Mary Brunton
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TO THE SAME.
DEC. 1, 1812.
You give me a pretty broad hint, that my little interest in my present work proceeds from my own indolence. To this I can make an answer, which satisfies myself. I can, and often do write, when I would much rather let it alone. But in these circumstances I never write well, nor can I by any exertion write better. The only fruit of my endeavours is strong disgust at the whole. An author can no more invent, who is not "i' the vein," than a painter could draw a straight line, whose hand was in the tremour of an ague-fit. To tell me that I am idle, is only Pharaoh's call for bricks without straw. * * *
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TO HER BROTHER.
ST LEONARDS, SEPT. 9, 1813.
As to the size of your little gentleman, you must reconcile yourself to that, by hoping that, like you, like Caesar, Alexander the Great, myself, and others, our friend may hide a capacious soul in a diminutive body.
Indeed, I think you and I need not seek far for arguments, to prove that small bodies are likely, a priori, to contain great souls. For instance; it is to be supposed that nature, like an impartial parent, will balance the deficiency of one gift by liberality in another, and not bestow double portions on some of her children, to the exclusion or neglect of others. Again; according to the universal language of mankind, great souls are active and aspiring. We talk of a "towering mind"--"a soaring spirit," &c. Now, how should souls, that are loaded with mountains of bones and flesh, tower and soar like your's and mine? unless, indeed, a soul were of the make of a paper-kite, which flies the better for a clog at its tail. Once more: To what purpose should the principle of motion, in a great clumsy machine, be tempered as finely as in smaller frames? Would you have the spring of a cuckoo-clock as nicely made as that of a little tiny repeating watch?
I think all this sufficient to convince any body whose interest does not lie on the other side; but I am sure that, if necessary, I could advance as much more of the same kind, as would weary out the greatest of our opponents.
While you are, of course, so much occupied with your own brat, I thank you for taking such an interest in mine. In one respect, your's has the advantage; for, while he would thrive, although I were to forget his very existence, mine depends not a little upon the interest you take in her for her growth and progress. She will come on much the better for the mention you make of her. No fear of the falls of Niagara! Ellen is too common-place a person for such achievements; and none of her future adventures are at all more surprising than those which I read to you.
Only two dangers now threaten her; the one is, that I may give up recording such a humble history; the other, that, after I have done my best, it may be little read. To be sure, what satisfies you may well content the herd of novel-readers. But it is a very different thing to hear a manuscript read, from sitting down with a printed book in one's own hand to spy faults; or from seeking amusement, without any reference to the author, or to the judgment which one's friends form of the work. Even I think Self-Control in print a far worse performance than Self-Control in manuscript.
However, I mean to do my very best for my second daughter; and if I live and thrive till this time next year, we shall try how she looks in "wire-wove and hot-pressed." My stay here is rather favourable to her progress. But that advantage will not last her long; for, in the beginning of next month, we are to move to town. I shall not be sorry to find myself in Albany Street, where, I must own, my quarters please me better than any where else. Mr B. is the busiest of all men, with his pot-hooks of all imaginable forms. In proof whereof, he has scarcely transplanted any thing this season; so that the walk is in great beauty. By the by, I am sorry you went away without seeing St Leonards. I think it would be a place to your own heart's content--so buried from the view of all earthly things and persons!
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TO MRS CRAIGIE.
AUG. 1813.
William has probably told you what a busy woman I am. If any body had said to me three years ago, that, even to my brother, I should ever boldly avow myself an author, I would have fearlessly asserted the thing to be impossible; and if, before Self-Control went to press, I could have guessed that it would be traced to me, I would certainly have put it in the fire. It is now universally believed to be mine; and this, in spite of its success, I shall always think my misfortune; but I am sure it is not my fault. I never absolutely denied it, indeed; for that would have been a direct falsehood, but I always thought myself at liberty to mislead those, who wanted the delicacy which has prevented you from questioning me on the subject. At first, the book was written merely for my amusement. It was finished within two years, and scarcely at all altered from the first manuscript. I am ashamed to think how much more slowly I proceed with my work, than I did with my play.
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TO THE SAME.
MAY 81, 1814.
You talk of my seeing you before I begin another book. That may well be; for I shall certainly draw a long breath before I begin again.
Since Self-Control was fixed upon me, my circle of acquaintance has widened so unmercifully, that my time, in Edinburgh, is very little at my command. But, upon the whole, I am a gainer. I have gained associates among persons eminent for talents and respectability; while I have lost only the power of sitting at times dozing by my own fire-side, or of wandering out unnoticed among the crowd. I have lost the power of commanding my own time; but others command it pleasantly for me.
However, I intend (if the ten thousand nameless things which affect industry and invention will allow me) to be very busy at St Leonards. I have enough to do I am sure. Six weeks of hard work will finish my manuscript. But then the whole affair remains to be corrected and polished; and in that way I might work, I suppose, ad infinitum. When I have ended, "I will dance on the top of it," as the man in the song was to do with his dead wife. I am sure she was not half such a plague to him, as my book has been to me.
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TO MRS IZETT.
AUG. 15, 1814.
Ellen is at an end. She was finished at three o'clock one morning; and I waked Mr B. out of his first sleep to hear of her wedding. I am correcting; which is not the part of the business the most to my liking. I have a great aversion to blot a page of good clean writing.
If no accident befall--if my manuscript is neither burnt, nor stolen, nor lost,--perhaps the book may be in your hands entire before Christmas. I dare say you will make a pause in your historical course to read it--were it only to see how ---- will like it--and if she venture at all to disapprove, you will colour up to the ears, and have just self-command enough to hold your tongue.
Have you finished Waverley? And what think you of the scenes at Carlisle? Are they not admirable? I assure you, that, in my opinion, they are absolutely matchless, for nature, character, originality, and pathos. Flora's "scam," and the "paper-coronet," are themselves worth whole volumes of common inventions. And what think you of Evan's speech? It delights my very soul!
Why should an epic or a tragedy be supposed to hold such an exalted place in composition, while a novel is almost a nickname for a book? Does not a novel admit of as noble sentiments--as lively description--as natural character--as perfect unity of action--and a moral as irresistible as either of them? I protest, I think--a fiction containing a just representation of human beings and of their actions--a connected, interesting, and probable story, conducting to a useful and impressive moral lesson--might be one of the greatest efforts of human genius. Let the admirable construction of fable in Tom Jones be employed to unfold characters like Miss Edgeworth's --let it lead to a moral like Richardson's--let it be told with the eloquence of Rousseau, and with the simplicity of Goldsmith--let it be all this, and Milton need not have been ashamed of the work! But novels have got an ill name; therefore "give novels to the dogs." I have done with them; for, if even the best possible would be comparatively despised, what is to become of mine? Well! what shall I do next? Give me your advice, and, if I like it, I will take it. * * *
I began the Gaelic Grammar yesterday. The pronunciation is terribly unintelligible. "There is no sound like this in English," is a very spirit-breaking index. I fear I shall never make out the true croaking and spluttering. If I persevere, however, I may astonish you when we meet--shocking your ears with your dear native tongue spoken in the barbarous accents of a southron. But to what purpose should I persevere?
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TO MRS CRAIGIE.
DEC. 10, 1814.
If I make my letter as voluminous as I intend, the chance is, that it will not be the first of my works you read. "Discipline" is to accompany it; and the only chance which the letter has for precedence, consists in its being more easily read. However, the book is William's property; and perhaps he may read it himself before he sends it to you. I hope and believe, that I shall soon receive his criticisms. I wish I had as good hopes of your's; but I fear you will not pronounce so decidedly as I could wish. Before I can get a judgment from either of you, the world will have settled the success, though not the merit, of the book; for it is to be published three days hence, and a week will decide the business.
It is very unfortunate in coming after Waverley, by far the most splendid exhibition of talent in the novel way, which has appeared since the days of Fielding and Smollet. There seems little doubt that it comes from the pen of Scott. What a competitor for poor little me! The worst of all is, that I have ventured unconsciously on Waverley's own ground, by carrying my heroine to the Highlands!
There is no help for all this! In authorship luck does a great deal. Self-Control was more successful than many a better book has been. This may be less successful, without being less deserving. Well! well! In so far as my motives have been good, the rewards of good intention are secure to me. I am persuaded, that no book of its kind can convey lessons more important in their nature. Whether these lessons be well or ill given, is quite another affair, of which I have no means of judging.
The same day that gives "Discipline" to the public, is to give ---- a wife. Both of these great events are to take place on Tuesday, 13th Dec.
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TO HER BROTHER.
APRIL 21, 1815.
I thank you for your criticisms; some of them have served the purpose for which I presume you intended them, by making me laugh heartily.
Not but that I acknowledge there is some justice in them all, except in your attack upon my Scotchman; who, I assure you, is not so very marble, but that he is in high favour with the ladies. A handsome fashionable young one, the other day, embargoed Mr Miller in a corner of his own shop, till he should tell her who Maitland was; since, "beyond all doubt, the character was a real one."
As for the Highlands, you know, they are quite the rage. All the novel-reading Misses have seen and admired them in the verdure and sunshine of July. Now, what novel-reading Miss ever had common sense enough to doubt, that what is pleasing to the eye, should be desirable in possession; or that what charms for an evening, should delight for ever?
As for my religion, I allow that there is too much for amusement, perhaps for good taste; nevertheless, I cannot bate you one iota. For the great purpose of the book is to procure admission for the religion of a sound mind and of the Bible, where it cannot find access in any other form. Yes! I say the great purpose; for, though I love money dearly, money is not my motive for writing as I do; not for the complexion and sentiments of my books. On the contrary, I am quite sure I might make twice as much of my labour, if I could bring myself to present to the public an easy flexible sort of virtue--possessing no strong support, and being, indeed, too light to need any--instead of the old-fashioned erect morality, which "falls not, because it is founded on a rock."
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The success of Discipline, on its first publication, was far greater than the author herself had anticipated. But she was by no means gratified by it to the same extent as she had been by the reception of Self-Control. She was now well-known to be the author, and therefore she was not so sure that the applause which reached her was all sincere. The honied words of praise were never very valuable to her. They had now lost the charm of novelty, and she doubted whether they retained the more valuable recommendation of truth.
Her standard for estimating skill in the delineation of character had been raised by the appearance of Waverley; and she felt--more perhaps than she ought to have done--how poorly her own sketches appeared beside those of that masterly work. The silence, too, of the principal literary journals discouraged her. She had never, indeed, expected to attract much of their notice; but, while other works of the same kind were discussed in their pages, she thought that if they had judged favourably as to the usefulness of her labours, they would not have with-held from her their advice and encouragement.
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An interruption of my professional duties, which the repairing of the Tron Church occasioned in the summer of 1815, enabled us again to visit London, and to linger for a few weeks amidst the lovely scenery of the south-west of England. The elasticity of her spirit returned, and she enjoyed her tour with all her own enthusiasm. The beauty of Monmouthshire, especially, sunk into her heart; and her eyes used ever afterwards to glisten when she heard the name.
When we were settled in Edinburgh for the winter, she was less willing to return to her usual employments. She had grown distrustful of her own power to combine the incidents of a long continued narrative; and would not venture to engage again in any thing exactly similar to what she had written before. I pressed her to undertake a series of essays on the character and writings of her favourite Cowper; but though she seemed fond of the idea, she was unwilling to change, at once, so entirely the kind of composition in which the public had received her with indulgence. The qualities which she required in the subject that was to engage her, she thus describes in a letter to her brother.
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TO HER BROTHER.
OCT. 27, 1815.
After the finest summer I ever remember, the weather is now completely broken. We have had constant rains for a month past. We shall go, therefore, without regret, to town next week. All the world are going thither as well as we. The approaching Musical Festival has drawn more people to Edinburgh, than it ever contained before at one time.
I am sure I heartily wish the mob were dispersed again; for I am quite weary of bustle and idleness. The last season has, indeed, been at once the most bustling and the most idle, I ever spent. But now I am resolved to be busy. Tell me how I shall fill up the few and short intervals, which my necessary avocations leave me; that is, tell me on what subject you think I may write; for writing is now become a part of my duty. When I ask your advice, however, I openly make the reservation, which most people, in the same case, make secretly--I will take your advice only if it please me.
I am thinking of short tales; but have as yet scarcely devised any subject for them. I do not need to write for bread; and I would not write one volume, merely to gain the fame of Homer. A moral therefore is necessary for me; but where to get one on which to found a tale that will be readable, is the question. A lofty moral, too, is necessary to my style of thinking and writing; and really it is not easy to make such a one the ground-work of any story which novel readers will endure.
One advantage, indeed, I possess--the path which I have chosen is almost exclusively my own. The few moral lessons which our English fictions profess to teach, are of the humblest class. Even Miss Edgeworth's genius has stooped to inculcate mere worldly wisdom. "Patience is a plaster for all sores"--"Honesty is the best policy"--"A penny saved is a penny got,"--seem the texts which she has embellished with her shrewd observation, and exquisite painting of character.
To cut short this endless subject. Some evening when you have nothing else to do, sit down, and let me hear your sentiments at great length. As I said before, I will adopt them, if I like them.
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She resolved at last to attempt a collection of short narratives, under the title of Domestic Tales. The first of these which she projected, was, "The Runaway." It was to contain the story of a truant boy, whose hardships should teach him the value of home. With this narrative, however, she wished to blend some account of the peculiar manners of Orkney; and while she waited to renew the recollections which were fading, after so long an absence from her native county, she began the story of Emmeline. The scope of this was to shew, how little chance there is of happiness when the divorced wife marries her seducer.
As the interest of such a story does not very much depend upon the incidents,--as what is written of it had received all the correction which she ever gave to her compositions,--as the principal characters are sufficiently developed to be useful,--and as the spirit of the times seems to make the lesson peculiarly seasonable, I have not hesitated to publish Emmeline in its unfinished state. My present feelings must, indeed, greatly mislead me, if it is not equal in eloquence and power to any of her former writings.
I subjoin the sketch of this tale, which I find written out in the same form as the outline of Discipline. It will enable the reader to perceive how the history of Emmeline was intended to proceed. In the close of this sketch, the sentence is written with which the narrative concludes, at page 100.
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OUTLINE OF EMMELINE.
The wedding.-- * Trifles indicating future distrust.-- * Husband, a soldier, accustomed to all the rousing interests of war.-- * Women not formed by nature to be sufficient for themselves.--Loss of reputation greatest of earthly calamities; a calamity which, when felt as it ought to be, no power but one can cure.-- * Mr D., first husband, restores her fortune.--De C, discontented under obligation.--The injured Mr D., whom he had endeavoured--almost successfully endeavoured--to hate and despise, had risen.--Thinks his wife should not accept; and half-angry that she does--Yet does not like to ask such a sacrifice.-- * * E. loves De C. the more for being alone with him, and having nothing else to occupy her.--But he wearies.--De C not of those whose thoughts go forth in search of sympathy.--Those who conceal their thoughts, often act as if other people knew them, or, at least, were to blame for not knowing them.-- * The pair alone--Solitary.--E. remembers the gaiety, and attendance, and respect, that waited on her former nuptial--Longs for her children.--De C., a domestic man, feels great want of his own family--Very fond of his wife--Watches every cloud in her face.--Ellen constantly fears, that, though he loves, he does not respect her.--His natural stateliness she mistakes for scorn.--Husband's sister, once favourite friend, does not visit them.--His respectable mother refuses to own them.--Ellen's pride at first supports her.--She and her husband resolve to be every thing to each other.--The thing is impossible to the guilty!-- * Dependants worthless.--Respectable persons, even in the lower rank, keep aloof.--Others partly plead the example of their betters, in excuse for their misdeeds.--Charity defeated by loss of reputation.-- * Tries to see her children.-- * Meets her first husband.-- * * * Driven into society by the unhappiness of solitude. --Slighted.--Husband very angry.--Angry with his wife too!-- * * He goes to rejoin the army, avowing his resolution never to return.
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During this winter a friend, who knew how very valuable the gratification was to her, procured for her occasionally the privilege of hearing extracts read from Guy Mannering, while it was at press. They were admirably read--which was at all times a great enjoyment to her. Thus enhanced, the pleasure which she felt from her favourite work of her favourite novelist, and the freedom with which she was allowed to express her admiration, made the evenings which were so employed among the happiest of her life.
I can hardly give a more striking proof of her singleness of heart, and truly generous nature, than that while this author was withdrawing public notice from herself, perhaps in more than a due degree, he had not one more enthusiastic admirer. The delight which she felt in every new trait of excellence, and her eagerness for the popularity of what she saw to be transcendent in desert, cannot be forgotten by any who witnessed the emotions, which to herself appeared mere matters of course, destitute of all merit or attraction.
Though the written expressions of her admiration are cold in comparison of what these confidential hours encouraged her to say, I subjoin such extracts on this subject, as I can obtain from the materials before me.*
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TO HER BROTHER.
DEC. 1816.
All Edinburgh was talking (till the Grand Duke Nicolas arrived to change the subject) of the volumes, which you must have seen advertised, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord." Beyond a doubt they are from the same hand with Guy Mannering, though the author has changed his publisher for concealment.
The four volumes contain two tales. The last, the longest, and by very far the best, is a story of the days of the Covenanters; in which, by the by, our ancestor Balfour of Burleigh makes a very scurvy figure. The conscientious and heroic, though often misguided, Covenanters are treated with little candour, and less mercy. But, notwithstanding all this, the tale is one of ten thousand. The description--the exquisite drawing of character--the humour--the unrivalled fertility of invention--or rather the boundless observation, which are shown in this Old Mortality, would immortalize the author, even if he had no former claim to immortality. I cannot, however, allow, that I think it equal, upon the whole, to Guy Mannering.
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TO MRS BALFOUR.
JAN. 17, 1818.
Send me carelessly and freely whatever you happen to hear of anecdote--superstition--proverb--or provincial expression, which at all marks the peculiarities of character, or the state of society in our county. It is with such that Scott has given life and reality to his novels. In these admirable works, I am persuaded that there is little, except the mere story, which can be called invention. The more prominent persons in them are indeed, as it seems to me, real characters; and his dialogues the essence of thousands of real conversations. Scott is gifted with a memory, which absolutely retains every thing good, bad, and indifferent. Hence he can never be at a loss for realities to enliven his tale; and there is a spirit in the truth, which no human genius can give to mere fiction. From whence comes the wonderful verisimilitude of De Foe's novels--but from this, that they contain only so much falsehood as is necessary to make truth connected and entertaining. So let me have whatever you collect. There is nothing so common that it may not be of use. A structure may not be the less pleasing, that it is not all built of alabaster.
Scott (for I am convinced that it must be he) has again tried this mixture of truth and fiction in Rob Roy, and tried it successfully; though not perhaps quite so successfully as in former instances. But though it may be inferior to some of his other works, I think it will gain by a comparison with the best national pictures of any other hand. I understand he has already contracted for four volumes more of Tales of my Landlord. How wonderful is the activity of his mind! No sooner is one effort made, than he is ready to undertake another, and of the same kind too!
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Her time was now very much broken in upon while we were in Edinburgh; her visitors were numerous; the share which she took in the management of some of the public charities, was laborious; and, above all, a resolution which she had early formed, of investigating personally every case of distress which claimed relief from her, led to extensive and increasing occupation. During the winter, therefore, Emmeline went on very slowly.
When we removed in June for a few months to the country, I was in hopes that its progress would have been more regular and rapid. But she had a lingering attack of the same low fever which had seized her in London, and which was now even more than usually accompanied with dejection and languor. Its effect is thus strongly painted in a letter to Mrs Izett.
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TO MRS IZETT.
SEPT. 4, 1816.
---- I am as much in the open air as this melancholy summer has allowed me. As for my writing, it has been for four months entirely discontinued. For the greater part of that time, I have been utterly incapable of interesting myself in that, or indeed, any other employment. The worst consequence, however, of my indisposition, has been the uneasiness it has given to you and to Mr B., to him especially, for he has felt it much; and this has, no doubt, tended to increase it. I trust it is now removed; and that I shall, when an endless train of visitors allows me, be able once more to take my talent from its napkin.
Do not write to me either reproof or exhortation. I might have done something to rouse myself; but I had lost the will. I write without method or coherence; for I do not aim at either. I am setting down my thoughts just as they occur. Make out the feelings which prompt them as you best can.
--Have you seen a little tale, called Display? It is worth its price, I assure you.--There is a most overpowering Memoir of Cowper, by himself. If you have not seen it, pray get it! You will be astonished by its power!
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In the spring of 1817, her spirits got a severe shock, by the death of a young friend to whom she was most affectionately attached, and whose talents and principles justified the brightest hopes of her friends. She had been the companion of part of our tour in 1815, and I cannot refuse myself the melancholy satisfaction of inserting a tribute to her, in a letter written by Mrs Brunton at that time. It thus describes the beginning of an attachment, which afterwards ripened into strong affection, and which, I trust, is now again the joy of both.
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TO MRS F.
LONDON, JUNE, 1815.
G. left me on Wednesday, and has carried with her more of my esteem, as well as affection, than I ever bestowed upon any person in the same term of acquaintance. Perhaps I like her the better that she affords me occasion to applaud my own penetration. She is precisely the being I expected her to prove.--She tempts me to the sin of covetousness; and is, at this moment, the only possession of your's, or any other person's, for which I am inclined to break the tenth commandment. If I do not absolutely, as the Catechism says, "envy and grieve at the good of my neighbour," I cannot deny that I have "inordinate motions and affections" to what is yours. I am ready to quarrel with you for taking her away from me before I had time to steal any part of the kindest and gentlest of hearts from you. I have seldom seen any one whom I was more desirous to attach; but she is gone from me before I had time to counteract the ill impressions she would receive from my stiffness, and my Calvinism. This last, you know, you gave me permission to expose; and accordingly I have not concealed it. On the contrary, I have spoken out my convictions strongly, though, I hope, not harshly; and have even solemnly adjured my dear young friend, to give them her deliberate and candid consideration.
She will probably tell you this, and all else which has occupied our discourse and attention. But she will not tell you, that the modesty and candour--the singular mixture of simplicity and acuteness, of enthusiasm and gentleness, which she was every moment unconsciously exhibiting, have made her the most interesting show which I have seen in London.
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For a long time this blow disinclined her from exertion. The first effort which she made, was prompted by the revival of a desire which she had before attempted to indulge, of learning the Gaelic language. To this arduous attempt she devoted a great part of her leisure for some months. I have reason to believe that her progress was considerable; but this was the only one of her pursuits in which I took no share.
She was fond of the study of language; and very little encouragement would have induced her to devote to classical learning that leisure, which seemed to me to be, in her circumstances, capable of a more improving destination. On the general subject, she thus expresses herself in a letter to her sister-in-law.
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* See also page lxxiv.
This presentation of Emmeline. With Some Other Pieces., by Mary Brunton is Copyright 2003 by P.J. LaBrocca. It may not be copied, duplicated, stored or transmitted in any form without written permission. The text is in the public domain.