BREAD AND WATER--FAIR PLAY--FASHIONABLE LIFE--COLONEL B--- OR JOSEPH
SELL--THE KINDLY GLOW
'I must do something,' said I, as I sat that night in my lonely
apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me.
Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I considered what I
was to do. 'I have no idea what I am to do,' said I, as I stretched my
hand towards the pitcher, 'unless (and here I took a considerable
draught) I write a tale or a novel-- That bookseller,' I continued,
speaking to myself, 'is certainly much in need of a tale or a novel,
otherwise he would not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear
to have no other chance of extricating myself from my present
difficulties; surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window.
'I will do it,' said I, as I struck my hand against the table; 'I will do
it.' Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came over me. Could I do it?
Had I the imagination requisite to write a tale or a novel? 'Yes, yes,'
said I, as I struck my hand again against the table, 'I can manage it;
give me fair play, and I can accomplish anything.'
But should I have fair play? I must have something to maintain myself
with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but eighteenpence in the world.
Would that maintain me whilst I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would,
provided I ate bread, which did not cost much, and drank water, which
cost nothing; it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself
had written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so? or
something to that effect, months before?
It was true there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time I
owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time that the people of the house asked
me for money, I should have written a tale or a novel, which would bring
me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I
had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night work.
Enough, I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel.
But what was the tale or novel to be about? Was it to be a tale of
fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess something?
But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and cared less; therefore
how should I attempt to describe fashionable life? What should the tale
consist of? The life and adventures of some one. Good--but of whom?
Did not Mr. Petulengro mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell
me that the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much
money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. I heard,
it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he committed robberies
on the hill, on the side of which Mr. Petulengro had pitched his tents,
and that his ghost still haunted the hill at midnight; but those were
scant materials out of which to write the man's life. It is probable,
indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further
materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not
afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and
from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted at
the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the
history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. Whose
then--Harry Simms? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much
better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all,
Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber. Both, though bold
and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I
could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the
exploits of a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I,
something higher than a mere robber; someone like--like Colonel B---. By
the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B---,
of Londonderry in Ireland?
A truly singular man was this same Colonel B---, of Londonderry in
Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who
had been a partizan soldier, a bravo--who, assisted by certain
discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia
from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond at
Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with
his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that
he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the
mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the
coffin through the streets.
Of his life I had inserted an account in the _Newgate Lives and Trials_;
it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the
seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination,
and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if
I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of
it a very decent tale or novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of
mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me. 'I am afraid,' said
I, 'any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the
old tale; one will but spoil the other.' I had better have nothing to do
with Colonel B---, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and
write the life of Joseph Sell.
This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just
come into my head. I had never even heard of the name; but just at that
moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely
fictitious narrative, called the _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_,
the great traveller.
I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the
jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith
essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is
much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to
commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after
trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to
bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.
So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part of the night
I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had determined to execute. For
a long time my brain was dry and unproductive; I could form no plan which
appeared feasible. At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow; it
was the commencement of inspiration; in a few minutes I had formed my
plan; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. Scenes and
incidents flitted before my mind's eye so plentifully, that I knew not
how to dispose of them; I was in a regular embarrassment. At length I
got out of the difficulty in the easiest manner imaginable, namely, by
consigning to the depths of oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant
scenes and incidents, and retaining the better and more impressive ones.
Before morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind,
and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction that the
most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved.