The Journal of Sir Walter Scott Part 16

[212] "Seldom has any political measure called forth so strong and so universal an expression of public opinion. In every city and in every county public meetings were held to deprecate the destruction of the one pound and guinea notes."--_Annual Register_ (1826), p. 24.

[213] Alex. Young of Harburn, a steady Whig of the old school, and a steady and esteemed friend of Sir Walter's.--J.G.L.

[214] See _Life_, vol. iv. pp. 146-148.

[215] Henry Weber died in 1818.

[216] See Life of Bonaparte. _Miscellaneous Prose Works_, vol. xi. pp.

346-351.--J.G.L.

[217] _Plays on the Pa.s.sions_, 2 vols. 8vo, Lond. 1802, vol. ii. pp.

211-215.

[218] He had, however, s.n.a.t.c.hed a moment to write the following playful note to Mr. Sharpe, little dreaming that the sportive allusion to his return in May would be so sadly realised:--

"MY DEAR CHARLES,--You promised when I _displenished_ this house that you would accept of the prints of Roman antiquities, which I now send. I believe they were once in some esteem, though now so detestably smoked that they will only suit your suburban villa in the Cowgate when you remove to that cla.s.sical residence. I also send a print which is an old favourite of mine, from the humorous correspondence between Mr.

Mountebank's face and the monkey's. I leave town to-day or to-morrow at furthest. When I return in May I shall be

Bachelor Bluff, bachelor Bluff, Hey for a heart that's rugged and tough.

I shall have a beefsteak and a bottle of wine of a Sunday, which I hope you will often take share of,--Being with warm regard always yours, WALTER SCOTT."--Sharpe's _Correspondence_, vol. ii. pp. 359-60.

[219] Apropos of the old Scotch lady who had surrept.i.tiously pocketed a silver spoon, one of a set of a dozen which were being pa.s.sed round for examination in an auction room. Suspicion resting on her, she was asked to allow her person to be searched, but she indignantly produced the article, with "Touch my honour," etc.

[220] The _Attorneys_ of Aberdeen are styled _advocates_. This valuable privilege is said to have been bestowed at an early period by some (sportive) monarch.--J.G.L.

[221] This clever book was published in 1814: at the same time as _Waverley_. Had it contained nothing else than the sketch of Bran, the great Irish wolf-hound, it would have commended itself to Scott. The auth.o.r.ess died in 1859.

[222] It is worth noting that a quarter of a century after Sir Walter had written these lines, we find Macaulay stating that, in his opinion, "there are in the world no compositions which approach nearer perfection." Scott had already criticised Miss Austen in the 27th No. of the _Quarterly_. She died in 1817.

[223] "I return no more,"--see _Mackrimmon's Lament_ by Scott.--_Poetical Works_, vol. xi. p. 332.

[224] Published as far back as 1792. An appreciative criticism on Mrs.

Smith's works will be found in Scott's _Miscellaneous Prose Works_, vol.

iv. pp. 58-70.

[225] See this Journal, 2 December last.

[226] The letters of _Malachi_ were treated by some members of the House of Commons as incentives to rebellion, and senators gravely averred that not many years ago they would have subjected the author to condign punishment.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer, however, declared that he did not dread "the flas.h.i.+ng of that Highland claymore though evoked from its scabbard by the incantations of the mightiest magician of the age."--Speech of Rt. Hon. F.J. Robinson.

[227] Both letters are quoted in Lockhart's _Life_, vol. viii. pp.

299-305. See also _Croker's Correspondence and Diaries_, edited by Louis J. Jennings, 3 vols. 8vo, Lond. 1884, vol. i. pp. 315-319.

[228] W. Scott, Esq., afterwards of Raeburn, Sir Walter's Sheriff-subst.i.tute.

[229] Hudibras.--J.G.L.

[230] One of Sir Walter's kindly "_weird sisters_" and neighbours, daughters of Professor Ferguson. They had occupied the house at Toftfield (on which Scott at the ladies' request bestowed the name of Huntly Burn) from the spring of 1818. Miss Margaret has been described as extremely like her brother Sir Adam in the turn of thought and of humour.--See _Life_, vol. vi. p. 322.

[231] _Fortune in her Wits, and the Hour of all Men_, Quevedo's Works, Edin. 1798, vol. iii. p. 107.

[232] _Don Quixote_, Pt. II. cap. 47.

[233] _Granby_ was written by a young man, Thos. H. Lister, some years afterwards known as the author of _The Life and Administration of the First Earl of Clarendon_, 3 vols. 8vo, 1837-38. Mr. Lister died in his 41st year in 1842.

APRIL.

_April_ 1.--_Ex uno die disce omnes._ Rose at seven or sooner, studied, and wrote till breakfast with Anne, about a quarter before ten. Lady Scott seldom able to rise till twelve or one. Then I write or study again till one. At that hour to-day I drove to Huntly Burn, and walked home by one of the hundred and one pleasing paths which I have made through the woods I have planted--now chatting with Tom Purdie, who carries my plaid, and speaks when he pleases, telling long stories of hits and misses in shooting twenty years back--sometimes chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy--and sometimes attending to the humours of two curious little terriers of the Dandie Dinmont breed, together with a n.o.ble wolf-hound puppy which Glengarry has given me to replace Maida.

This brings me down to the very moment I do tell--the rest is prophetic.

I will feel sleepy when this book is locked, and perhaps sleep until Dalgleish brings the dinner summons. Then I will have a chat with Lady S. and Anne; some broth or soup, a slice of plain meat--and man's chief business, in Dr. Johnson's estimation, is briefly despatched. Half an hour with my family, and half an hour's coquetting with a cigar, a tumbler of weak whisky and water, and a novel perhaps, lead on to tea, which sometimes consumes another half hour of chat; then write and read in my own room till ten o'clock at night; a little bread and then a gla.s.s of porter, and to bed.

And this, very rarely varied by a visit from some one, is the tenor of my daily life--and a very pleasant one indeed, were it not for apprehensions about Lady S. and poor Johnnie Hugh. The former will, I think, do well--for the latter--I fear--I fear--

_April_ 2.--I am in a wayward mood this morning. I received yesterday the last proof-sheets of _Woodstock_, and I ought to correct them. Now, this _ought_ sounds as like as possible to _must_, and _must_ I cannot abide. I would go to Prester John's country of free good-will, sooner than I would _must_ it to Edinburgh. Yet this is all folly, and silly folly too; and so _must_ shall be for once obeyed after I have thus written myself out of my aversion to its peremptory sound. Corrected the said proofs till twelve o'clock--when I think I will treat resolution, not to a dram, as the drunken fellow said after he had pa.s.sed the dram-shop, but to a walk, the rather that my eyesight is somewhat uncertain and wavering. I think it must be from the stomach. The whole page waltzes before my eyes. J.B. writes gloomily about _Woodstock_; but commends the conclusion. I think he is right. Besides, my manner is nearly caught, and, like Captain Bobadil[234], I have taught nearly a hundred gentlemen to fence very nearly, if not altogether, as well as myself. I will strike out something new.

_April_ 3.--I have from Ballantyne and Gibson the extraordinary and gratifying news that _Woodstock_ is sold for 8228 in all, ready money--a matchless sum for less than three months' work[235]. If Napoleon does as well, or near it, it will put the trust affairs in high flourish. Four or five years of leisure and industry would, with [such]

success, amply replace my losses, and put me on a steadier footing than ever. I have a curious fancy: I will go set two or three acorns, and judge by their success in growing whether I will succeed in clearing my way or not. I have a little toothache keeps me from working much to-day, besides I sent off, per Blucher, copy for _Napoleon_, as well as the d--d proofs.

A blank forenoon! But how could I help it, Madam Duty? I was not lazy; on my soul I was not. I did not cry for half holiday for the sale of _Woodstock_. But in came Colonel Ferguson with Mrs. Stewart of Blackhill, or hall, or something, and I must show her the garden, pictures, etc. This lasts till one; and just as they are at their lunch, and about to go off, guard is relieved by the Laird and Lady Harden, and Miss Eliza Scott--and my dear Chief, whom I love very much, though a little obsidional or so, remains till three. That same crown, composed of the gra.s.s which grew on the walls of besieged places, should be offered to visitors who stay above an hour in any eident[236] person's house. Wrote letters this evening.

_April_ 4.--Wrote two pages in the morning. Then went to Ashestiel in the sociable, with Colonel Ferguson. Found my cousin Russell settled kindly to his gardening and his projects. He seems to have brought home with him the enviable talent of being interested and happy in his own place. Ashestiel looks worst, I think, at this period of the year; but is a beautiful place in summer, where I pa.s.sed nine happy years. Did I ever pa.s.s unhappy years anywhere? None that I remember, save those at the High School, which I thoroughly detested on account of the confinement. I disliked serving in my father's office, too, from the same hatred to restraint. In other respects, I have had unhappy days--unhappy weeks--even, on one or two occasions, unhappy months; but Fortune's finger has never been able to play a dirge on me for a quarter of a year together.

I am sorry to see the Peel-wood, and other natural coppice, decaying and abridged about Ashestiel--

'The horrid plough has razed the green, Where once my children play'd; The axe has fell'd the hawthorn screen, The schoolboy's summer shade.'[237]

There was a very romantic pasturage called the Cow-park, which I was particularly attached to, from its wild and sequestered character.

Having been part of an old wood which had been cut down, it was full of copse--hazel, and oak, and all sorts of young trees, irregularly scattered over fine pasturage, and affording a hundred intricacies so delicious to the eye and the imagination. But some misjudging friend had cut down and cleared away without mercy, and divided the varied and sylvan scene, which was divided by a little rivulet, into the two most formal things in nature--a thriving plantation, many-angled as usual, and a park laid down in gra.s.s; wanting therefore the rich graminivorous variety which Nature gives its carpet, and having instead a braird of six days' growth--lean and hungry growth too--of ryegra.s.s and clover. As for the rill, it stagnates in a deep square ditch, which silences its prattle, and restrains its meanders with a witness. The original scene was, of course, imprinted still deeper on Russell's mind than mine, and I was glad to see he was intensely sorry for the change.

_April_ 5.--Rose late in the morning, past eight, to give the cold and toothache time to make themselves scarce, which they have obligingly done. Yesterday every tooth on the right side of my head was absolutely waltzing. I would have drawn by the half dozen, but country dentists are not to be lippened to.[238] To-day all is quiet, but a little swelling and stiffness in the jaw. Went to Chiefswood at one, and marked with regret forty trees indispensably necessary for paling--much like drawing a tooth; they _are_ wanted and will never be better, but I am avaricious of grown trees, having so few.

Worked a fair task; dined, and read Clapperton's journey and Denham's into Bornou. Very entertaining, and less botheration about mineralogy, botany, and so forth, than usual. Pity Africa picks up so many brave men, however. Work in the evening.

_April_ 6.--Wrote in the morning. Went at one to Huntly Burn, where I had the great pleasure to hear, through a letter from Sir Adam, that Sophia was in health, and Johnnie gaining strength. It is a fine exchange from deep and aching uncertainty on so interesting a subject, to the little spitfire feeling of "Well, but they might have taken the trouble to write"; but so wretched a correspondent as myself has not much to say, so I will just grumble sufficiently to maintain the patriarchal dignity.

I returned in time to work, and to receive a shoal of things from J.B.

Among others, a letter from an Irish lady, who, for the _beaux yeux_, which I shall never look upon, desires I will forthwith send her all the Waverley Novels, which are published, with an order to furnish her with all others in course as they appear, which she a.s.sures me will be an _era_ in her life. She may find out some other epocha.

_April_ 7.--Made out my morning's task; at one drove to Chiefswood, and walked home by the Rhymer's Glen, Mar's Lee, and Haxell-Cleugh. Took me three hours. The heath gets somewhat heavier for me every year--but never mind, I like it altogether as well as the day I could tread it best. My plantations are getting all into green leaf, especially the larches, if theirs may be called leaves, which are only a sort of hair, and from the number of birds drawn to these wastes, I may congratulate myself on having literally made the desert to sing. As I returned, there was, in the phraseology of that most precise of prigs in a white collarless coat and _chapeau bas_, Mister Commissary Ramsay--"a rather dense insp.i.s.sation of rain." Deil care.

"Lord, who would live turmoiled in the Court, That might enjoy such quiet walks as these?"[239]

Yet misfortune comes our way too. Poor Laidlaw lost a fine prattling child of five years old yesterday.