_April_ 14.--I sent off proofs of the review of Tytler for John
Lockhart. Then set a stout heart to a stay brae, and took up _Anne of
Geierstein_. I had five sheets standing by me, which I read with care,
and satisfied myself that worse had succeeded, but it was while the
fashion of the thing was new. I retrenched a good deal about the
Troubadours, which was really _hors de place_. As to King René, I
retained him as a historical character. In short, I will let the sheets
go nearly as they are, for though J.B. be an excellent judge of this
species of composition, he is not infallible, and has been in
circumstances which may cross his mind. I might have taken this
determination a month since, and I wish I had. But I thought I might
strike out something better by the braes and burn-sides. Alas! I walk
along them with painful and feeble steps, and invoke their influence in
vain. But my health is excellent, and it were ungrateful to complain
either of mental or bodily decay. We called at Elliston to-day and made
up for some ill-bred delay. In the evening I corrected two sheets of the
_Magnum_, as we call it.
_April_ 15.--I took up _Anne_, and wrote, with interruption of a nap (in
which my readers may do well to imitate me), till two o'clock. I wrote
with care, having digested Comines. Whether I succeed or not, it would
be dastardly to give in. A bold countenance often carries off an
indifferent cause, but no one will defend him who shows the white
feather. At two I walked till near four. Dined with the girls, smoked
two cigars, and to work again till supper-time. Slept like a top. Amount
of the day's work, eight pages--a round task.
_April_ 16.--I meant to go out with Bogie to plant some shrubs in front
of the old quarry, but it rains cats and dogs as they say, a rare day
for grinding away at the old mill of imagination, yet somehow I have no
great will to the task. After all, however, the morning proved a true
April one, sunshine and shower, and I both worked to some purpose, and
moreover walked and directed about planting the quarry.
The post brought matter for a May or April morning--a letter from Sir
James Mackintosh, telling me that Moore and he were engaged as
contributors to Longman's Encyclopædia, and asking me to do a volume at
£1000, the subject to be the History of Scotland in one volume. This
would be very easy work. I have the whole stuff in my head, and could
write _currente calamo_. The size is as I compute it about one-third
larger than _The Tales of my Grandfather_. There is much to be said on
both sides. Let me balance pros and cons after the fashion of honest
Robinson Crusoe. _Pro._--It is the sum I have been wishing for,
sufficient to enable me to break the invisible but magic circle which
petty debts of myself and others have traced round me. With common
prudence I need no longer go from hand to mouth, or what is worse,
anticipate my means. I may also pay off some small shop debts, etc.,
belonging to the Trust, clear off all Anne's embarrassment, and even
make some foundation of a purse for her. _N.B._--I think this whacking
reason is like to prove the gallon of Cognac brandy, which a lady
recommended as the foundation of a Liqueur. "Stop, dear madam, if you
please," said my grandfather, Dr. Rutherford, "you can [add] nothing to
that; it is _flaconnadé_ with £1000," and a capital hit, egad.
_Contra._--It is terribly like a hack author to make an abridgement of
what I have written so lately. _Pro._--But a difference may be taken. A
history may be written of the same country on a different plan, general
where the other is detailed, and philosophical where it is popular. I
think I can do this, and do it with unwashed hands too. For being
hacked, what is it but another word for being an author? I will take
care of my name doubtless, but the five letters which form it must take
care of me in turn. I never knew name or fame burn brighter by over
chary keeping of it. Besides, there are two gallant hacks to pull with
me. _Contra._--I have a monstrous deal on hand. Let me see: Life of
Argyll,[296] and Life of Peterborough for Lockhart.[297] Third series
_Tales of my Grandfather_--review for Gillies--new novel--end of _Anne
of Geierstein_. _Pro._--But I have just finished too long reviews for
Lockhart. The third series is soon discussed. The review may be finished
in three or four days, and the novel is within a week and less of
conclusion. For the next, we must first see how this goes off. In fine,
within six weeks, I am sure I can do the work and secure the
independence I sigh for. Must I not make hay while the sun shines? Who
can tell what leisure, health, and life may be destined to me?
Adjourned the debate till to-morrow morning.
_April_ 17.--I resumed the discussion of the bargain about the history.
The ayes to the right, the noes to the left. The ayes have it--so I will
write to Sir James of this date. But I will take a walk first, that I
will. A little shaken with the conflict, for after all were I as I have
been----. "My poverty but not my will consents."[298]
I have been out in a most delicious real spring day. I returned with my
nerves strung and my mind determined. I will make this plunge, and with
little doubt of coming off no loser in character. What is given in
detail may be suppressed, general views may be enlarged upon, and a
bird's-eye prospect given, not the less interesting, that we have seen
its prominent points nearer and in detail. I have been of late in a
great degree free from wafered letters, sums to make up, notes of hand
wanted, and all the worry of an embarrassed man's life. This last
struggle will free me entirely, and so help me Heaven it shall be made!
I have written to Sir James, stating that I apprehend the terms to be
£1000, namely, for one volume containing about one-third more than one
of the volumes of _Tales of my Grandfather_, and agreeing to do so.
Certes, few men can win a thousand pounds so readily.
We dine with the Fergusons to-day at four. So off we went and safely
returned.
_April_ 18.--Corrected proofs. I find J.B. has not returned to his
business, though I wrote him how necessary it was. My pity begins to
give way to anger. Must he sit there and squander his thoughts and
senses upon cloudy metaphysics and abstruse theology till he addles his
brains entirely, and ruins his business? I have written to him again,
letter third and, I am determined, last.
Wrote also to the fop Reynolds, with preface to the _House of Aspen_,
then to honest Joseph Train desiring he would give me some notion how to
serve him with Messrs. Carr, and to take care to make his ambition
moderate and feasible.
My neighbour, Mr. Kerr of Kippielaw, struck with a palsy while he was
looking at the hounds; his pony remained standing by his side. A sudden
call if a final one.
That strange desire to leave a prescribed task and set about something
else seized me irresistibly. I yielded to it, and sat down to try at
what speed and in what manner I could execute this job of Sir James
Mackintosh's, and I wrote three leaves before rising, well enough, I
think. The girls made a round with me. We drove to Chiefswood, and from
that to Janeswood, up the Rhymer's Glen, and so home. This occupied from
one to four. In the evening I heard Anne read Mr. Peel's excellent Bill
on the Police of the Metropolis, which goes to disband the whole
generation of Dogberry and Verges. Wrote after tea.
_April_ 19.--I made this a busy day. I wrote on at the history until two
o'clock, then took a gallant walk, then began reading for Gillies's
article. James Ferguson dined with us. We smoked and I became woundy
sleepy. Now I have taken collar to this arrangement, I find an open sea
before me which I could not have anticipated, for though I should get
through well enough with my expectations during the year, yet it is a
great thing to have a certainty to be clear as a new pin of every penny
of debt. There is no being obliged or asking favours or getting loans
from some grudging friend who can never look at you after but with fear
of losing his cash, or you at him without the humiliating sense of
having extorted an obligation. Besides my large debts, I have paid since
I was in trouble at least £2000 of personal encumbrances, so no wonder
my nose is still under water. I really believe the sense of this
apparently unending struggle, schemes for retrenchment in which I was
unseconded, made me low-spirited, for the sun seems to shine brighter
upon me as a free man. Nevertheless, devil take the necessity which
makes me drudge like a very hack of Grub Street.
"May the foul fa' the gear and the bletherie o 't."[299]
I walked out with Tom's assistance, came home, went through the weary
work of cramming, and so forth; wrought after tea, and then to bed.
_April_ 20.--As yesterday till two--sixteen pages of the History
written, and not less than one-fifth of the whole book. What if they
should be off? I were finely holp'd for throwing my time away. A toy!
They dare not.
Lord Buchan is dead, a person whose immense vanity, bordering upon
insanity, obscured, or rather eclipsed, very considerable talents. His
imagination was so fertile that he seemed really to believe the
extraordinary fictions which he delighted in telling. His economy, most
laudable in the early part of his life, when it enabled him, from a
small income, to pay his father's debts, became a miserable habit, and
led him to do mean things. He had a desire to be a great man, and a
_Mæcenas bon marché_. The two celebrated lawyers, his brothers, were not
more gifted by nature than I think he was, but the restraints of a
profession kept the eccentricity of the family in order. Henry Erskine
was the best-natured man I ever knew, thoroughly a gentleman, and with
but one fault: he could not say _no_, and thus sometimes misled those
who trusted him. Tom Erskine was positively mad. I have heard him tell a
cock-and-a-bull story of having seen the ghost of his father's servant,
John Burnet, with as much sincerity as if he believed every word he was
saying. Both Henry and Thomas were saving men, yet both died very poor.
The one at one time possessed £200,000; the other had a considerable
fortune. The Earl alone has died wealthy. It is saving, not getting,
that is the mother of riches. They all had wit. The Earl's was
crack-brained and sometimes caustic; Henry's was of the very kindest,
best-humoured, and gayest that ever cheered society; that of Lord
Erskine was moody and maddish. But I never saw him in his best days.
Went to Haining. Time has at last touched the beautiful Mrs. Pringle. I
wonder he was not ashamed of himself for spoiling so fine a form. But
what cares he? Corrected proofs after dinner. James B. is at last at
work again.
_April_ 21.--Spent the whole morning at writing, still the History, such
is my wilful whim. Twenty pages now finished--I suppose the clear
fourth part of a volume. I went out, but the day being sulky I sat in
the Conservatory, after trying a walk! I have been glancing over the
works for Gillies's review, and I think on them between-hands while I
compose the History,--an odd habit of doing two things at once, but it
has always answered with me well enough.
_April_ 22.--Another hard day's work at the History, now increased to
the Bruce and Baliol period, and threatening to be too lengthy for the
Cyclopædia. But I will make short work with wars and battles. I wrote
till two o'clock, and strolled with old Tom and my dogs[300] till
half-past four, hours of pleasure and healthful exercise, and to-day
taken with ease. A letter from J.B., stating an alarm that he may lose
the printing of a part of the _Magnum_. But I shall write him he must be
his own friend, set shoulder to the wheel, and remain at the head of his
business; and of that I must make him aware. And so I set to my proofs.
"Better to work," says the inscription on Hogarth's Bridewell, "than
stand thus."
_April_ 23.--A cold blustering day--bad welcome for the poor lambs. I
made my walk short and my task long, my work turning entirely on the
History--all on speculation. But the post brought me a letter from Dr.
Lardner, the manager of the Cyclopædia, agreeing to my terms; so all is
right there, and no labour thrown away. The volume is to run to 400
pages; so much the better; I love elbow-room, and will have space to do
something to purpose. I replied agreeing to his terms, and will send him
copy as soon as I have corrected it. The Colonel and Miss Ferguson dined
with us. I think I drank rather a cheerful glass with my good friend.
Smoked an extra cigar, so no more at present.
_April_ 25.--After writing to Mr. Cochrane,[301] to Cadell and J.B.,
also to Mr. Pitcairn,[302] it was time to set out for Lord Buchan's
funeral. The funeral letters were signed by Mr. H. David Erskine, his
lordship's natural son. His nephew, the young Earl, was present, but
neither of them took the head of the coffin. His lordship's funeral took
place in a chapel amongst the ruins. His body was in the grave with its
feet pointing westward. My cousin, Maxpopple,[303] was for taking notice
of it, but I assured him that a man who had been wrong in the head all
his life would scarce become right-headed after death. I felt something
at parting with this old man, though but a trumpery body. He gave me the
first approbation I ever obtained from a stranger. His caprice had led
him to examine Dr. Adam's class when I, a boy twelve years old, and then
in disgrace for some aggravated case of negligence, was called up from a
low bench, and recited my lesson with some spirit and appearance of
feeling the poetry--it was the apparition of Hector's ghost in the
Æneid--of which called forth the noble Earl's applause. I was very proud
of this at the time.
I was sad on another account--it was the first time I had been among
these ruins since I left a very valued pledge there. My next visit may
be involuntary. Even so, God's will be done! at least I have not the
mortification of thinking what a deal of patronage and fuss Lord Buchan
would bestow on my funeral.[304] Maxpopple dined and slept here with
four of his family, much amused with what they heard and saw. By good
fortune a ventriloquist and partial juggler came in, and we had him in
the library after dinner. He was a half-starved wretched-looking
creature, who seemed to have ate more fire than bread. So I caused him
to be well stuffed, and gave him a guinea, rather to his poverty than to
his skill--and now to finish _Anne of Geierstein_.
_April_ 26.--But not a finger did I lay on the jacket of _Anne_. Looking
for something, I fell in with the little drama, long missing, called the
_Doom of Devorgoil_. I believe it was out of mere contradiction that I
sat down to read and correct it, merely because I would not be bound to
do aught that seemed compulsory. So I scribbled at a piece of nonsense
till two o'clock, and then walked to the lake. At night I flung helve
after hatchet, and spent the evening in reading the _Doom of Devorgoil_
to the girls, who seemed considerably interested. Anne objects to the
mingling the goblinry, which is comic, with the serious, which is
tragic. After all, I could greatly improve it, and it would not be a bad
composition of that odd kind to some picnic receptacle of all things.
_April_ 27.--This day must not be wasted. I breakfast with the
Fergusons, and dine with the Brewsters. But, by Heaven, I will finish
_Anne of Geierstein_ this day betwixt the two engagements. I don't know
why nor wherefore, but I hate _Anne_, I mean _Anne of Geierstein_; the
other two Annes are good girls. Accordingly I well nigh accomplished my
work, but about three o'clock my story fell into a slough, and in
getting it out I lost my way, and was forced to postpone the conclusion
till to-morrow. Wrote a good day's work notwithstanding.
_April_ 28.--I have slept upon my puzzle, and will now finish it, Jove
bless my _pia mater_, as I see not further impediment before me. The
story will end, and shall end, because it must end, and so here goes.
After this doughty resolution, I went doggedly to work, and finished
five leaves by the time when they should meet the coach. But the
misfortune of writing fast is that one cannot at the same time write
concisely. I wrote two pages more in the evening. Stayed at home all
day. Indeed, the weather--sleety, rainy, stormy--forms no tempting
prospect. Bogie, too, who sees his flourish going to wreck, is looking
as spiteful as an angry fiend towards the unpropitious heavens. So I
made a day of work of it,
"And yet the end was not."
_April_ 29.--This morning I finished and sent off three pages more, and
still there is something to write; but I will take the broad axe to it,
and have it ended before noon.
This has proved impossible, and the task lasted me till nine, when it
was finished, _tant bien que mal_. Now, will people say this expresses
very little respect for the public? In fact, I have very little respect
for that dear _publicum_ whom I am doomed to amuse, like Goody Trash in
_Bartholomew Fair_, with rattles and gingerbread; and I should deal very
uncandidly with those who may read my confessions were I to say I knew a
public worth caring for or capable of distinguishing the nicer beauties
of composition. They weigh good and evil qualities by the pound. Get a
good name and you may write trash. Get a bad one and you may write like
Homer, without pleasing a single reader. I am, perhaps, _l'enfant gâté
de succés_, but I am brought to the stake,[305] and must perforce stand
the course.
Having finished _Anne_[306] I began and revised fifteen leaves of the
History, and sent them to Dr. Lardner. I think they read more trashy
than I expected. But when could I ever please myself, even when I have
most pleased others? Then I walked about two hours by the thicket and
river-side, watching the appearance of spring, which, as Coleridge
says--
"Comes slowly up this way."
After dinner and tea I resumed the task of correction, which is an
odious one, but must be attempted, ay, and accomplished too.
_April_ 30.--Dr. Johnson enjoins Bozzy to leave out of his diary all
notices of the weather as insignificant. It may be so to an inhabitant
of Bolt Court, in Fleet Street, who need care little whether it rains or
snows, except the shilling which it may cost him for a Jarvie; but when
I wake and find a snow shower sweeping along, and destroying hundreds
perhaps of young lambs, and famishing their mothers, I must consider it
as worth noting. For my own poor share, I am as indifferent as any Grub
Streeter of them all--
"--And since 'tis a bad day,
Rise up, rise up, my merry men,
And use it as you may."
I have accordingly been busy. The weather did not permit me to go beyond
the courtyard, for it continued cold and rainy. I have employed the day
in correcting the history for Cyclopædia as far as page 35, exclusive,
and have sent it off, or shall to-morrow. I wish I knew how it would run
out. Dr. Lardner's measure is a large one, but so much the better. I
like to have ample verge and space enough, and a mere abridgment would
be discreditable. Well, nobody can say I eat the bread of idleness. Why
should I? Those who do not work from necessity take violent labour from
choice, and were necessity out of the question I would take the same
sort of literary labour from choice--something more leisurely though.