The Fortunes of Nigel | Page 9

by much the more
laboured. Besides, I doubt the beneficial effect of too much delay, both
on account of the author and the public. A man should strike while the
iron is hot, and hoist sail while the wind is fair. If a successful author
keep not the stage, another instantly takes his ground. If a writer lie by
for ten years ere he produces a second work, he is superseded by others;
or, if the age is so poor of genius that this does not happen, his own
reputation becomes his greatest obstacle. The public will expect the
new work to be ten times better than its predecessor; the author will
expect it should be ten times more popular, and 'tis a hundred to ten
that both are disappointed.
Captain. This may justify a certain degree of rapidity in publication,
but not that which is proverbially said to be no speed. You should take
time at least to arrange your story.
Author. That is a sore point with me, my son. Believe me, I have not
been fool enough to neglect ordinary precautions. I have repeatedly laid
down my future work to scale, divided it into volumes and chapters,
and endeavoured to construct a story which I meant should evolve itself
gradually and strikingly, maintain suspense, and stimulate curiosity;
and which, finally, should terminate in a striking catastrophe. But I
think there is a demon who seats himself on the feather of my pen when
I begin to write, and leads it astray from the purpose. Characters
expand under my hand; incidents are multiplied; the story lingers,

while the materials increase; my regular mansion turns out a Gothic
anomaly, and the work is closed long before I have attained the point I
proposed.
Captain. Resolution and determined forbearance might remedy that
evil.
Author. Alas! my dear sir, you do not know the force of paternal
affection. When I light on such a character as Bailie Jarvie, or Dalgetty,
my imagination brightens, and my conception becomes clearer at every
step which I take in his company, although it leads me many a weary
mile away from the regular road, and forces me leap hedge and ditch to
get back into the route again. If I resist the temptation, as you advise
me, my thoughts become prosy, flat, and dull; I write painfully to
myself, and under a consciousness of flagging which makes me flag
still more; the sunshine with which fancy had invested the incidents,
departs from them, and leaves every thing dull and gloomy. I am no
more the same author I was in my better mood, than the dog in a wheel,
condemned to go round and round for hours, is like the same dog
merrily chasing his own tail, and gambolling in all the frolic of
unrestrained freedom. In short, sir, on such occasions, I think I am
bewitched.
Captain. Nay, sir, if you plead sorcery, there is no more to be said--he
must needs go whom the devil drives. And this, I suppose, sir, is the
reason why you do not make the theatrical attempt to which you have
been so often urged?
Author. It may pass for one good reason for not writing a play, that I
cannot form a plot. But the truth is, that the idea adopted by too
favourable judges, of my having some aptitude for that department of
poetry, has been much founded on those scraps of old plays, which,
being taken from a source inaccessible to collectors, they have hastily
considered the offspring of my mother-wit. Now, the manner in which I
became possessed of these fragments is so extraordinary, that I cannot
help telling it to you.
You must know, that, some twenty years since, I went down to visit an

old friend in Worcestershire, who had served with me in the----
Dragoons.
_Captain._ Then you have served, sir?
_Author._ I have--or I have not, which signifies the same thing--
Captain is a good travelling name.--I found my friend's house
unexpectedly crowded with guests, and, as usual, was condemned--the
mansion being an old one--to the _haunted apartment._ I have, as a
great modern said, seen too many ghosts to believe in them, so betook
myself seriously to my repose, lulled by the wind rustling among the
lime-trees, the branches of which chequered the moonlight which fell
on the floor through the diamonded casement, when, behold, a darker
shadow interposed itself, and I beheld visibly on the floor of the
apartment--
_Captain._ The White Lady of Avenel, I suppose?--You have told the
very story before.
_Author._ No--I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron,
sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and in
the other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my