a bad fall from his horse, and never afterwards mounted Sybil Grey. His eyes, too, began to be affected by the unwonted strain put upon them by the research necessary for Napoleon, and perhaps, as his biographer thinks, by working in gaslight.

The year wound up ominously. Not only were there ugly rumours as to Constable's affairs, but at Christmas Scott himself was suddenly taken ill-"in a manner shot dead on Christmas Day, within half-an-hour after dinner, mincepies in my very throat," as he wrote to his favourite, little Jane. The malady, which was pronounced to be a chronic disease, necessitated doses of calomel, causing the old depression. No preparation for what was to come! However, though he had now no heart for "serious business," he was able, inspired by thoughts of Dundee's departure from Edinburgh to raise the Highlands, and his ancestor Old Beardie at Killiecrankie, to throw off some new verses to the old tune of "Bonnie Dundee." They are instinct with fire, charm, and romance, culminating in the splendid lines beginning, "He waved his proud hand." He sent them to his daughter-in-law, together with some admirable remarks upon Scotch tunes. "Can't say what made me take a frisk so uncommon of late years as to write verses of free-will. I suppose the same impulse which makes birds sing when the storm has blown over," he notes in the Journal which he had just begun to keep. Alas! the storm was presently to rage with redoubled fury!

T

CHAPTER XX

RUIN OF BALLANTYNE AND CO.

HE last six years of Scott's life have their

deeply pathetic record in the pages of his

Journal, which begins almost with his misfortunes. It is contained in two small quartos, locked, and bound in vellum, which were only printed as a whole some twelve or thirteen years ago. Scott called it his Gurnal-" a hard word so spelled on authority of Miss Scott, now Mrs. Lockhart." The idea was suggested by the Ravenna Diary of Lord Byron, who had been much in his mind since his recent death. He kept it by him in his study, and found it soothing to write in it when wearied by his work or depressed by "thickcoming fancies." He likewise made regular entries in the early morning or at bedtime. The Journal was begun on November 20th, 1825, and only two days later we read of the general distress in the city having affected Constable's London agents. But the diarist only apprehends for himself and Ballantyne "much distress and inconvenience," and calculates that at the very worst he has enough "to pay forty shillings in the pound."

However, a few days later, he registers his purpose

to practise economies, Abbotsford being already too large for the property. There is to be no more building or purchase of land "till times are quite safe," and no buying of books or expensive trifles-"I mean to any extent." And encumbrances are to be cleared off with the returns of the year's labour. On December 1st he notes having signed a bond of £5,000, with Constable, for the relief of Hurst and Robinson, the "Crafty's" London agents, whose ruin would, it was evident, involve them all; and the next day, after writing that he had been transacting business with J. B(allantyne), adds, "All seems to go smoothly." But when we come to the 14th there are renewed apprehensions: "Affairs very bad in the money market in London. It must come here, and I have far too many engagements not to feel it." To end the matter at once he resolves to borrow £10,000, a sum with which his son's marriage contract allowed him to charge the Abbotsford estate; and still thinks, "on a fair balance which I have made," that he is not less than nearly £50,000 "above the world."

On the 18th, after a visit from his printing partner, he believes that his extremity is come, and supposes that the coming failure of Constable and his agents "will involve my all." He confesses that he has been rash in anticipating funds to buy land-" but then I made from £5,000 to £10,000 a year, and land was my temptation." He does not nourish the least hope of preserving Abbotsford, "my Delilah," which he has half-resolved never to see again. His regrets are more

for others than himself, as his children are provided for. "Poor Will Laidlaw! poor Tom Purdie! this will be news to wring your heart, and many a poor fellow's besides to whom my prosperity was daily bread." The thought of parting with his dogs moved his own feelings more than anything. Lady Scott ("Another person") did not, writes the diarist, "afford me all the sympathy I expected," but that may have been, he judges, because he did not seem to need it.

However, the blow (though it did not fall quite yet), was one that even in anticipation shattered the whole scheme of Scott's life.

"For myself, the magic wand of the Unknown is shivered in his grasp. He must henceforth be termed the Too-wellknown. The feast of fancy is over with the feeling of independence. I can no longer have the delight of waking in the morning with bright ideas in my mind, haste to commit them to paper, and count them monthly, as the means of planting such groves, and purchasing such wastes."

He must now fall into the second rank of authorsthose who do substantial work for daily bread. He is glad that Lockhart and his wife are gone, as he has no wish "to be melted by condolences, though of the most sincere and affectionate kind." Under the influence of a fancied respite he jots down in the evening :

"An odd thought strikes me when I die will the Journal of these days be taken out of the ebony cabinet at Abbotsford, and read as the transient pout of a man worth £60,000, with wonder that the well-seeming Baronet should ever have ex

perienced such a hitch? Or will it be found in some obscure lodging-house, where the decayed son of chivalry has hung up his scutcheon for some 20s. a week, and where one or two old friends will look grave and whisper to each other, 'Poor gentleman,' 'A well-meaning man,' 'Nobody's enemy but his own,' 'Thought his parts could never wear out,' 'Family poorly left,' 'Pity he took that foolish title'? . . ."

Constable, sanguine to the last, thought that, with Sir Walter's help, he could easily borrow enough on copyrights to tide things over; he was happy, even in this hour, with the King's permission to use the dedication to him (penned by Scott) of the new Miscellany with which he meant to revolutionise the publishing world, and with his new scheme of a sumptuous reissue of the Waverley Novels annotated by their author. Five days before Christmas Scott dined with a merry company at Ballantyne's, but could not help thinking, in the midst of the glee, what gloom had lately haunted the minds of three of the party-Cadell (Constable's partner), J. B., and “the Journalist." He records the striking reflection :

"What a strange scene if the surge of conversation could suddenly ebb like the tide, and show us the state of people's real minds! . . . Life could not be endured were it seen in reality."

Day Sir Walter was Next morning he had

We have seen how on Christmas once more struck down by illness. a fire in his dressing-room and his valet to shave him— two things which he mentions as "contrary to my hardy and independent personal habits." But he was soon, in