March 12.—­The boy got four leaves of copy to-day, and I wrote three more.  Received by Mr. Cadell from Treuttel and Wurtz for articles in Foreign Review L52, 10s., which is at my credit with him.  Poor Gillies has therefore kept his word so far, but it is enough to have sacrificed L100 to him already in literary labour, which I make him welcome to.  I cannot spare him more—­which, besides, would do him no good.

March 13, [Abbotsford].—­I wrote a little in the morning and sent off some copy.  We came off from Edinburgh at ten o’clock, and got to Abbotsford by four, where everything looks unusually advanced; the birds singing and the hedges budding, and all other prospects of spring too premature to be rejoiced in.

I found that, like the foolish virgins, the servants had omitted to get oil for my lamp, so I was obliged to be idle all the evening.  But though I had a diverting book, the Tales of the Munster Festivals,[150] yet an evening without writing hung heavy on my hands.  The Tales are admirable.  But they have one fault, that the crisis is in more cases than one protracted after a keen interest 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 [14 to] 16.—­The same record applies to these three days.  From seven to half-past nine writing—­from half-past 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 water-side, 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.[151]

    “Ego nunquam potui scribere jejunus.”