g 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."

_March_ 18.--I was sorely worried by the black dog this morning, that
vile palpitation of the heart--that _tremor cordis_--that hysterical
passion which forces unbidden sighs and tears, and falls upon a
contented life like a drop of ink on white paper, which is not the less
a stain because it conveys no meaning. I wrought three leaves, however,
and the story goes on. I dined at the Club of the Selkirkshire yeomanry,
now disbanded.

"The Eldrich knight gave up his arms
With ma