But who of
his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that
did not experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance?