Diary “May
11.—The Boar of the Forest called
this morning to converse about trying to get him on the pecuniary list of the
Royal Literary Society. Certainly he deserves it, if genius and necessity can
do so. But I do not belong to the society, nor do I propose to enter it as a
coadjutor. I do not like your royal academies of this kind; they almost always
fall into jobs, and the members are seldom those who do credit to the
literature of a country. It affected, too, to comprehend those men of letters
who are specially attached to the Crown, and though I love and honour my King
as much as any of them can, yet I hold it best, in this free country, to
preserve the exterior of independence, that my loyalty may be the more
impressive, and tell more effectually. Yet I wish sincerely to help poor
Hogg, and have written to Lockhart about it. It may be my own desolate feelings—it may be
the apprehension of evil from this political hocus-pocus; but I have seldom
felt more moody and uncomfortable than while writing these lines. I have
walked, too, but without effect. W.
Laidlaw, whose very ingenious mind is delighted with all
novelties, talked
| MAY, 1827. | 35 |
“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 harmless need I cry?’ |
“May 15,—I dined at a great dinner given by Sir George Clerk to his electors, the freeholders of Mid-Lothian; a great attendance of Whig and Tory, huzzaing each other’s toasts. If is a good peace-maker, 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 27.—I got ducked in coming home from the Court. Made a hard day of it. Scarce stirred from one room to another, but by 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.
‘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. 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
* Sir W. varies a verse of “The tight little Island.” |
| 36 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
“June 3.—Wrought hard. I thought I had but a trifle to do, but new things cast up; we get beyond the Life, however, for I have killed him to-day. The newspapers are very saucy; the Sun says I have got L.4000 for suffering a Frenchman to look over my manuscript. Here is a proper fellow for you! I wonder what he thinks Frenchmen are made of—walking money-bags, doubtless. ‘Now,’ as Sir Fretful Plagiary says, ‘another person would be vexed at this,’ but I care not one brass farthing.
“June 5.—Proofs. Parliament-House till two. Commenced the character of Buonaparte. To-morrow being a Teind-day, I may hope to get it finished.
“June 10.—Rose with the odd
consciousness of being free of my daily task. I have heard that the fish-women
go to church of a Sunday with their creels new washed, and a few stones in them
for ballast, just because they cannot walk steadily without their usual load. I
feel something like them, and rather inclined to take up some light task, than
to be altogether idle. I have my proof-sheets, to be sure; but what are these
to a whole day? A good thought came in my head to write Stories for little Johnnie Lockhart, from the History of Scot-
| LETTER TO MORRITT—JUNE, 1827. | 37 |
