LITMIR.BIZ

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name as well as his own, so that the two propositions cross each other on the road, and Henry is as much desired by the Buccleuch interest as he desires their support.

       Jedburgh, April 17. — Came over to Jedburgh this morning, to breakfast with my good old friend Mr. Shortreed, and had my usual warm reception. Lord Gillies held the Circuit Court, and there was no criminal trial for any offence whatsoever. I have attended these circuits with tolerable regularity since 1792, and though there is seldom much of importance to be done, yet I never remember before the Porteous roll being quite blank. The judge was presented with a pair of white gloves, in consideration of its being a maiden circuit. Harden came over and talked about his son’s preferment, naturally much pleased.

      Received £100 from John Lockhart, for review of Pepys; but this is by far too much; £50 is plenty. Still I must impeticos the gratility for the present, — for Whitsunday will find me only with £300 in hand, unless Blackwood settles a few scores of pounds for Malachi.

      Wrote a great many letters. Dined with the Judge, where I met the disappointed candidate, Sir John Scott Douglas, who took my excuse like a gentleman. Sir William Elliot, on the other hand, was, being a fine man, very much out of sorts, that having got his own consent, he could not get that of the county. He showed none of this, however, to me.

       April 18. — This morning I go down to Kelso from Jedburgh to poor Don’s funeral. It is, I suppose, forty years since I saw him first. I was staying at Sydenham, a lad of fourteen, or by ‘r Lady some sixteen; and he, a boy of six or seven, was brought to visit me on a pony, a groom holding the leading rein — and now, I, an old grey man, am going to lay him in his grave. Sad work. I detest funerals; there is always a want of consistency; it is a tragedy played by strolling performers, who are more likely to make you laugh than cry. No chance of my being made to laugh to-day. The very road I go is a road of grave recollections. Must write to Charles seriously on the choice of his profession, and I will do it now.

       [Abbotsford,] April 19. — Returned last night from the house of death and mourning to my own, now the habitation of sickness and anxious apprehension. Found Lady S. had tried the foxglove in quantity, till it made her so sick she was forced to desist. The result cannot yet be judged. Wrote to Mrs. Thomas Scott to beg her to let her daughter Anne, an uncommonly, sensible, steady, and sweet-tempered girl, come and stay with us a season in our distress, who I trust will come forthwith.

      Two melancholy things. Last night I left my pallet in our family apartment, to make way for a female attendant, and removed to a dressing-room adjoining, when to return, or whether ever, God only can tell. Also my servant cut my hair, which used to be poor Charlotte’s personal task. I hope she will not observe it.

      The funeral yesterday was very mournful; about fifty persons present, and all seemed affected. The domestics in particular were very much so. Sir Alexander was a kind, though an exact master. It was melancholy to see those apartments, where I have so often seen him play the graceful and kind landlord filled with those who were to carry him to his long home.

      There was very little talk of the election, at least till the funeral was over.

       April 20. — Lady Scott’s health in the same harassing state of uncertainty, yet on my side with more of hope than I had two days since.

      Another death; Thomas Riddell, younger of Camiston, Sergeant-Major of the Edinburgh Troop in the sunny days of our yeomanry, and a very good fellow.

      The day was so tempting that I went out with Tom Purdie to cut some trees, the rather that my task was very well advanced. He led me into the wood, as the blind King of Bohemia was led by his four knights into the thick of the battle at Agincourt or Crecy, and then, like the old King, “I struck good strokes more than one,” which is manly exercise.

       April 21. — This day I entertained more flattering hopes of Lady Scott’s health than late events permitted. I went down to Mertoun with Colonel Ferguson, who returned to dine here, which consumed time so much that I made a short day’s work.

      Had the grief to find Lady Scott had insisted on coming downstairs and was the worse of it. Also a letter from Lockhart, giving a poor account of the infant. God help us! earth cannot.

       April 22. — Lady Scott continues very poorly. Better news of the child.

      Wrought a good deal to-day, rather correcting sheets and acquiring information than actually composing, which is the least toilsome of the three.

      J.G.L. kindly points out some solecisms in my style, as “amid” for “amidst,” “scarce” for “scarcely.” “Whose,” he says, is the proper genitive of “which” only at such times as “which” retains its quality of impersonification. Well! I will try to remember all this, but after all I write grammar as I speak, to make my meaning known, and a solecism in point of composition, like a Scotch word in speaking, is indifferent to me. I never learned grammar; and not only Sir Hugh Evans but even Mrs. Quickly might puzzle me about Giney’s case and horum harum horum. I believe the Bailiff in The Goodnatured Man is not far wrong when he says, “One man has one way of expressing himself, and another another, and that is all the difference between them.” Went to Huntly Burn to-day and looked at the Colonel’s projected approach. I am sure if the kind heart can please himself he will please me.

       April 23. — A glorious day, bright and brilliant, and, I fancy, mild. Lady Scott is certainly better, and has promised not to attempt quitting her room.

      Henry Scott has been here, and his canvass comes on like a moor burning.

       April 24. — Good news from Brighton. Sophia is confined; both she and her baby are doing well, and the child’s name is announced to be Walter — a favourite name in our family, and I trust of no bad omen. Yet it is no charm for life. Of my father’s family I was the second Walter, if not the third. I am glad the name came my way, for it was borne by my father, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather; also by the grandsire of that last-named venerable person who was the first laird of Raeburn.

      Hurst and Robinson, the Yorkshire tykes, have failed after all their swaggering, and Longman and Co. take Woodstock. But if Woodstock and Napoleon take with the public I shall care little about their insolvency, and if they do not, I don’t think their solvency would have lasted long. Constable is sorely broken down.

      “Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart

       That’s sorry yet for thee.”

      His conduct has not been what I deserved at his hand, but, I believe that, walking blindfold himself, he misled me without malice prepense. It is best to think so at least, unless the contrary be demonstrated. To nourish angry passions against a man whom I really liked would be to lay a blister on my own heart.

       April 25. — Having fallen behind on the 23d, I wrought pretty hard yesterday; but I had so much reading, and so many proofs to correct, that I did not get over the daily task, so am still a little behind, which I shall soon make up. I have got Nap., d — n him, into Italy, where with bad eyes and obscure maps, I have a little difficulty in tracing out his victorious chess-play.

      Lady Scott was better yesterday, certainly better, and was sound asleep when I looked in this morning. Walked in the afternoon. I looked at a hooded crow building in the thicket with great pleasure. It is a shorter date than my neighbour Torwoodlee thought of, when he told me, as I was bragging a little of my plantations, that it would be long ere crows built in them.

       April 26. — Letters from Walter and Lockharts; all well and doing well. Lady S. continues better, so the clouds are breaking up. I made a good day’s work yesterday, and sent off proofs, letters, and copy this morning; so, if this fine day holds good, I will take a drive at one.

      There is an operation called putting to rights — Scotticè, redding up — which puts me into a fever. I always leave any attempt at it half executed, and so am worse off than before, and have only embroiled the fray. Then my long back aches with stooping into the low drawers of old cabinets,

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