_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