high postage Scott's bill for
letters "seldom came under 150_l._ a year," and "as to coach parcels,
they were a perfect ruination." On one occasion a mighty package came
by post from the United States, for which Scott had to pay five pounds
sterling. It contained a MS. play called _The Cherokee Lovers_, by a
young lady of New York, who begged Scott to read and correct it, write
a prologue and epilogue, get it put on the stage at Drury Lane, and
negotiate with Constable or Murray for the copyright. In about a
fortnight another packet not less formidable arrived, charged with a
similar postage, which Scott, not grown cautious through experience,
recklessly opened; out jumped a duplicate copy of _The Cherokee
Lovers_, with a second letter from the authoress, stating that as the
weather had been stormy, and she feared that something might have
happened to her former MS., she had thought it prudent to send him a
duplicate.[41] Of course, when fame reached such a point as this, it
became both a worry and a serious waste of money, and what was far
more valuable than money, of time, privacy, and tranquillity of mind.
And though no man ever bore such worries with the equanimity of Scott,
no man ever received less pleasure from the adulation of unknown and
often vulgar and ignorant admirers. His real amusements were his trees
and his friends. "Planting and pruning trees," he said, "I could work
at from morning to night. There is a sort of self-congratulation, a
little tickling self-flattery, in the idea that while you are pleasing
and amusing yourself, you are seriously contributing to the future
welfare of the country, and that your very acorn may send its future
ribs of oak to future victories like Trafalgar,"[42]--for the day of
iron ships was not yet. And again, at a later stage of his
planting:--"You can have no idea of the exquisite delight of a
planter,--he is like a painter laying on his colours,--at every moment
he sees his effects coming out. There is no art or occupation
comparable to this; it is full of past, present, and future enjoyment.
I look back to the time when there was not a tree here, only bare
heath; I look round and see thousands of trees growing up, all of
which, I may say almost each of which, have received my personal
attention. I remember, five years ago, looking forward with the most
delighted expectation to this very hour, and as each year has passed,
the expectation has gone on increasing. I do the