JULY. [Edinburgh,] July 1st. Another sunny day. This threatens absolutely Syrian drought. As the Selkirk election comes on Monday, I go out to-day to Abbotsford, and carry young Davidoff and his tutor with me, to see our quiet way of managing the choice of a national representative. I wrote a page or two last night slumbrously. [Abbotsford,] July 2.-Late at Court. Got to Abbotsford last night with Count Davidoff about eight o'clock. I worked a little this morning, then had a long and warm walk. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton from Chiefswood, the present inhabitants of Lockhart's cottage, dined with us, which made the society pleasant. He is a fine, soldierly-looking man 1— though affected with paralysis-his wife a sweet goodhumoured little woman. He is supposed to be a writer in Blackwood's Magazine. Since we were to lose the Lockharts, we could scarce have had more agreeable folks. 1 At Selkirk, where Borthwickbrae was elected with the usual unanimity of the Forest freeholders. This was a sight to my young Muscovite. We walked in the evening to the lake. July 5.-Still very hot, but with thunder showers. Wrote till breakfast, then walked and signed the deathwarrant of a number of old firs at Abbotstown. I hope their deaths will prove useful. Their lives are certainly not ornamental. Young Mr. Davidoff entered upon the cause of the late discontents in Russia, which he imputes to a 1 Thomas Hamilton, Esq. (brother of Sir William Hamilton, the Metaphysician), author of Cyril Thornton, Men and Manners in deep-seated Jacobin conspiracy to overthrow the state and empire and establish a government by consuls. [Edinburgh,] July 6.-Returned last night with my frozen Muscovites to the Capital, and suffered as usual from the incursions of the black horse during the night. It was absolute fever. A bunch of letters, but little interesting. Mr. Barry Cornwall1 writes to condole with me. I think our acquaintance scarce warranted this; but it is well meant and modestly done. I cannot conceive the idea of forcing myself on strangers in distress, and I have half a mind to turn sharp round on some of my consolers. Came home from Court. R. P. Gillies called; he is writing a satire. He has a singular talent of aping the measure and tone of Byron, and this poem goes to the tune of Don Juan, but it is the Champagne after it has stood two days with the cork drawn. Thereafter came Charles K. Sharpe and Will Clerk, as Robinson sayeth, to my exceeding refreshment. And last, not least, Mr. Jollie, one of the triumvirs who manage my poor matters. He consents to going on with the small edition of novels, which he did not before comprehend. All this has consumed the day, but we will make up tide-way presently. I must dress to go to Lord Medwyn3 to dinner, and it is near time. 2 July 7.-Coming home from Lord Medwyn's last night I fell in with Willie Clerk, and went home to drink a little shrub and water, over which we chatted of old stories until half-past eleven. This morning I corrected two proofs of C[roftangrly, which is getting on. But there must be a little check with the throng of business at the close of the session. D-n the session! I wish it would close its eyes for a century. It is too bad to be kept broiling here; but, on the 1 Bryan Waller Procter, author of Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems, 1819. He died in London in 1874. A favourite expression of Scott's, from Robinson Crusoe. 3 John Hay Forbes (Lord Medwyn from 1825 to 1852), second son of Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo. Lord Medwyn died at the age of seventy-eight in 1854. other hand, we must have the instinctive gratitude of the Laird of M'Intosh, who was for the King that gave M'Intosh half-a-guinea the day and half-a-guinea the morn. So I retract my malediction. Received from Blackwood to account sales of Malachi £72 with some odd shillings. This was for copies sold to Banks. The cash comes far from ill-timed, having to clear all odds and ends before I leave Edinburgh. This will carry me on tidily till 25th, when precepts become payable. Well! if Malachi did me some mischief, he must also contribute quodam modo to my comfort. July 8.-Wrote a good task this morning. I may be mistaken; but I do think the tale of Elspat McTavish1 in my bettermost manner-but J. B. roars for chivalry. He does not quite understand that everything may be overdone in this world, or sufficiently estimate the necessity of novelty. The Highlanders have been off the field now for some time. Returning from Court, looked into a show of wild beasts, and saw Nero the great lion, whom they had the cruelty to bait with bull-dogs, against whom the noble creature disdained to exert his strength. He was lying like a prince in a large cage, where you might be admitted if you wish. I had a month's mind-but was afraid of the newspapers; I could be afraid of nothing else, for never did a creature seem more gentle and yet majestic-I longed to caress him. Wallace, the other lion, born in Scotland, seemed much less trustworthy. He handled the dogs as his namesake did the southron. Enter a confounded Dousterswivel, called Burschal, or some such name, patronised by John Lockhart, teacher of German and learner of English. He opened the trenches by making me a present of a German work called Der Bibelische Orient, then began to talk of literature at large; and display his own pretensions. Asked my opinion of Gray as a poet, and wished me to 1 The Highland Widow. subscribe an attestation of his own merits for the purpose of getting him scholars. As I hinted my want of acquaintance with his qualifications, I found I had nearly landed myself in a proof, for he was girding up his loins to repeated thundering translations by himself into German, Hebrew, until, thinking it superfluous to stand on very much ceremony with one who used so little with me, hinted at letters to write, and got him to translate himself elsewhere. Saw a good house in Brunswick Street, which I liked. This evening supped with Thomas Thomson about the affairs of the Bannatyne. There was the Dean, Will Clerk, John Thomson, young Smythe of Methven; very pleasant. July 9.-Rather slumbrous to-day from having sat up till twelve last night. We settled, or seemed to settle, on an election for the Bannatyne Club. There are people who would wish to confine it much to one party. But those who were together last night saw it in the true and liberal point of view, as a great national institution, which may do much good in the way of publishing our old records, providing we do not fall into the usual habit of antiquarians, and neglect what is useful for things that are merely curious. Thomson is a host for such an undertaking. I wrote a good day's work at the Canongate matter, notwithstanding the intervention of two naps. I get sleepy oftener than usual. It is the weather I suppose-Naboclish!1 I am near the end of the first volume, and every step is one out of difficulty. July 10.-Slept too long this morning. It was eight before I rose-half-past eight ere I came into the parlour. Terry and J. Ballantyne dined with me yesterday, and I suppose the wassail, though there was little enough of it, had stuck to my pillow. 1A favourite exclamation of Sir Walter's, which he had picked up on his Irish tour, signifying “don't mind it "-Na-bac-leis. Compare Sir Boyle Roche's dream that his head was cut off and placed upon a table: "Quis separabit?' says the head; 'Naboclish,' says I, in the same language." This morning I was visited by a Mr. Lewis, a smart Cockney, whose object is to amend the handwriting. He uses as a mechanical aid a sort of puzzle of wire and ivory, which is put upon the fingers to keep them in the desired position, like the muzzle on a dog's nose to make him bear himself right in the field. It is ingenious, and may be useful. If the man comes here, as he proposes, in winter, I will take lessons. Bear witness, good reader, that if W. S. writes a cramp hand, as is the case, he is desirous to mend it. Dined with John Swinton en famille. He told me an odd circumstance. Coming from Berwickshire in the mail coach he met with a passenger who seemed more like a military man than anything else. They talked on all sorts of subjects, at length on politics. Malachi's letters were mentioned, when the stranger observed they were much more seditious than some expressions for which he had three or four years ago been nearly sent to Botany Bay. And perceiving John Swinton surprised at this avowal, he added, "I am Kinloch of Kinloch." This gentleman had got engaged in the radical business (the only real gentleman by the way who did), and harangued the weavers of Dundee with such emphasis that he would have been tried and sent to Botany Bay had he not fled abroad. He was outlawed, and only restored to his status on a composition with Government. It seems to have escaped Mr. Kinloch that the conduct of a man who places a lighted coal in the middle of combustibles, and upon the floor, is a little different from that of one who places the same quantity of burning fuel in a fire-grate!1 July 11.-The last day of the session, and as toilsome a one as I ever saw. There were about 100 or 120 cases on 1 That Mr. Kinloch was not singular in his opinion has been shown by the remarks made in the House of Commons (see ante, March 17). Lord Cockburn in his Trials for Sedition says, "With Botany Bay before him, and money to make himself comfortable in Paris, George Kinloch would have been an idiot if he had stayed." Mr. Kinloch had just returned to Scotland. |