MARCH 9TH.


MY DEAR S. C., - Take it not amiss if this is a wretched
letter. I am eaten up with business. Every day this week I
have had some business impediment - I am even now waiting a
deputation of chiefs about the road - and my precious morning
was shattered by a polite old scourge of a FAIPULE -
parliament man - come begging. All the time DAVID BALFOUR is
skelping along. I began it the 13th of last month; I have
now 12 chapters, 79 pages ready for press, or within an ace,
and, by the time the month is out, one-half should be
completed, and I'll be back at drafting the second half.
What makes me sick is to think of Scott turning out GUY
MANNERING in three weeks! What a pull of work: heavens, what
thews and sinews! And here am I, my head spinning from
having only re-written seven not very difficult pages - and
not very good when done. Weakling generation. It makes me
sick of myself, to make such a fash and bobbery over a rotten
end of an old nursery yarn, not worth spitting on when done.
Still, there is no doubt I turn out my work more easily than
of yore, and I suppose I should be singly glad of that. And
if I got my book done in six weeks, seeing it will be about
half as long as a Scott, and I have to write everything
twice, it would be about the same rate of industry. It is my
fair intention to be done with it in three months, which
would make me about one-half the man Sir Walter was for
application and driving the dull pen. Of the merit we shall
not talk; but I don't think Davie is WITHOUT merit.