[_Edinburgh_,] _November_ 20, 1825.--I have all my life regretted that I
did not keep a regular Journal. I have myself lost recollection of much
that was interesting, and I have deprived my family and the public of
some curious information, by not carrying this resolution into effect. I
have bethought me, on seeing lately some volumes of Byron's notes, that
he probably had hit upon the right way of keeping such a
memorandum-book, by throwing aside all pretence to regularity and order,
and marking down events just as they occurred to recollection. I will
try this plan; and behold I have a handsome locked volume, such as might
serve for a lady's album. _Nota bene_, John Lockhart, and Anne, and I
are to raise a Society for the suppression of Albums. It is a most
troublesome shape of mendicity. Sir, your autograph--a line of
poetry--or a prose sentence!--Among all the sprawling sonnets, and
blotted trumpery that dishonours these miscellanies, a man must have a
good stomach that can swallow this botheration as a compliment.
I was in Ireland last summer, and had a most delightful tour. It cost me
upwards of £500, including £100 left with Walter and Jane, for we
travelled a large party and in style. There is much less exaggerated
about the Irish than is to be expected. Their poverty is not
exaggerated; it is on the extreme verge of human misery; their cottages
would scarce serve for pig-styes, even in Scotland, and their rags seem
the very refuse of a rag-shop, and are disposed on their bodies with
such ingenious variety of wretchedness that you would think nothing but
some sort of perverted taste could have assembled so many shreds
together. You are constantly fearful that some knot or loop will give,
and place the individual before you in all the primitive simplicity of
Paradise. Then for their food, they have only potatoes, and too few of
them. Yet the men look stout and healthy, the women buxom and
well-coloured.
Dined with us, being Sunday, Will. Clerk and Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe.
W.C. is the second son of the celebrated author of _Naval Tactics_.[1] I
have known him intimately since our college days; and, to my thinking,
never met a man of greater powers, or more complete information on all
desirable subjects. In youth he had strongly the Edinburgh _pruritus
disputandi_; but habits of society have greatly mellowed it, and though
still anxious to gain your suffrage to his views, he endeavours rather
to conciliate your opinion than conquer it by force. Still there is
enough of tenacity of sentiment to prevent, in London society, where all
must go slack and easy, W.C. from rising to the very top of the tree as
a conversation man, who must not only wind the thread of his argument
gracefully, but also know when to let go. But I like the Scotch taste
better; there is more matter, more information, above all, more spirit
in it. Clerk will, I am afraid, leave the world little more than the
report of his fame. He is too indolent to finish any considerable
work.[2] Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe is another very remarkable man. He
was bred a clergyman, but did not take orders, owing I believe to a
peculiar effeminacy of voice which must have been unpleasant in reading
prayers. Some family quarrels occasioned his being indifferently
provided for by a small annuity from his elder brother, extorted by an
arbitral decree. He has infinite wit and a great turn for antiquarian
lore, as the publications of _Kirkton_,[3] etc., bear witness. His
drawings are the most fanciful and droll imaginable--a mixture between
Hogarth and some of those foreign masters who painted temptations of St.
Anthony, and such grotesque subjects. As a poet he has not a very strong
touch. Strange that his finger-ends can describe so well what he cannot
bring out clearly and firmly in words. If he were to make drawing a
resource, it might raise him a large income. But though a lover of
antiquities, and therefore of expensive trifles, C.K.S. is too
aristocratic to use his art to assist his revenue. He is a very complete
genealogist, and has made many detections in _Douglas_ and other books
on pedigree, which our nobles would do well to suppress if they had an
opportunity. Strange that a man should be curious after scandal of
centuries old! Not but Charles loves it fresh and fresh also, for, being
very much a fashionable man, he is always master of the reigning report,
and he tells the anecdote with such gusto that there is no helping
sympathising with him--the peculiarity of voice adding not a little to
the general effect. My idea is that C.K.S., with his oddities, tastes,
satire, and high aristocratic feelings, resembles Horace
Walpole--perhaps in his person also, in a general way.--See Miss
Hawkins' _Anecdotes_[4] for a description of the author of _The Castle
of Otranto_.
No other company at dinner except my cheerful and good-humoured friend
_Missie_ Macdonald,[5] so called in fondness. One bottle of champagne
with the ladies' assistance, two of claret. I observe that both these
great connoisseurs were very nearly, if not quite, agreed, that there
are _no_ absolutely undoubted originals of Queen Mary. But how then
should we be so very distinctly informed as to her features? What has
become of all the originals which suggested these innumerable copies?
Surely Mary must have been as unfortunate in this as in other
particulars of her life.[6]
_November_ 21.--I am enamoured of my journal. I wish the zeal may but
last. Once more of Ireland. I said their poverty was not exaggerated;
neither is their wit--nor their good-humour--nor their whimsical
absurdity--nor their courage.
_Wit_.--I gave a fellow a shilling on some occasion when sixpence was
the fee. "Remember you owe me sixpence, Pat." "May your honour live till
I pay you!" There was courtesy as well as wit in this, and all the
clothes on Pat's back would have been dearly bought by the sum in
question.
_Good-humour_.--There is perpetual kindness in the Irish cabin;
butter-milk, potatoes, a stool is offered, or a stone is rolled that
your honour may sit down and be out of the smoke, and those who beg
everywhere else seem desirous to exercise free hospitality in their own
houses. Their natural disposition is turned to gaiety and happiness;
while a Scotchman is thinking about the term-day, or, if easy on that
subject, about hell in the next world--while an Englishman is making a
little hell of his own in the present, because his muffin is not well
roasted--Pat's mind is always turned to fun and ridicule. They are
terribly excitable, to be sure, and will murther you on slight
suspicion, and find out next day that it was all a mistake, and that it
was not yourself they meant to kill at all at all.
_Absurdity_.--They were widening the road near Lord Claremont's seat as
we passed. A number of cars were drawn up together at a particular
point, where we also halted, as we understood they were blowing a rock,
and the _shot_ was expected presently to go off. After waiting two
minutes or so, a fellow called out something, and our carriage as a
planet, and the cars for satellites, started all forward at once, the
Irishmen whooping and crying, and the horses galloping. Unable to learn
the meaning of this, I was only left to suppose that they had delayed
firing the intended _shot_ till we should pass, and that we were passing
quickly to make the delay as short as possible. No such thing. By dint
of making great haste, we got within ten yards of the rock when the
blast took place, throwing dust and gravel on our carriage, and had our
postillion brought us a little nearer (it was not for want of hallooing
and flogging that he did not), we should have had a still more serious
share of the explosion. The explanation I received from the drivers was,
that they had been told by the overseer that as the _mine_ had been so
long in _going off_, he dared say we would have time to pass it--so we
just waited long enough to make the danger imminent. I have only to add
that two or three people got behind the carriage, just for nothing but
to see how our honours got past.
Went to the Oil Gas Committee[7] this morning, of which concern I am
president, or chairman. It has amused me much by bringing me into
company with a body of active, business-loving, money-making citizens of
Edinburgh, chiefly Whigs by the way, whose sentiments and proceedings
amuse me. The stock is rather low in the market, 35s. premium instead
of £5. It must rise, however, for the advantages of the light are
undeniable, and folks will soon become accustomed to idle apprehensions
or misapprehensions. From £20 to £25 should light a house capitally,
supposing you leave town in the vacation. The three last quarters cost
me £10, 10s., and the first, £8, was greatly overcharged. We will see
what this, the worst and darkest quarter, costs.
Dined with Sir Robert Dundas,[8] where we met Lord and Lady Melville. My
little _nieces_ (_ex officio_) gave us some pretty music. I do not know
and cannot utter a note of music; and complicated harmonies seem to me a
babble of confused though pleasing sounds. Yet songs and simple
melodies, especially if connected with words and ideas, have as much
effect on me as on most people. But then I hate to hear a young person
sing without feeling and expression suited to the song. I cannot bear a
voice that has no more life in it than a pianoforte or a bugle-horn.
There is something about all the fine arts, of soul and spirit, which,
like the vital principle in man, defies the research of the most
critical anatomist. You feel where it is not, yet you cannot describe
what it is you want. Sir Joshua, or some other great painter, was
looking at a picture on which much pains had been bestowed--"Why, yes,"
he said, in a hesitating manner, "it is very clever--very well
done--can't find fault; but it wants something; it wants--it wants, damn
me--it wants THAT"--throwing his hand over his head and snapping his
fingers. Tom Moore's is the most exquisite warbling I ever heard. Next
to him, David Macculloch[9] for Scots songs. The last, when a boy at
Dumfries, was much admired by Burns, who used to get him to try over the
words which he composed to new melodies. He is brother of Macculloch of
Ardwell.
_November_ 22.--MOORE. I saw Moore (for the first time, I may say) this
season. We had indeed met in public twenty years ago. There is a manly
frankness, and perfect ease and good breeding about him which is
delightful. Not the least touch of the poet or the pedant. A
little--very little man. Less, I think, than Lewis, and somewhat like
him in person; God knows, not in conversation, for Matt, though a clever
fellow, was a bore of the first description. Moreover, he looked always
like a schoolboy. I remember a picture of him being handed about at
Dalkeith House. It was a miniature I think by Sanders,[10] who had
contrived to muffle Lewis's person in a cloak, and placed some poignard
or dark lanthorn appurtenance (I think) in his hand, so as to give the
picture the cast of a bravo. "That like Mat Lewis?" said Duke Henry, to
whom it had passed in turn; "why, that is like a MAN!" Imagine the
effect! Lewis was at his elbow.[11] Now Moore has none of this
insignificance; to be sure his person is much stouter than that of
M.G.L., his countenance is decidedly plain, but the expression is so
very animated, especially in speaking or singing, that it is far more
interesting than the finest features could have rendered it.
I was aware that Byron had often spoken, both in private society and in
his Journal, of Moore and myself in the same breath, and with the same
sort of regard; so I was curious to see what there could be in common
betwixt us, Moore having lived so much in the gay world, I in the
country, and with people of business, and sometimes with politicians;
Moore a scholar, I none; he a musician and artist, I without knowledge
of a note; he a democrat, I an aristocrat--with many other points of
difference; besides his being an Irishman, I a Scotchman, and both
tolerably national. Yet there is a point of resemblance, and a strong
one. We are both good-humoured fellows, who rather seek to enjoy what is
going forward than to maintain our dignity as lions; and we have both
seen the world too widely and too well not to contemn in our souls the
imaginary consequence of literary people, who walk with their noses in
the air, and remind me always of the fellow whom Johnson met in an
alehouse, and who called himself "the _great_ Twalmley--inventor of the
floodgate iron for smoothing linen." He also enjoys the _mot pour rire_,
and so do I.
Moore has, I think, been ill-treated about Byron's Memoirs; he
surrendered them to the family (Lord Byron's executors) and thus lost
£2000 which he had raised upon them at a most distressing moment of his
life. It is true they offered and pressed the money on him afterwards,
but they ought to have settled it with the booksellers and not put poor
Tom's spirit in arms against his interest.[12] I think at least it
might have been so managed. At any rate there must be an authentic life
of Byron by somebody. Why should they not give the benefit of their
materials to Tom Moore, whom Byron had made the depositary of his own
Memoirs?--but T.M. thinks that Cam Hobhouse has the purpose of writing
Byron's life himself. He and Moore were at sharp words during the
negotiation, and there was some explanation necessary before the affair
ended. It was a pity that nothing save the total destruction of Byron's
Memoirs would satisfy his executors.[13] But there was a reason--_Premat
nox alta_.
It would be a delightful addition to life, if T.M. had a cottage within
two miles of one. We went to the theatre together, and the house, being
luckily a good one, received T.M. with rapture. I could have hugged
them, for it paid back the debt of the kind reception I met with in
Ireland.[14]
Here is a matter for a May morning, but much fitter for a November one.
The general distress in the city has affected H. and R.,[15] Constable's
great agents. Should they _go_, it is not likely that Constable can
stand, and such an event would lead to great distress and perplexity on
the part of J.B. and myself. Thank God, I have enough at least to pay
forty shillings in the pound, taking matters at the very worst. But much
distress and inconvenience must be the consequence. I had a lesson in
1814 which should have done good upon me, but success and abundance
erased it from my mind. But this is no time for journalising or
moralising either. Necessity is like a sour-faced cook-maid, and I a
turn-spit whom she has flogged ere now, till he mounted his wheel. If
W-st-k[16] can be out by 25th January it will do much, and it is
possible.
------'s son has saved his comrade on shipboard by throwing himself
overboard and keeping the other afloat--a very gallant thing. But the
_Gran giag' Asso_[17] asks me to write a poem on the _civic crown_, of
which he sends me a description quoted from Adam's _Antiquities_, which
mellifluous performance is to persuade the Admiralty to give the young
conservator promotion. Oh! he is a rare head-piece, an admirable Merron.
I do not believe there is in nature such a full-acorned Boar.[18]
Could not write to purpose for thick-coming fancies; the wheel would not
turn easily, and cannot be forced.
"My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff,
The rock o't winna stand, sir;
To keep the temper-pin in tiff
Employs aft my hand, sir."[19]
Went to dine at the L[ord] J[ustice]-C[lerk's][20] as I thought by
invitation, but it was for Tuesday se'nnight. Returned very well
pleased, not being exactly in the humour for company, and had a
beef-steak. My appetite is surely, excepting in quantity, that of a
farmer; for, eating moderately of anything, my Epicurean pleasure is in
the most simple diet. Wine I seldom taste when alone, and use instead a
little spirits and water. I have of late diminished the quantity, for
fear of a weakness inductive to a diabetes--a disease which broke up my
father's health, though one of the most temperate men who ever lived. I
smoke a couple of cigars instead, which operates equally as a
sedative--
"Just to drive the cold winter away,
And drown the fatigues of the day."
I smoked a good deal about twenty years ago when at Ashestiel; but,
coming down one morning to the parlour, I found, as the room was small
and confined, that the smell was unpleasant, and laid aside the use of
the _Nicotian weed_ for many years; but was again led to use it by the
example of my son, a hussar officer, and my son-in-law, an Oxford
student. I could lay it aside to-morrow; I laugh at the dominion of
custom in this and many things.
"We make the giants first, and then--_do not_ kill them."
_November_ 23.--On comparing notes with Moore, I was confirmed in one or
two points which I had always laid down in considering poor Byron. One
was, that like Rousseau he was apt to be very suspicious, and a plain
downright steadiness of manner was the true mode to maintain his good
opinion. Will Rose told me that once, while sitting with Byron, he fixed
insensibly his eyes on his feet, one of which, it must be remembered,
was deformed. Looking up suddenly, he saw Byron regarding him with a
look of concentrated and deep displeasure, which wore off when he
observed no consciousness or embarrassment in the countenance of Rose.
Murray afterwards explained this, by telling Rose that Lord Byron was
very jealous of having this personal imperfection noticed or attended
to. In another point, Moore confirmed my previous opinion, namely, that
Byron loved mischief-making. Moore had written to him cautioning him
against the project of establishing the paper called the _Liberal_, in
communion with such men as P.B. Shelley and Hunt,[21] on whom he said
the world had set its mark. Byron showed this to the parties. Shelley
wrote a modest and rather affecting expostulation to Moore.[22] These
two peculiarities of extreme suspicion and love of mischief are both
shades of the malady which certainly tinctured some part of the
character of this mighty genius; and, without some tendency towards
which, genius--I mean that kind which depends on the imaginative
power--perhaps cannot exist to great extent. The wheels of a machine, to
play rapidly, must not fit with the utmost exactness, else the attrition
diminishes the impetus.
Another of Byron's peculiarities was the love of mystifying; which
indeed may be referred to that of mischief. There was no knowing how
much or how little to believe of his narratives. Instance:--Mr.
Bankes[23] expostulating with him upon a dedication which he had written
in extravagant terms of praise to Cam Hobhouse, Byron told him that Cam
had teased him into the dedication till he had said, "Well; it shall be
so,--providing you will write the dedication yourself"; and affirmed
that Cam Hobhouse did write the high-coloured dedication accordingly. I
mentioned this to Murray, having the report from Will Rose, to whom
Bankes had mentioned it. Murray, in reply, assured me that the
dedication was written by Lord Byron himself, and showed it me in his
own hand. I wrote to Rose to mention the thing to Bankes, as it might
have made mischief had the story got into the circle. Byron was disposed
to think all men of imagination were addicted to mix fiction (or poetry)
with their prose. He used to say he dared believe the celebrated
courtezan of Venice, about whom Rousseau makes so piquante a story, was,
if one could see her, a draggle-tailed wench enough. I believe that he
embellished his own amours considerably, and that he was, in many
respects, _le fanfaron de vices qu'il n'avoit pas_. He loved to be
thought awful, mysterious, and gloomy, and sometimes hinted at strange
causes. I believe the whole to have been the creation and sport of a
wild and powerful fancy. In the same manner he _crammed_ people, as it
is termed, about duels, etc., which never existed, or were much
exaggerated.
Constable has been here as lame as a duck upon his legs, but his heart
and courage as firm as a cock. He has convinced me we will do well to
support the London House. He has sent them about £5000, and proposes we
should borrow on our joint security £5000 for their accommodation. J.B.
and R. Cadell present. I must be guided by them, and hope for the best.
Certainly to part company would be to incur an awful risk.
What I liked about Byron, besides his boundless genius, was his
generosity of spirit as well as purse, and his utter contempt of all the
affectations of literature, from the school-magisterial style to the
lackadaisical. Byron's example has formed a sort of upper house of
poetry. There is Lord Leveson Gower, a very clever young man.[24] Lord
Porchester too,[25] nephew to Mrs. Scott of Harden, a young man who lies
on the carpet and looks poetical and dandyish--fine lad too, but--
"There will be many peers
Ere such another Byron."
Talking of Abbotsford, it begins to be haunted by too much company of
every kind, but especially foreigners. I do not like them. I hate fine
waistcoats and breast-pins upon dirty shirts. I detest the impudence
that pays a stranger compliments, and harangues about his works in the
author's house, which is usually ill-breeding. Moreover, they are seldom
long of making it evident that they know nothing about what they are
talking of, except having seen the Lady of the Lake at the Opera.
Dined at St. Catherine's[26] with Lord Advocate, Lord and Lady Melville,
Lord Justice-Clerk,[27] Sir Archibald Campbell of Succoth, all class
companions and acquainted well for more than forty years. All except
Lord J.C. were at Fraser's class, High School.[28] Boyle joined us at
college. There are, besides, Sir Adam Ferguson, Colin Mackenzie, James
Hope, Dr. James Buchan, Claud Russell, and perhaps two or three more of
and about the same period--but
"Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto."[29]
_November 24._--Talking of strangers, London held, some four or five
years since, one of those animals who are lions at first, but by
transmutation of two seasons become in regular course Boars!--Ugo
Foscolo by name, a haunter of Murray's shop and of literary parties.
Ugly as a baboon, and intolerably conceited, he spluttered, blustered,
and disputed, without even knowing the principles upon which men of
sense render a reason, and screamed all the while like a pig when they
cut its throat. Another such Animaluccio is a brute of a Sicilian
Marquis de ---- who wrote something about Byron. He inflicted two days
on us at Abbotsford. They never know what to make of themselves in the
forenoon, but sit tormenting the women to play at proverbs and such
trash.
_Foreigner of a different cast_,--Count Olonym (Olonyne--that's it), son
of the President of the Royal Society and a captain in the Imperial
Guards. He is mean-looking and sickly, but has much sense, candour, and
general information. There was at Abbotsford, and is here, for education
just now, a young Count Davidoff, with a tutor Mr. Collyer. He is a
nephew of the famous Orloffs. It is quite surprising how much sense and
sound thinking this youth has at the early age of sixteen, without the
least self-conceit or forwardness. On the contrary, he seems kind,
modest, and ingenuous.[30] To questions which I asked about the state of
Russia he answered with the precision and accuracy of twice his years. I
should be sorry the saying were verified in him--
"So wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long."[31]
Saw also at Abbotsford two Frenchmen whom I liked, friends of Miss
Dumergue. One, called Le Noir, is the author of a tragedy which he had
the grace never to quote, and which I, though poked by some malicious
persons, had _not_ the grace even to hint at. They were disposed at
first to be complimentary, but I convinced them it was not the custom
here, and they took it well, and were agreeable.
A little bilious this morning, for the first time these six months. It
cannot be the London matters which stick on my stomach, for that is
mending, and may have good effects on myself and others.
Dined with Robert Cockburn. Company, Lord Melville and family; Sir John
and Lady Hope; Lord and Lady R. Kerr, and so forth. Combination of
colliers general, and coals up to double price; the men will not work,
_although_, or rather _because_, they can make from thirty to forty
shillings per week. Lord R.K. told us that he had a letter from Lord
Forbes (son of Earl Granard, Ireland), that he was asleep in his house
at Castle Forbes, when awakened by a sense of suffocation which deprived
him of the power of stirring a limb, yet left him the consciousness that
the house was on fire. At this moment, and while his apartment was in
flames, his large dog jumped on the bed, seized his shirt, and dragged
him to the staircase, where the fresh air restored his powers of
exertion and of escape. This is very different from most cases of
preservation of life by the canine race, when the animal generally jumps
into the water, in which [element] he has force and skill. That of fire
is as hostile to him as to mankind.
_November_ 25.--Read Jeffrey's neat and well-intended address[32] to the
mechanics upon their combinations. Will it do good? Umph. It takes only
the hand of a Lilliputian to light a fire, but would require the
diuretic powers of Gulliver to extinguish it. The Whigs will live and
die in the heresy that the world is ruled by little pamphlets and
speeches, and that if you can sufficiently demonstrate that a line of
conduct is most consistent with men's interest, you have therefore and
thereby demonstrated that they will at length, after a few speeches on
the subject, adopt it of course. In this case we would have [no] need of
laws or churches, for I am sure there is no difficulty in proving that
moral, regular, and steady habits conduce to men's best interest, and
that vice is not sin merely, but folly. But of these men each has
passions and prejudices, the gratification of which he prefers, not only
to the general weal, but to that of himself as an individual. Under the
action of these wayward impulses a man drinks to-day though he is sure
of starving to-morrow. He murders to-morrow though he is sure to be
hanged on Wednesday; and people are so slow to believe that which makes
against their own predominant passions, that mechanics will combine to
raise the price for one week, though they destroy the manufacture for
ever. The best remedy seems to be the probable supply of labourers from
other trades. Jeffrey proposes each mechanic shall learn some other
trade than his own, and so have two strings to his bow. He does not
consider the length of a double apprenticeship. To make a man a good
weaver and a good tailor would require as much time as the patriarch
served for his two wives, and after all, he would be but a poor workman
at either craft. Each mechanic has, indeed, a second trade, for he can
dig and do rustic work. Perhaps the best reason for breaking up the
association will prove to be the expenditure of the money which they
have been simple enough to levy from the industrious for the support of
the idle. How much provision for the sick and the aged, the widow and
the orphan, has been expended in the attempt to get wages which the
manufacturer cannot afford them, with any profitable chance of selling
his commodity?
I had a bad fall last night coming home. There were unfinished houses at
the east end of Atholl Place,[33] and as I was on foot, I crossed the
street to avoid the material which lay about; but, deceived by the
moonlight, I stepped ankle-deep in a sea of mud (honest earth and water,
thank God), and fell on my hands. Never was there such a representative
of _Wall_ in Pyramus and Thisbe--I was absolutely rough-cast. Luckily
Lady S. had retired when I came home; so I enjoyed my tub of water
without either remonstrance or condolences. Cockburn's hospitality will
get the benefit and renown of my downfall, and yet has no claim to it.
In future though, I must take a coach at night--a control on one's
freedom, but it must be submitted to. I found a letter from [R.]
C[adell], giving a cheering account of things in London. Their
correspondent is getting into his strength. Three days ago I would have
been contented to buy this _consola_, as Judy says,[34] dearer than by a
dozen falls in the mud. For had the great Constable fallen, O my
countrymen, what a fall were there!
[Sidenote: _N.B._ Within eight weeks after recording this graceful act
of submission, I found I was unable to keep a carriage at all.]
Mrs. Coutts, with the Duke of St. Albans and Lady Charlotte Beauclerk,
called to take leave of us. When at Abbotsford his suit throve but
coldly. She made me, I believe, her confidant in sincerity.[35] She had
refused him twice, and decidedly. He was merely on the footing of
friendship. I urged it was akin to love. She allowed she might marry the
Duke, only she had at present not the least intention that way. Is this
frank admission more favourable for the Duke than an absolute
protestation against the possibility of such a marriage? I think not. It
is the fashion to attend Mrs. Coutts' parties and to abuse her. I have
always found her a kind, friendly woman, without either affectation or
insolence in the display of her wealth, and most willing to do good if
the means be shown to her. She can be very entertaining too, as she
speaks without scruple of her stage life. So much wealth can hardly be
enjoyed without some ostentation. But what then? If the Duke marries
her, he ensures an immense fortune; if she marries him, she has the
first rank. If he marries a woman older than himself by twenty years,
she marries a man younger in wit by twenty degrees. I do not think he
will dilapidate her fortune--he seems quiet and gentle. I do not think
that she will abuse his softness--of disposition, shall I say, or of
heart? The disparity of ages concerns no one but themselves; so they
have my consent to marry, if they can get each other's. Just as this is
written, enter my Lord of St. Albans and Lady Charlotte, to beg I would
recommend a book of sermons to Mrs. Coutts. Much obliged for her good
opinion: recommended Logan's[36]--one poet should always speak for
another. The mission, I suppose, was a little display on the part of
good Mrs. Coutts of authority over her high aristocratic suitor. I do
not suspect her of turning _dévote_, and retract my consent given as
above, unless she remains "lively, brisk, and jolly."[37]
Dined quiet with wife and daughter. R[obert] Cadell looked in in the
evening on business.
I here register my purpose to practise economics. I have little
temptation to do otherwise. Abbotsford is all that I can make it, and
too large for the property; so I resolve--
No more building;
No purchases of land till times are quite safe;