The Complete Autobiographical Writings of Sir Walter Scott. Walter Scott
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midnight o’er the pathless skies.”
Ay, and can I forget the author! — the frightful moral of his own vision. What is this world? A dream within a dream — as we grow older each step is an awakening. The youth awakes as he thinks from childhood — the full-grown man despises the pursuits of youth as visionary — the old man looks on manhood as a feverish dream. The Grave the last sleep? — no; it is the last and final awakening.
May 14. — To town per Blucher coach, well stowed and crushed, but saved cash, coming off for less than £2; posting costs nearly five, and you don’t get on so fast by onethird. Arrived in my old lodgings here with a stouter heart than I expected. Dined with Mr. and Mrs. Skene, and met Lord Medwyn and lady.
May 15. — Parliament House a queer sight. Looked as if people were singing to each other the noble song of “The sky’s falling — chickie diddle.” Thinks I to myself, I’ll keep a calm sough.
“Betwixt both sides I unconcerned stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh, and honest, need I cry?”
I wish the old Government had kept together, but their personal dislike to Canning seems to have rendered that impossible.
I dined at a great dinner given by Sir George Clerk to his electors, the freeholders of Midlothian; a great attendance of Whig and Tory, huzzaing each other’s toasts. If is a good peacemaker, but quarter-day is a better. I have a guess the best gamecocks would call a truce if a handful or two of oats were scattered among them.
May 16. — Mr. John Gibson says the Trustees are to allow my expense in travelling — £300, with £50 taken in in Longman’s bill. This will place me rectus in curia, and not much more, faith!
There is a fellow bawling out a ditty in the street, the burthen of which is
“There’s nothing but poverty everywhere.”
He shall not be a penny richer for telling me what I know but too well without him.
May 17. — Learned with great distress the death of poor Richard Lockhart, the youngest brother of my son-in-law. He had an exquisite talent for acquiring languages, and was under the patronage of my kinsman, George Swinton, who had taken him into his own family at Calcutta, and now he is drowned in a foolish bathing party.
May 18. — Heard from Abbotsford; all well. Wrought to-day but awkwardly. Tom Campbell called, warm from his Glasgow Rectorship; he is looking very well. He seemed surprised that I did not know anything about the contentions of Tories, Whigs, and Radicals, in the great commercial city. I have other eggs on the spit. He stayed but a few minutes.
May 19. — Went out to-day to Sir John Dalrymple’s, at Oxenford, a pretty place; the lady a daughter of Lord Duncan. Will Clerk and Robert Graeme went with me. A good dinner and pleasant enough party; but ten miles going and ten miles coming make twenty, and that is something of a journey. Got a headache too by jolting about after dinner.
May 20. — Wrote a good deal at Appendix [to Bonaparte], or perhaps I should say tried to write. Got myself into a fever when I had finished four pages, and went out at eight o’clock at night to cool myself if possible. Walked with difficulty as far as Skene’s, and there sat and got out of my fidgety feeling. Learned that the Princes Street people intend to present me with the key of their gardens, which will be a great treat, as I am too tender-hoofed for the stones. We must now get to work in earnest.
May 21. — Accordingly this day I wrought tightly, and though not in my very best mood I got on in a very businesslike manner. Was at the Gas Council, where I found things getting poorly on. The Treasury have remitted us to the Exchequer. The Committee want me to make private interest with the L.C. Baron. That I won’t do, but I will state their cause publicly any way they like.
May 22. — At Court — home by two, walking through the Princes Street Gardens for the first time. Called on Mrs. Jobson. Worked two hours. Must dress to dine at Mr. John Borthwick’s, with the young folk, now Mr. and Mrs. Dempster. Kindly and affectionately received by my good young friends, who seem to have succeeded to their parents’ regard for me.
May 23. — Got some books, etc., which I wanted to make up the Saint Helena affair. Set about making up the Appendix, but found I had mislaid a number of the said postliminary affair. Had Hogg’s nephew here as a transcriber, a modest and well-behaved young man — clever, too, I think. Being Teind Wednesday I was not obliged to go to the Court, and am now bang up, and shall soon finish Mr. Nappy. And how then? Ay, marry, sir, that’s the question.
“Lord, what will all the people say,
Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor!”
“The fires i’ the lowest hell fold in the people!” as Coriolanus says. I live not in their report, I hope.
May 24. — Mr. Gibson paid me £70 more of my London journey. A good thought came into my head: to write stories for little Johnnie Lockhart from the History of Scotland, like those taken from the History of England. I will not write mine quite so simply as Croker has done. I am persuaded both children and the lower class of readers hate books which are written down to their capacity, and love those that are more composed for their elders and betters. I will make, if possible, a book that a child will understand, yet a man will feel some temptation to peruse should he chance to take it up. It will require, however, a simplicity of style not quite my own. The grand and interesting consists in ideas, not in words. A clever thing of this kind will have a run —
“Little to say,
But wrought away,
And went out to dine with the Skenes to-day.”
Rather too many dinner engagements on my list. Must be hardhearted. I cannot say I like my solitary days the worst by any means. I dine, when I like, on soup or broth, and drink a glass of porter or ginger-beer; a single tumbler of whisky and water concludes the debauch. This agrees with me charmingly. At ten o’clock bread and cheese, a single draught of small beer, porter, or ginger-beer, and to bed.
May 26. — I went the same dull and weary round out to the Parliament House, which bothers one’s brains for the day. Nevertheless, I get on. Pages vanish from under my hand, and find their way to J. Ballantyne, who is grinding away with his presses. I think I may say, now I begin to get rid of the dust raised about me by so many puzzling little facts, that it is plain sailing to the end.
Dined at Skene’s with George Forbes and lady. But that was yesterday.
May 27. — I got ducked in coming home from the Court. Naboclish! — I thank thee, Pat, for teaching me the word. Made a hard day of it. Scarce stirred from one room to another, but at bed-time finished a handsome handful of copy. I have quoted Gourgaud’s evidence; I suppose he will be in a rare passion, and may be addicted to vengeance, like a long-moustached son of a French bitch as he is. Naboclish! again for that.
“Frenchman, Devil, or Don,
Damn him, let him come on,
He shan’t scare a son of the Island.”
May 28. — Another day of uninterrupted study; two such would finish the work with a murrain. I have several engagements next week; I wonder how I was such a fool as to take them. I think I shall be done, however, before Saturday. What shall I have to think of when I lie down at night and awake in the morning? What will be my plague and my pastime, my curse and my blessing, as ideas come and the pulse rises, or as they flag and something like a snow haze covers my whole imagination? I have my Highland Tales — and then — never mind, sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
May 29. — Detained at the House till near three. Made a call on Mrs. Jobson and others; also went down to the printing-office. I hope James Ballantyne will do well. I think and believe he will. Wrought in the evening.