capture of Bonaparte; and I have lost these notes - shuffled in perhaps
among my own papers, or those of the teind clerks. What a curious
document to be found in a process of valuation!

Being jaded and sleepy, I took up Le Due de Guise on Naples.[207] I
think this, with the old Memoires on the same subject which I have at
Abbotsford, would enable me to make a pretty essay for the _Quarterly_.
We must take up _Woodstock_ now in good earnest. Mr. Cowan, a good and
able man, is chosen trustee in Constable's affairs, with full power.
From what I hear, the poor man is not sensible of the nature of his own
situation; for myself, I have succeeded in putting the matters perfectly
out of my mind since I cannot help them, and have arrived at a
_flocci-pauci-nihili-pili-_fication of money, and I thank Shenstone for
inventing that long word.[208] They are removing the wine, etc., to the
carts, and you will judge if our flitting is not making a noise in the
world - or in the street at least.

_March_ 9. - I foresaw justly,

"When first I set this dangerous stone a-rolling,
'Twould fall upon myself."[209]

Sir Robert Dundas to-day put into my hands a letter of between thirty
and forty pages, in angry and bitter reprobation of _Malachi_, full of
general averments and very untenable arguments, all written at me by
name, but of which I am to have no copy, and which is to be shown to me
_in extenso_, and circulated to other special friends, to whom it may be
necessary to "give the sign to hate."[210] I got it at two o'clock, and
returned [it] with an answer four hours afterwards, in which I have
studied not to be tempted into either sarcastic or harsh
expressions.[211] A quarrel it is however, in all the forms, between my
old friend and myself, and his lordship's reprimand is to be _read out
in order_ to all our friends. They all know what I have said is true,
but that will be nothing to the purpose if they are desired to consider
it as false. As for Lord Melville, I do not wonder that he is angry,
though he has little reason, for he, our _watchman stented_, has from
time to time suffered all manner of tampering to go on under his nose
with the institutions and habits of Scotland. As for myself, I was quite
prepared for my share of displeasure. It is very curious that I should
have foreseen all this so distinctly as far back as 17th February.
Nobody at least can plague me for interest with Lord Melville as they
used to do. By the way, from the tone of his letter, I think his
lordship will give up the measure, and I will be the peace-offering. All
will agree to condemn me as too warm - too rash - and get rich on
privileges which they would not have been able to save but for a little
rousing of spirit, which will not perhaps fall asleep again.[212] A
gentleman called on the part of a Captain [Rutherford], to make inquiry
about the Border Rutherfords. Not being very _cleever_, as John Fraser
used to say, at these pedigree matters, referred him to Mrs. Dr. Russell
and Robt. Rutherford. The noble Captain conceits he has some title to
the honours of Lord Rutherford. Very odd - when there is a vacant or
dormant title in a Scottish family or _name_, everybody, and all
connected with the clan, conceive they have _quodam modo_ a right to it.
Not being engrossed by any individual, it communicates part of its
lustre to every individual in the tribe, as if it remained in common
stock for that purpose.

_March_ 10. - I am not made entirely in the same mould of passions like
other people. Many men would deeply regret a breach with so old a friend
as Lord Melville, and many men would be in despair at losing the good
graces of a Minister of State for Scotland, and all pretty visions about
what might be done for myself and my sons, especially Charles. But I
think my good lord doth ill to be angry, like the patriarch of old, and
I have, in my odd sans souciance character, a good handful of meal from
the grist of the Jolly Miller, who

"Once
Dwelled on the river Dee;
I care for nobody, no, not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

Breakfasted with me Mr. Franks, a young Irishman from Dublin, who
brought letters from Walter and Captain Longmore of the Royal Staff. He
has written a book of poetry, _Tales of Chivalry and Romance_, far from
bad, yet wants spirit. He talks of publishing his recollections in the
Peninsula, which must be interesting, for he has, I think, sense and
reflection.

Sandie Young[213] came in at breakfast-time with a Monsieur Brocque of
Montpelier.

Saw Sir Robert Dundas at Court, who condemns Lord Melville, and says he
will not show his letter to any one; in fact it would be exactly
placarding me in a private and confidential manner. He is to send my
letter to Lord Melville. Colin Mackenzie concurs in thinking Lord
Melville quite wrong. "_He must cool in the skin he het in._"

On coming home from the Court a good deal fatigued, I took a nap in my
easy-chair, then packed my books, and committed the refuse to Jock
Stevenson -

"Left not a limb on which a Dane could triumph."

Gave Mr. Gibson my father's cabinet, which suits a man of business well.
Gave Jock Stevenson the picture of my old favourite dog Camp, mentioned
in one of the introductions to _Marmion_, and a little crow-quill
drawing of Melrose Abbey by Nelson, whom I used to call the Admiral.
Poor fellow! he had some ingenuity, and was, in a moderate way, a good
penman and draughtsman. He left his situation of amanuensis to go into
Lord Home's militia regiment, but his dissipated habits got the better
of a strong constitution, and he fell into bad ways and poverty, and
died, I believe, in the hospital at Liverpool. Strange enough that Henry
Weber, who acted afterwards as my amanuensis for many years, had also a
melancholy fate ultimately. He was a man of very superior attainments,
an excellent linguist and geographer, and a remarkable antiquary. He
published a collection of ancient Romances, superior, I think, to the
elaborate Ritson. He also published an edition of Beaumont and Fletcher,
but too carelessly done to be reputable. He was a violent Jacobin, which
he thought he disguised from me, while I, who cared not a fig about the
poor young man's politics, used to amuse myself with teasing him. He was
an excellent and affectionate creature, but unhappily was afflicted with
partial insanity, especially if he used strong liquors, to which, like
others with that unhappy tendency, he was occasionally addicted. In
1814[214] he became quite insane, and, at the risk of my life, I had to
disarm him of a pair of loaded pistols, which I did by exerting the sort
of authority which, I believe, gives an effectual control in such cases.
His friends, who were respectable, placed him in the York Asylum, where
he pined away and died, I think, in 1814 or 1815.[215] My patronage in
this way has not been lucky to the parties protected. I hope poor George
Huntly Gordon will escape the influence of the evil star. He has no
vice, poor fellow, but his total deafness makes him helpless.

_March_ 11. - This day the Court rose after a long and laborious
sederunt. I employed the remainder of the day in completing a set of
notes on Captain Maitland's manuscript narrative of the reception of
Napoleon Bonaparte on board the _Bellerophon_. It had been previously in
the hands of my friend Basil Hall, who had made many excellent
corrections in point of style; but he had been hypercritical in wishing
(in so important a matter where everything depends on accuracy) this
expression to be altered for delicacy's sake, - that to be omitted for
fear of giving offence, - and that other to be abridged for fear of being
tedious. The plain sailor's narrative for me, written on the spot, and
bearing in its minuteness the evidence of its veracity.

Lord Elgin sent me, some time since, a curious account of his
imprisonment in France, and the attempts which were made to draw him
into some intrigue which might authorise treating him with rigour[216].
He called to-day and communicated some curious circumstances, on the
authority of Fouché, Denon, and others, respecting Bonaparte and the
empress Maria Louise, whom Lord Elgin had conversed with on the subject
in Italy. His conduct towards her was something like that of Ethwald to
Elburga, in Joanna Baillie's fine tragedy[217], making her postpone her
high rank by birth to the authority which he had acquired by his
talents. Dinner was usually announced for a particular hour, and
Napoleon's business often made him late. She was not permitted to sit
down to table, an etiquette which was reasonable enough. But from the
hour of dinner till the Emperor appeared she was to be in the act of
sitting down; that is to say, he was displeased if he found her engaged
with a book, with work, or with anything else. She was obliged to be in
a state of absolute "being about to sit down." She seemed a good deal
_gênée_ by something of that kind, though remembering with pride she had
been Empress, it might almost be said of the world. The rest for
to-morrow.

_March_ 12. - Resumed _Woodstock_, and wrote my task of six pages. I was
interrupted by a slumberous feeling which made me obliged to stop once
or twice. I shall soon have a remedy in the country, which affords the
pleasanter resource of a walk when such feelings come on. I hope I am
the reverse of the well-known line, "sleepy myself, to give my readers
sleep." I cannot _gurnalise_ at any rate, having wrought my eyes nearly
out.[218]

_March_ 13. - Wrote to the end of a chapter, and knowing no more than the
man in the moon what comes next, I will put down a few of Lord Elgin's
remembrances, and something may occur to me in the meanwhile. When
M[aria] Louise first saw B[onaparte], she was in the carriage with his
representative general, when she saw a horseman ride forward at the
gallop, passing and repassing the carriage in a manner which, joined to
the behaviour of her companion, convinced her who it was, especially as
he endeavoured, with a curiosity which would not have been tolerated in
another, to peep into the windows. When she alighted at the inn at - - ,
Napoleon presented himself, pulled her by the ear, and kissed her
forehead.

Bonaparte's happiest days passed away when he dismissed from about him
such men as Talleyrand and Fouché, whose questions and objections
compelled him to recur upon, modify, and render practicable the great
plans which his ardent conception struck out at a heat. When he had
Murat and such persons about him, who marvelled and obeyed, his
schemes, equally magnificent, were not so well matured, and ended in the
projector's ruin.

I have hinted in these notes that I am not entirely free from a sort of
gloomy fits, with a fluttering of the heart and depression of spirits,
just as if I knew not what was going to befall me. I can sometimes
resist this successfully, but it is better to evade than to combat it.
The hang-dog spirit may have originated in the confusion and chucking
about of our old furniture, the stripping of walls of pictures, and
rooms of ornaments; the leaving a house we have so long called our home
is altogether melancholy enough. I am glad Lady S. does not mind it, and
yet I wonder, too. She insists on my remaining till Wednesday, not
knowing what I suffer. Meanwhile, to make my recusant spirit do penance,
I have set to work to clear away papers and pack them for my journey.
What a strange medley of thoughts such a task produces! There lie
letters which made the heart throb when received, now lifeless and
uninteresting - as are perhaps their owners. Riddles which time has
read - schemes which he has destroyed or brought to maturity - memorials
of friendships and enmities which are now alike faded. Thus does the
ring of Saturn consume itself. To-day annihilates yesterday, as the old
tyrant swallowed his children, and the snake its tail. But I must say to
my _Gurnal_ as poor Byron did to Moore, "Damn it, Tom, don't be
poetical."

_Memorandum_. - I received some time since from Mr. Riddoch, of Falkirk,
a sort of iron mallet, said to have been found in the ruins of Grame's
Dike; there it was reclaimed about three months since by the gentleman
on whose lands it was found, a Doctor - by a very polite letter from his
man of business. Having unluckily mislaid his letter, and being totally
unable either to recollect the name of the proprietor or the
professional gentleman, I returned this day the piece of antiquity to
Mr. Riddoch, who sent it to me. Wrote at the same time to Tom Grahame
of Airth, mentioning what I had done. "Touch my honour, touch my
life - there is the spoon."[219]

_March_ 14. - J.B. called this morning to take leave, and receive
directions about proofs, etc. Talks of the uproar about _Malachi_; but I
am tired of _Malachi_ - the humour is off, and I have said what I wanted
to say, and put the people of Scotland on their guard, as well as
Ministers, if they like to be warned. They are gradually destroying what
remains of nationality, and making the country _tabula rasa_ for
doctrines of bold innovation. Their loosening and grinding down all
those peculiarities which distinguished us as Scotsmen will throw the
country into a state in which it will be universally turned to
democracy, and instead of canny Saunders, they will have a very
dangerous North British neighbourhood.

Some [English] lawyer expressed to Lord Elibank an opinion, that at the
Union the English law should have been extended all over Scotland. "I
cannot say how that might have answered our purpose," said Lord Patrick,
who was never nonsuited for want of an answer, "but it would scarce have
suited _yours_, since by this time the _Aberdeen Advocates_[220] would
have possessed themselves of all the business in Westminster Hall."

What a detestable feeling this fluttering of the heart is! I know it is
nothing organic, and that it is entirely nervous; but the sickening
effects of it are dispiriting to a degree. Is it the body brings it on
the mind, or the mind that inflicts it upon the body? I cannot tell; but
it is a severe price to pay for the _Fata Morgana_ with which Fancy
sometimes amuses men of warm imaginations. As to body and mind, I fancy
I might as well inquire whether the fiddle or fiddlestick makes the
tune. In youth this complaint used to throw me into involuntary passions
of causeless tears. But I will drive it away in the country by exercise.
I wish I had been a mechanic: a turning-lathe or a chest of tools would
have been a God-send; for thought makes the access of melancholy rather
worse than better. I have it seldom, thank God, and, I believe, lightly,
in comparison of others.

It was the fiddle after all was out of order, not the fiddlestick; the
body, not the mind. I walked out; met Mrs. Skene, who took a turn with
me in Princes Street. Bade Constable and Cadell farewell, and had a
brisk walk home, which enables me to face the desolation here with more
spirit. News from Sophia. She has had the luck to get an anti-druggist
in a Dr. Gooch, who prescribes care for Johnnie instead of drugs, and a
little home-brewed ale instead of wine; and, like a liberal physician,
supplies the medicine he prescribes. As for myself, while I have scarce
stirred to take exercise for four or five days, no wonder I had the
mulligrubs. It is an awful sensation though, and would have made an
enthusiast of me, had I indulged my imagination on devotional subjects.
I have been always careful to place my mind in the most tranquil posture
which it can assume during my private exercises of devotion.

I have amused myself occasionally very pleasantly during the last few
days, by reading over Lady Morgan's novel of _O'Donnel_,[221] which has
some striking and beautiful passages of situation and description, and
in the comic part is very rich and entertaining. I do not remember being
so much pleased with it at first. There is a want of story, always fatal
to a book the first reading - and it is well if it gets a chance of a
second. Alas! poor novel! Also read again, and for the third time at
least, Miss Austen's very finely written novel of _Pride and Prejudice_.
That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements and
feelings and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most
wonderful I ever met with. The Big Bow-wow strain I can do myself like
any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary
commonplace things and characters interesting, from the truth of the
description and the sentiment, is denied to me. What a pity such a
gifted creature died so early![222]

_March_ 15. - This morning I leave No. 39 Castle Street, for the last
time. "The cabin was convenient," and habit had made it agreeable to me.
I never reckoned upon a change in this particular so long as I held an
office in the Court of Session. In all my former changes of residence it
was from good to better; this is retrograding. I leave this house for
sale, and I cease to be an Edinburgh citizen, in the sense of being a
proprietor, which my father and I have been for sixty years at least. So
farewell, poor 39, and may you never harbour worse people than those who
now leave you! Not to desert the Lares all at once, Lady S. and Anne
remain till Sunday. As for me, I go, as aforesaid, this morning.

"Ha til mi tulidh'! - "[223]

_Abbotsford_, 9 _at night_. - The naturally unpleasant feelings which
influenced me in my ejectment, for such it is virtually, readily
evaporated in the course of the journey, though I had no pleasanter
companions than Mrs. Mackay, the housekeeper, and one of the maids; and
I have a shyness of disposition, which looks like pride, but it is not,
which makes me awkward in speaking to my household domestics. With an
out-of-doors labourer, or an old woman gathering sticks, I can talk for
ever. I was welcomed here on my arrival by the tumult, great of men and
dogs, all happy to see me. One of my old labourers killed by the fall of
a stone working at Gattonside Bridge. Old Will Straiton, my man of
wisdom and proverbs, also dead. He was entertaining from his importance
and self-conceit, but really a sensible old man. When he heard of my
misfortunes, he went to bed, and said he would not rise again, and kept
his word. He was very infirm when I last saw him. Tom Purdie in great
glory, being released from all farm duty, and destined to attend the
woods, and be my special assistant. The gardener Bogie is to take care
of what small farm we have left, which little would make me give up
entirely.

_March_ 16. - Pleasant days make short Journals, and I have little to say
to-day. I wrote in the morning at _Woodstock_; walked from one till
four; was down at Huntly Burn and paid my respects to the ladies. The
spring seems promising, and everything in great order. Visited Will
Straiton's widow, who squeezed out among many tears a petition for a
house. I do not think I shall let her have one, as she has a bad temper,
but I will help her otherwise; she is greedy besides, as was the defunct
philosopher William. In a year or two I shall have on the toft field a
gallant show of extensive woodland, sweeping over the hill, and its
boundaries carefully concealed. In the evening, after dinner, read Mrs.
Charlotte Smith's novel of _Desmond_[224] - decidedly the worst of her
compositions.

_March_ 17. - Sent off a packet to J.B.; only three pages copy, so must
work hard for a day or two. I wish I could wind up my bottom
handsomely - an odd but accredited phrase. The conclusion will be
luminous; we must try to make it dashing. Go spin, you jade, go spin.
Have a good deal to do between-hands in sorting up the newly arrived
accession of books.

I need not have exulted so soon in having attained ease and quiet. I am
robbed of both with a vengeance. A letter from Lockhart, with one
enclosed from Sophia, announces the medical people think the child is
visibly losing strength, that its walking becomes more difficult, and,
in short, that the spine seems visibly affected. They recommend tepid
baths in sea-water, so Sophia has gone down to Brighton, leaving
Lockhart in town, who is to visit her once a week. Here is my worst
augury verified.[225] The bitterness of this probably impending calamity
is extreme. The child was almost too good for this world; beautiful in
features; and, though spoiled by every one, having one of the sweetest
tempers, as well as the quickest intellect I ever saw; a sense of humour
quite extraordinary in a child, and, owing to the general notice which
was taken of him, a great deal more information than suited his years.
He was born in the eighth month, and such children are never
strong - seldom long-lived. I look on this side and that, and see nothing
but protracted misery, a crippled frame, and decayed constitution,
occupying the attention of his parents for years, and dying at the end
of that period, when their hearts were turned on him; or the poor child
may die before Sophia's confinement, and that may again be a dangerous
and bad affair; or she may, by increase of attention to him, injure her
own health. In short, to trace into how many branches such a misery may
flow is impossible. The poor dear love had so often a slow fever, that
when it pressed its little lips to mine, I always foreboded to my own
heart what all I fear are now aware of.

Lockhart writes me that Croker is the author of the Letters in the
_Courier_ against _Malachi_, and that Canning is to make another attack
on me in the House of Commons.[226] These things would make a man proud.
I will not answer, because I must show up Sir William Rae, and even Lord
Melville, and I have done enough to draw public attention, which is all
I want. Let them call me ungrateful, unkind, and all sorts of names, so
they keep their own fingers free of this most threatening measure. It is
very curious that each of these angry friends - Melville, Canning, and
Croker - has in former days appealed to me in confidence against each
other.

While I smoked my cigar after dinner, my mind has been running into four
threads of bitter fancies, or rather into three decidedly bitter, and
one that is indifferent. There is the distress incumbent on the country
by these most untimely proceedings, which I would stop with my life were
that adequate to prevent them. 2d, there is the unpleasant feeling of
seeing a number of valued friends pass from me; that I cannot help. 3d,
there is the gnawing misery about that sweet child and its parents. 4th,
there is the necessity of pursuing my own labours, for which perhaps I
ought to be thankful, since it always wrenches one's mind aside from
what it must dwell on with pain. It is odd that the state of excitation
with me rather increases than abates the power of labour, I must finish
_Woodstock_ well if I can: otherwise how the Philistines will rejoice!

_March_ 18. - Slept indifferently, and under the influence of Queen Mab,
seldom auspicious to me, dreamed of reading the tale of the Prince of
the Black Marble Islands to little Johnnie, extended on a paralytic
chair, and yet telling all his pretty stories about Ha-papa, as he calls
me, and Chiefswood - and waked to think I should see the little darling
no more, or see him as a thing that had better never have existed. Oh,
misery! misery! that the best I can wish for him is early death, with
all the wretchedness to his parents that is like to ensue! I intended to
have stayed at home to-day; but Tom more wisely had resolved that I
should walk, and hung about the window with his axe and my own in his
hand till I turned out with him, and helped to cut some fine paling.

_March_ 19. - I have a most melancholy letter from Anne. Lady S., the
faithful and true companion of my fortunes, good and bad, for so many
years, has, but with difficulty, been prevailed on to see Dr.
Abercrombie, and his opinion is far from favourable. Her asthmatic
complaints are fast terminating in hydropsy, as I have long suspected;
yet the avowal of the truth and its probable consequences are
overwhelming. They are to stay a little longer in town to try the
effects of a new medicine. On Wednesday they propose to return hither - a
new affliction, where there was enough before; yet her constitution is
so good that if she will be guided by advice, things may be yet
ameliorated. God grant it! for really these misfortunes come too close
upon each other.

A letter from Croker of a very friendly tone and tenor, which I will
answer accordingly, not failing, however, to let him know that if I do
not reply it is not for fear of his arguments or raillery, far less from