LITMIR.BIZ

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Agreed with Smith so far as contracting for the Bridges at £1200 each. I suspect we are something like the good manager who distressed herself with buying bargains.

       January 15. — Gave the morning from ten till near two to Mr. Macdonald, who is proceeding admirably with his bust. It is bloody cold work, but he is an enthusiast and much interested; besides, I can sit and dictate owing to Mr. Laidlaw, and so get forward, while I am advancing Lorenzo di Guasco, which is his travelling name. I wrote several letters too, and got through some business. Walked, and took some exercise between one and three.

       January 16. — Being Sunday, read prayers. Mr. and Mrs. James go to look for a house, which they desire to take in this country. As Anne is ill, the presence of strangers, though they are pleasant, is rather annoying. Macdonald continues working to form a new bust out of my old scalp. I think it will be the last sitting which I will be enticed to. Thanks to Heaven, the work finishes tomorrow.

       January 17. — This morning, when I came downstairs, I found Mr. Macdonald slabbering away at the model. He has certainly great enthusiasm about his profession, which is a sine qua non. It was not till twelve that a postchaise carried off my three friends.

      I had wrote two hours when Dr. Turner came in, and I had to unfold my own complaints. I was sick of these interruptions, and dismissed Mr. Laidlaw, having no hope of resuming my theme with spirit. God send me more leisure and fewer friends to peck it away by teaspoonfuls!

      Another fool sends to entreat an autograph, which he should be ashamed in civility to ask, as I am to deny it. I got notice of poor Henry Mackenzie’s death. He has long maintained a niche in Scottish Literature — gayest of the gay, though most sensitive of the sentimental.

       January 18. — Came down from my bedroom at eight, and took a rummage in the way of putting things to rights. Dictated to Laidlaw till about one o’clock, during which time it was rainy. Afterwards I walked, sliding about in the mud, and very uncomfortable. In fact, there is no mistaking the three sufficients, and Fate is now straitening its circumvallations round me. Little likely to be better than I am. I am heart-whole as a biscuit, and may last on as now for eight or ten years; the thing is not uncommon, considering I am only in my sixtieth year. I cannot walk; but the intense cold weather may be to blame in this. My riding is but a scramble, but it may do well enough for exercise; and though it is unpleasant to find one’s enjoyment of hill and vale so much abridged, yet still when I enjoy my books, and am without acute pain, I have but little to complain of, considering the life I have led so long.

      “So hap what may;

       Time and the hour run through the roughest day.”

      Mr. Laidlaw came down at ten, and we wrought till one. This should be a good thing for an excellent man, and is an important thing to me, as it saves both my eyesight and nerves, which last are cruelly affected by finding those “who look out of the windows” grow gradually darker and darker. Rode out, or more properly, was carried out, into the woods to see the course of a new road, which may serve to carry off the thinnings of the trees, and for rides. It is very well lined, and will serve both for beauty and convenience. Mr. Laidlaw engages to come back to dinner, and finish two or three more pages. Met my agreeable and ladylike neighbour, Mrs. Brewster, on my pony, and I was actually ashamed to be seen by her.

      “Sir Dennis Brand, and on so poor a steed.”

      I believe detestable folly of this kind is the very last that leaves us. One would have thought I ought to have little vanity at this time o’ day; but it is an abiding appurtenance of the old Adam, and I write for penance what, like a fool, I actually felt.

       January 19. — Wrote on by Mr. Laidlaw’s assistance. Things go bobbishly enough; we have a good deal finished before dinner. Henry Scott comes to dine with me vis-à-vis, and we have a grand dish of politics. The friends of old Scotland want but a signal. A certain great lawyer says that if Sir W.S. wrote another Malachi it would set more men on fire than a dozen associations. This almost tempts me. But the canny lad says moreover that to appeal to national partiality, i.e. that you should call on Scotsmen to act like Scotsmen, is unfair, and he would be sorry it was known he, late and future placeman, should encourage such paw-paw doings. Yet if Sir W.S. could be got to stand forlorn hope, the legal gentleman would suggest, etc. etc. Suggest and be d — d. Sir W.S. knows when to [doff] his bonnet, and when to cock it in the face of all and sundry. Moreover, he will not be made a cat’s-paw of, look you now.

       January 20. — Wrought all morning; a monstrous packet of letters at mid-day. Borrow honest Laidlaw’s fingers in the evening. I hope his pay will recompense him: it is better than “grieve-ing” or playing Triptolemus. Should be, if I am hardworking, 100 guineas, which, with his house, cow, and free rent, would save, I believe, some painful thoughts to him and his amiable wife and children. We will see how the matter fudges. Almost finished the first volume.

       January 21. — James Ballantyne in ecstasies at our plan of an amanuensis. I myself am sensible that my fingers begin to stammer — that is, to write one word instead of another very often. I impute this to fancy, the terrible agency of which is too visible in my illness, and it encourages me to hope the fatal warning is yet deferred. I feel lighter by a million ton since I made this discovery. If I can dictate freely, and without hesitation, my fear to speak at the meeting about the road was vain terror, and so Andiamo Caracci. Wrote some letters this afternoon.

       January 22. — Mr. Laidlaw rather late of coming. One of his daughters has been ill, and he is an approved physician. Pity when one so gifted employs his skill on himself and family for all patients. We got on, however, to page 46.

       January 23. — I wrought a little to-day. Walked to Chiefswood, or rather from it, as far only as Habbie’s Howe. Came home, cold indeed, but hearty. Slept after dinner. I think the peep, real or imaginary, at the gates of death has given me firmness not to mind little afflictions. I have jumbled this and the preceding day strangely, when I went to Chiefswood and Huntly Burn. I thought this a week-day.

       January 24. — Worked with Mr. Laidlaw, and, as the snow was on the ground, did so without intermission, which must be sinking to the spirits. Held on, however.

       January 25. — Same drizzling waste, rendering my footing insecure, and leaving me no refuge but in sitting at home and working till one o’clock. Then retired upon the Sheriff Court processes. Bran, poor fellow, lies yawning at my feet, and cannot think what is become of the daily scamper, which is all his master’s inability affords him. This grieves me, by calling back the days of old. But I may call them as I may,

      “Youth winna return, nor the days of lang syne.”

       January 26. — I have Skene and Mr. M’Culloch of Ardwell, to the relief of my spirits and the diminishing of my time. Mr. Laidlaw joined us at dinner.

      Bitter cold.

       January 27. — So fagged with my frozen vigils that I slept till after ten. When I lose the first two hours in the morning I can seldom catch them again during the whole day.

      A friendly visit from Ebenezer Clarkson of Selkirk, a medical gentleman in whose experience and ingenuity I have much confidence, as well as his personal regard for myself. He is quite sensible of the hesitation of speech of which I complain, and thinks it arises from the stomach. Recommends the wild mustard as an aperient. But the brightest ray of hope is the chance that I may get some mechanical aid made by Fortune at Broughton Street, which may enable me to mount a pony with ease, and to walk without torture. This would, indeed, be almost a restoration of my youth, at least of a green old age full of enjoyment. The shutting one out from the face of living nature is almost worse than sudden death.

       January 28. — I wrote with Laidlaw. It does not work clear; I do not know why. The plot is, nevertheless, a good plot, and full of expectation. But there is a cloud over me, I think, and interruptions are frequent. I creep on, however.

       January 29. — Much in the

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