[428] James Wolfe Murray succeeded Lord Meadowbank on the Bench as Lord Cringletie, in November 1816, and died in 1836.
[429] A Party Newspaper started by the Tories in Edinburgh at the beginning of 1821. It was suppressed in the month of August, but during the interval contrived to give great offence to the Whig leaders by its personality. Lockhart says of it that "a more pitiable ma.s.s of blunders and imbecility was never heaped together than the whole of this affair exhibited;" and Scott, who was one of its founders, along with the Lord Advocate and other official persons, wrote to Erskine, "I am terribly malcontent about the _Beacon_. I was dragged into the bond against all reasons I could make, and now they have allowed me no vote regarding standing or flying. _Entre nous_, our friends went into the thing like fools, and came out very like cowards." The wretched libels it contained cost Sir A. Boswell his life, and for a moment endangered that of Scott.--See _Life_, vol. vi. pp. 426-429, and c.o.c.kburn"s _Memorials_, p.
312.
[430] _2 Henry IV_. Act III. Sc. 2.
[431] Douglas Cheape, whose Introductory Lecture was published in 1827.
Mr. Cheape died in 1861.
[432] James Moncreiff, son of the Rev. Sir Henry Wellwood. The new Dean succeeded Lord Alloway on the Scotch Bench in 1829, and died in 1851.
c.o.c.kburn writes of him thus:--"During the twenty-one years he was on the civil and criminal benches, he performed all his duties admirably.
Law-learning and law-reasoning, industry, honesty, and high-minded purity could do no more for any judge. After forty years of unbroken friendship, it is a pleasure to record my love of the man, and my admiration of his character."--_Journals_, vol. ii, p. 264.
[433] _Troilus and Cressida_, Act v. Sc. 2.
[434] Dr. Stokoe, who had settled at Durham, died suddenly at York in 1852. He had been surgeon in the fleet at Trafalgar, and was afterwards appointed to St. Helena.
[435] The University Commission.--See _ante_, pp. 256, 257.
[436] The long life of Walter, fifth Duke of Buccleuch, more than fulfilled the hopes and prognostics of his friend. A "true Scots lord,"
he carried with him to the grave in 1884 the love and respect of his countrymen.
[437] _Hamlet_, Act III. Sc. 2.--J.G.L.
1827
JANUARY.
_January_ 1.--G.o.d make this a happy year to the King and country, and to all honest men!
I went with all our family to-day to dine as usual at the kind house of Huntly Burn; but the same cloud which hung over us on Sat.u.r.day still had its influence. The effect of grief upon [those] who, like myself and Sir A.F., are highly susceptible of humour, has, I think, been finely touched by Wordsworth in the character of the merry village teacher Matthew, whom Jeffrey profanely calls the hysterical schoolmaster.[438]
But, with my friend Jeffrey"s pardon, I think he loves to see imagination best when it is bitted and managed and ridden upon, the _grand pas_. He does not make allowance for starts and sallies and bounds when Pegasus is beautiful to behold, though sometimes perilous to his rider. Not that I think the amiable bard of Rydal shows judgment in choosing such subjects as the popular mind cannot sympathise in. It is unwise and unjust to himself. I do not compare myself, in point of imagination, with Wordsworth--far from it; for [his] is naturally exquisite, and highly cultivated by constant exercise. But I can see as many castles in the clouds as any man, as many genii in the curling smoke of a steam engine, as perfect a Persepolis in the embers of a sea-coal fire. My life has been spent in such day-dreams. But I cry no roast-meat. There are times a man should remember what Rousseau used to say: _Tais-toi, Jean-Jacques, car on ne t"entend pas_![439]
_January 2_.--I had resolved to mark down no more griefs and groans, but I must needs briefly state that I am nailed to my chair like the unhappy Theseus. The rheumatism, exasperated by my sortie of yesterday, has seized on my only serviceable knee--and I am, by Proserpine, motionless as an anvil. Leeches and embrocations are all I have for it.
_Diable_! there was a twinge. The Russells and Fergusons here; but I was fairly driven off the pit after dinner, and compelled to retreat to my own bed, there to howl till morning like a dog in his solitary cabin.
_January_ 3.--Mending slowly. Two things are comfortable--1_st_, I lose no good weather out of doors, for the ground is covered with snow; 2_d_, That, by exerting a little stoicism, I can make my illness promote the advance of _Nap_. As I can scarcely stand, however, I am terribly awkward at consulting books, maps, etc. The work grows under my hand, however; vol. vi. [_Napoleon_] will be finished this week, I believe.
Russells being still with us, I was able by dint of handing and chairing to get to the dining-room and the drawing-room in the evening.
Talking of Wordsworth, he told Anne and me a story, the object of which was to show that Crabbe had not imagination. He, Sir George Beaumont, and Wordsworth were sitting together in Murray the bookseller"s back-room. Sir George, after sealing a letter, blew out the candle, which had enabled him to do so, and, exchanging a look with Wordsworth, began to admire in silence the undulating thread of smoke which slowly arose from the expiring wick, when Crabbe put on the extinguisher. Anne laughed at the instance, and inquired if the taper was wax, and being answered in the negative, seemed to think that there was no call on Mr.
Crabbe to sacrifice his sense of smell to their admiration of beautiful and evanescent forms. In two other men I should have said "this is affectations,"[440] with Sir Hugh Evans; but Sir George is the man in the world most void of affectation; and then he is an exquisite painter, and no doubt saw where the _incident_ would have succeeded in painting.
The error is not in you yourself receiving deep impressions from slight hints, but in supposing that precisely the same sort of impression must arise in the mind of men otherwise of kindred feeling, or that the commonplace folks of the world can derive such inductions at any time or under any circ.u.mstances.
_January_ 4.--My enemy gained some strength during the watches of the night, but has again succ.u.mbed under scalding fomentations of camomile flowers. I still keep my state, for my knee, though it has ceased to pain me, is very feeble. We began to fill the ice-house to-day. Dine alone--_en famille_, that is, Jane, Anne, Walter, and I. Why, this makes up for _aiches_, as poor John Kemble used to call them. After tea I broke off work, and read my young folks the farce of the _Critic_, and "merry folks were we."
_January_ 5.--I waked, or _aked_ if you please, for five or six hours I think, then fevered a little. I am better though, G.o.d be thanked, and can now shuffle about and help myself to what I want without ringing every quarter of an hour. It is a fine clear sunny day; I should like to go out, but flannel and poultices cry nay. So I drudge away with the a.s.sisting of Pelet, who has a real French head, believing all he desires should be true, and affirming all he wishes should be believed. Skenes (Mr. and Mrs., with Miss Jardine) arrived about six o"clock. Skene very rheumatic, as well as I am.
_January_ 6.--Worked till dusk, but not with much effect; my head and mind not clear somehow. W. Laidlaw at dinner. In the evening read Foote"s farce of the _Commissary,_ said to have been levelled at Sir Lawrence Dundas; but Sir Lawrence was a man of family. Walter and Jane dined at Mertoun.
_January_ 7.--Wrought till twelve, then sallied and walked with Skene for two miles; home and corrected proofs, and to a large amount. Mr.
Scrope and George Thomson dined.
_January_ 8.--Slept well last night in consequence I think of my walk, which I will, G.o.d willing, repeat to-day. I wrote some letters too long delayed, and sent off my packets to J.B. Letter from C. Sharpe very pressing. I should employ my interest at Windsor to oppose the alterations on the town of Edinburgh. "One word from you, and all that."
I don"t think I shall speak that word though. I hate the alterations, that is certain; but then _ne accesseris in consilium nisi vocatus_,--what is the use of my volunteering an opinion? Again, the value of many people"s property may depend on this plan going forward.
Have I a right from mere views of amenity to interfere with those serious interests? I something doubt it. Then I have always said that I never meddle in such work, and ought I _sotto voce_ now to begin it? By my faith I won"t; there are enough to state the case besides me.[441]
The young Duke of B. came in to bid us good-bye, as he is going off to England. G.o.d bless him! He is a hawk of a good nest. Afterwards I walked to the Welsh pool, Skene declining to go, for I
"-----not over stout of limb, Seem stronger of the two."
_January_ 9.--This morning received the long-expected news of the Duke of York"s death.[442] I am sorry both on public and private accounts.
His R.H. was, while he occupied the situation of next in the royal succession, a _Breakwater_ behind the throne. I fear his brother of Clarence"s opinions may be different, and that he will hoist a standard under which will rendezvous men of desperate hopes and evil designs. I am sorry, too, on my own account. The Duke of York was uniformly kind to me, and though I never tasked his friendship deeply, yet I find a powerful friend is gone. His virtues were honour, good sense, integrity; and by exertion of these qualities he raised the British army from a very low ebb to be the pride and dread of Europe. His errors were those of a sanguine and social temper; he could not resist the temptation of deep play, which was fatally allied with a disposition to the bottle.
This last is incident to his complaint, which vinous influence soothes for the time, while it insidiously increases it in the end.
Here blows a gale of wind. I was to go to Galashiels to settle some foolish lawsuit, and afterwards to have been with Mr. Kerr of Kippilaw to treat about a march-dike. I shall content myself with the first duty, for this day does not suit Bowden-moor.
Went over to Galashiels like the devil in a gale of wind, and found a writer contesting with half-a-dozen unwashed artificers the possession of a piece of ground the size and shape of a three-cornered pocket-handkerchief. Tried to "gar them gree," and if I succeed, I shall think I deserve something better than the _touch of rheumatism_, which is like to be my only reward.
Scotts of Harden and John Pringle of Clifton dined, and we got on very well.
_January_ 10.--Enter rheumatism, and takes me by the knee. So much for playing the peacemaker in a shower of rain. Nothing for it but patience, cataplasm of camomile, and labour in my own room the whole day till dinner-time--then company and reading in the evening.
_January_ 11.--Ditto repeated. I should have thought I would have made more of these solitary days than I find I can do. A morning, or two or three hours before dinner, have often done more efficient work than six or seven of these hours of languor, I cannot say of illness, can produce. A bow that is slackly strung will never send an arrow very far.
Heavy snow. We are engaged at Mr. Scrope"s, but I think I shall not be able to go. I remained at home accordingly, and, having nothing else to do, worked hard and effectively. I believe my sluggishness was partly owing to the gnawing rheumatic pain in my knee, for after all I am of opinion pain is an evil, let Stoics say what they will. Thank G.o.d, it is an evil which is mending with me.
_January_ 12.--All this day occupied with camomile poultices and pen and ink. It is now four o"clock, and I have written yesterday and to-day ten of my pages--that is, one-tenth of one of these large volumes--moreover, I have corrected three proof-sheets. I wish it may not prove fool"s haste, yet I take as much pains too as is in my nature.
_January_ 13.--The Fergusons, with my neighbours Mr. Scrope and Mr.
Bainbridge and young Hume, eat a haunch of venison from Drummond Castle, and seemed happy. We had music and a little dancing, and enjoyed in others the buoyancy of spirit that we no longer possess ourselves. Yet I do not think the young people of this age so gay as we were. There is a turn for persiflage, a fear of ridicule among them, which stifles the honest emotions of gaiety and lightness of spirit; and people, when they give in the least to the expansion of their natural feelings, are always kept under by the fear of becoming ludicrous. To restrain your feelings and check your enthusiasm in the cause even of pleasure is now a rule among people of fashion, as much as it used to be among philosophers.
_January_ 14.--Well--my holidays are out--and I may count my gains and losses as honest Robinson Crusoe used to balance his accounts of good and evil.
I have not been able, during three weeks, to stir above once or twice from the house. But then I have executed a great deal of work, which would be otherwise unfinished.
Again I have sustained long and sleepless nights and much pain. True; but no one is the worse of the thoughts which arise in the watches of the night; and for pain, the complaint which brought on this rheumatism was not so painful perhaps, but was infinitely more disagreeable and depressing.
Something there has been of dulness in our little reunions of society which did not use to cloud them. But I have seen all my own old and kind friends, with my dear children (Charles alone excepted); and if we did not rejoice with perfect joy, it was overshadowed from the same sense of regret.
Again, this new disorder seems a presage of the advance of age with its infirmities. But age is but the cypress avenue which terminates in the tomb, where the weary are at rest.
I have been putting my things to rights to go off to-morrow. Though I always wonder why it should be so, I feel a dislike to order and to task-work of all kinds--a predominating foible in my disposition. I do not mean that it influences me in morals; for even in youth I had a disgust at gross irregularities of any kind, and such as I ran into were more from compliance with others and a sort of false shame, than any pleasure I sought or found in dissipation. But what I mean is a detestation of precise order in petty matters--in reading or answering letters, in keeping my papers arranged and in order, and so on. Weber, and then Gordon, used to keep my things in some order--now they are verging to utter confusion. And then I have let my cash run ahead since I came from the Continent--I must slump the matter as I can.
_[Shandwick Place,] January_ 15.--- Off we came, and despite of rheumatism I got through the journey comfortably. Greeted on my arrival by a number of small accounts whistling like grape-shot; they are of no great avail, and incurred, I see, chiefly during the time of illness.