November 1.—I suppose the ravishing is going to begin, for we have
had the Dames des Halles, with a bouquet like a maypole, and a speech
full of honey and oil, which cost me ten francs; also a small
worshipper, who would not leave his name, but came seulement pour avoir
le plaisir, la félicité etc. etc. All this jargon I answer with
corresponding blarney of my own, for "have I not licked the black
stone of that ancient castle?" As to French, I speak it as it comes, and
like Doeg in Absalom and Achitophel—
"——dash on through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in."
We went this morning with M. Gallois to the Church of St. Genevieve, and
thence to the College Henri IV., where I saw once more my old friend
Chevalier.  He was unwell, swathed in a turban of nightcaps and a
multiplicity of robes de chambre; but he had all the heart and the
vivacity of former times. I was truly glad to see the kind old man. We
were unlucky in our day for sights, this being a high festival—All
Souls' Day. We were not allowed to scale the steeple of St. Genevieve,
neither could we see the animals at the Jardin des Plantes, who, though
they have no souls, it is supposed, and no interest of course in the
devotions of the day, observe it in strict retreat, like the nuns of
Kilkenny. I met, however, one lioness walking at large in the Jardin,
and was introduced. This was Madame de Souza,  the authoress of some
well-known French romances of a very classical character, I am told,
for I have never read them. She must have been beautiful, and is still
well-looked. She is the mother of the handsome Count de Flahault, and
had a very well-looking daughter with her, besides a son or two. She was
very agreeable. We are to meet again. The day becoming decidedly rainy,
we returned along the Boulevards by the Bridge of Austerlitz, but the
weather was so indifferent as to spoil the fine show.
For an account of M. Chevalier, and an interview in 1815
with David "of the blood-stained brush," see Life, vol. v. p. 87.
We dined at the Ambassador's—Lord Granville, formerly Lord Leveson
Gower. He inhabits the same splendid house which Lord Castlereagh had in
1815, namely, Numero 30, Rue du Fauxbourg St. Honoré. It once belonged
to Pauline Borghese, and if its walls could speak, they might tell us
mighty curious stories. Without their having any tongue, they spoke to
my feelings "with most miraculous organ."  In these halls I had
often seen and conversed familiarly with many of the great and powerful,
who won the world by their swords, and divided it by their counsel.
Madame de Souza-Botelho, author of Adèle de Senanges,
and other works, which formed the subject of an article in the
Edinburgh, No. 68, written by Moore. At the time Scott met her she had
just lost her second husband, who is remembered by his magnificent
editions of Camoens' Lusiad, on which it is said he spent about £4000.
Mme. de Souza died in 1836.
Hamlet, Act II. Sc. 2.
Here I saw very much of poor Lord Castlereagh—a man of sense, presence
of mind, courage, and fortitude, which carried him through many an
affair of critical moment, when finer talents might have stuck in the
mire. He had been, I think, indifferently educated, and his mode of
speaking being far from logical or correct, he was sometimes in danger
of becoming almost ridiculous, in spite of his lofty presence, which had
all the grace of the Seymours, and his determined courage.  But then
he was always up to the occasion, and upon important matters was an
orator to convince, if not to delight, his hearers. He is gone, and my
friend Stanhope also, whose kindness this town so strongly recalls. It
is remarkable they were the only persons of sense and credibility who
both attested supernatural appearances on their own evidence, and both
died in the same melancholy manner. I shall always tremble when any
friend of mine becomes visionary. 
The following mixed metaphor is said to have been taken
from one of his speeches:—"Ministers were not to look on like
Crocodiles, with their hands in their breeches' pockets, doing
I have seen in these rooms the Emperor Alexander, Platoff,
Schwarzenberg, old Blucher, Fouché, and many a maréchal whose truncheon
had guided armies—all now at peace, without subjects, without dominion,
and where their past life, perhaps, seems but the recollection of a
feverish dream. What a group would this band have made in the gloomy
regions described in the Odyssey! But to lesser things. We were most
kindly received by Lord and Lady Granville, and met many friends, some
of them having been guests at Abbotsford; among these were Lords Ashley
and Morpeth—there were also Charles Ellis (Lord Seaford now), cum
plurimis aliis. Anne saw for the first time an entertainment à la mode
de France, where the gentlemen left the parlour with the ladies. In
diplomatic houses it is a good way of preventing political discussion,
which John Bull is always apt to introduce with the second bottle. We
left early, and came home at ten, much pleased with Lord and Lady
Granville's kindness, though it was to be expected, as our
recommendations came from Windsor.
The story regarding Castlereagh's Radiant Boy, is that
one night, when he was in barracks and alone, he saw a figure glide from
the fireplace, the face becoming brighter as it approached him. On Lord
Castlereagh stepping forward to meet it, the figure retired again, and
as he advanced it gradually faded from his view. Sir Walter does not
tell us of his friend Stanhope's ghostly experience.
November 2.—Another gloomy day—a pize upon it!—and we have settled
to go to Saint Cloud, and dine, if possible, with the Drummonds at
Auteuil. Besides, I expect poor W.R. S[pencer] to breakfast. There is
another thought which depresses me.
Well—but let us jot down a little politics, as my book has a pretty
firm lock. The Whigs may say what they please, but I think the Bourbons
will stand. Gallois, no great Royalist, says that the Duke of Orleans
lives on the best terms with the reigning family, which is wise on his
part, for the golden fruit may ripen and fall of itself, but it would be
"Lend the crowd his arm to shake the tree." 
Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel—Character of
The army, which was Bonaparte's strength, is now very much changed by
the gradual influence of time, which has removed many, and made invalids
of many more. The citizens are neutral, and if the King will govern
according to the Charte, and, what is still more, according to the
habits of the people, he will sit firm enough, and the constitution will
gradually attain more and more reverence as age gives it authority, and
distinguishes it from those temporary and ephemeral governments, which
seemed only set up to be pulled down. The most dangerous point in the
present state of France is that of religion. It is, no doubt, excellent
in the Bourbons to desire to make France a religious country; but they
begin, I think, at the wrong end. To press the observances and ritual of
religion on those who are not influenced by its doctrines is planting
the growing tree with its head downwards. Rites are sanctified by
belief; but belief can never arise out of an enforced observance of
ceremonies; it only makes men detest what is imposed on them by
compulsion. Then these Jesuits, who constitute emphatically an imperium
in imperio, labouring first for the benefit of their own order, and
next for that of the Roman See—what is it but the introduction into
France of a foreign influence, whose interest may often run counter to
the general welfare of the kingdom?
We have enough of ravishment. M. Meurice writes me that he is ready to
hang himself that we did not find accommodation at his hotel; and Madame
Mirbel came almost on her knees to have permission to take my portrait.
I was cruel; but, seeing her weeping-ripe, consented she should come
to-morrow and work while I wrote. A Russian Princess Galitzin, too,
demands to see me in the heroic vein; "Elle vouloit traverser les mers
pour aller voir S.W.S.," and offers me a rendezvous at my hotel. This
is precious tomfoolery; however, it is better than being neglected like
a fallen sky-rocket, which seemed like to be my fate last year.
We went to Saint Cloud with my old friend Mr. Drummond, now at a pretty
maison de campagne at Auteuil. Saint Cloud, besides its unequalled
views, is rich in remembrances. I did not fail to revisit the
Orangerie, out of which Bon. expelled the Council of [Five Hundred]. I
thought I saw the scoundrels jumping the windows, with the bayonets at
their rumps. What a pity the house was not two stories high! I asked the
Swiss some questions on the locale, which he answered with becoming
caution, saying, however, that "he was not present at the time." There
are also new remembrances. A separate garden, laid out as a playground
for the royal children, is called Il Trocadero,  from the siege of
Cadiz . But the Bourbons should not take military ground—it is
firing a pop-gun in answer to a battery of cannon.
The name has since been bestowed on the high ground on
the bank of the Seine, on which was built the Palace in connection with
the International Exhibition of 1878.
All within the house is changed. Every trace of Nap. or his reign
totally done away, as if traced in sand over which the tide has passed.
Moreau and Pichegru's portraits hang in the royal ante-chamber. The
former has a mean look; the latter has been a strong and stern-looking
man. I looked at him, and thought of his death-struggles. In the
guard-room were the heroes of La Vendée—Charette with his white bonnet,
the two La Rochejacqueleins, Lescure, in an attitude of prayer,
Stofflet, the gamekeeper, with others.
We dined at Auteuil. Mrs. Drummond, formerly the beautiful Cecilia
Telfer, has lost her looks, but kept her kind heart. On our return, went
to the Italian opera, and saw Figaro. Anne liked the music; to me it
was all caviare. A Mr. ——— dined with us; sensible, liberal in his
politics, but well informed and candid.
November 3.—Sat to Mad. Mirbel—Spencer at breakfast. Went out and
had a long interview with Marshal Macdonald, the purport of which I have
put down elsewhere. Visited Princess Galitzin, and also Cooper, the
American novelist. This man, who has shown so much genius, has a good
deal of the manner, or want of manner, peculiar to his countrymen. 
He proposed to me a mode of publishing in America by entering the book
as [the] property of a citizen. I will think of this. Every little
helps, as the tod says, when, etc. At night at the Theatre de Madame,
where we saw two petit pieces, Le Mariage de Raison, and Le plus
beau jour de ma vie—both excellently played. Afterwards at Lady
Granville's rout, which was as splendid as any I ever saw—and I have
seen beaucoup dans ce genre. A great number of ladies of the first
rank were present, and if honeyed words from pretty lips could surfeit,
I had enough of them. One can swallow a great deal of whipped cream, to
be sure, and it does not hurt an old stomach.
It should be noted that Scott wrote "manner" not
"manners," as in all previous editions the word is printed. Of Cooper,
his latest American biographer, Mr. Lounsbury, says there was in his
manner at times "a self-assertion that often bordered, or seemed to
border, on arrogance" (p. 79).
November 4.—Anne goes to sit to Mad. Mirbel. I called after ten,
Mr. Cooper and Gallois having breakfasted with me. The former seems
quite serious in desiring the American attempt. I must, however, take
care not to give such a monopoly as to prevent the American public from
receiving the works at the prices they are accustomed to. I think I may
as well try if the thing can be done.
Of this interview, Cooper is said to have recorded in after years that
Scott was so obliging as to make him a number of flattering speeches,
which, however, he did not repay in kind, giving, as a reason for has
silence, the words of Dr. Johnson regarding his meeting with George
III.: "It was not for me to bandy compliments with my sovereign." These
two "lions" met on four occasions, viz., on the 3d, 4th, and 6th
November, Scott leaving Paris next day.
It cannot be too widely known that if Scott never derived any profits
from the enormous sale of his works in America, it was not the fault of
his brother author, who urged him repeatedly to try the plan here
proposed. Whether the attempt was made is unknown, but it is amusing to
see one cause of Scott's hesitation was the fear that the American
public would not get his works at the low prices to which they had been
After ten I went with Anne to the Tuileries, where we saw the royal
family pass through the Glass Gallery as they went to Chapel. We were
very much looked at in our turn, and the King, on passing out, did me
the honour to say a few civil words, which produced a great sensation.
Mad. la Dauphine and Mad. de Berri curtsied, smiled, and looked
extremely gracious; and smiles, bows, and curtsies rained on us like
odours, from all the courtiers and court ladies of the train. We were
conducted by an officer of the Royal Gardes du Corps to a convenient
place in chapel, where we had the pleasure of hearing the grand mass
performed with excellent music.
I had a perfect view of the King and royal family. The King is the same
in age as I knew him in youth at Holyrood House—debonair and courteous
in the highest degree. Mad. Dauphine resembles very much the prints of
Marie Antoinette, in the profile especially. She is not, however,
beautiful, her features being too strong, but they announce a great deal
of character, and the princess whom Bonaparte used to call the man of
the family. She seemed very attentive to her devotions. The Duchess of
Berri seemed less immersed in the ceremony, and yawned once or twice.
She is a lively-looking blonde—looks as if she were good-humoured and
happy, by no means pretty, and has a cast with her eyes; splendidly
adorned with diamonds, however. After this gave Mad. Mirbel a sitting,
where I encountered le général, her uncle,  who was chef de
l'état major to Bonaparte. He was very communicative, and seemed an
interesting person, by no means over much prepossessed in favour of his
late master, whom he judged impartially, though with affection.
We came home and dined in quiet, having refused all temptations to go
out in the evening; this on Anne's account as well as my own. It is not
quite gospel, though Solomon says it—the eye can be tired with
seeing, whatever he may allege in the contrary. And then there are so
many compliments. I wish for a little of the old Scotch causticity. I am
something like the bee that sips treacle.
November 5.—I believe I must give up my Journal till I leave Paris.
The French are literally outrageous in their civilities—bounce in at
all hours, and drive one half mad with compliments. I am ungracious not
to be so entirely thankful as I ought to this kind and merry people. We
breakfasted with Mad. Mirbel, where were the Dukes of Fitz-James, and, I
think, Duras,  goodly company—but all's one for that. I made rather
an impatient sitter, wishing to talk much more than was agreeable to
Madame. Afterwards we went to the Champs Elysées, where a balloon was
let off, and all sorts of frolics performed for the benefit of the bons
gens de Paris—besides stuffing them with victuals. I wonder how such a
civic festival would go off in London or Edinburgh, or especially in
Dublin. To be sure, they would not introduce their shillelahs! But in
the classic taste of the French, there were no such gladiatorial doings.
To be sure, they have a natural good-humour and gaiety which inclines
them to be pleased with themselves, and everything about them.
Fitz-James was great-grandson of James II., and Duras was
related to Feversham, James's general at Sedgemoor. Both died in the
same year, 1835.
We dined at the Ambassador's, where was a large party, Lord Morpeth, the
Duke of Devonshire, and others—all were very kind. Pozzo di Borgo
there, and disposed to be communicative. A large soirée. Home at eleven.
These hours are early, however.
November 6.—Cooper came to breakfast, but we were obsédés partout.
Such a number of Frenchmen bounced in successively, and exploded, I mean
discharged, their compliments, that I could hardly find an opportunity
to speak a word, or entertain Mr. Cooper at all. After this we sat again
for our portraits. Mad. Mirbel took care not to have any one to divert
my attention, but I contrived to amuse myself with some masons finishing
a façade opposite to me, who placed their stones, not like Inigo Jones,
but in the most lubberly way in the world, with the help of a large
wheel, and the application of strength of hand. John Smith of Darnick,
and two of his men, would have done more with a block and pulley than
the whole score of them. The French seem far behind in machinery.—We
are almost eaten up with kindness, but that will have its end. I have
had to parry several presents of busts, and so forth. The funny thing
was the airs of my little friend. We had a most affectionate
parting—wet, wet cheeks on the lady's side.  The pebble-hearted cur
shed as few tears as Crab of dogged memory. 
Madame Mirbel, who painted Scott at this time, continued
to be a favourite artist with the French (Bonapartist, Bourbon, and
Orleanist) for the next twenty years. Among her latest sitters (1841)
was Scott's angry correspondent of four months later—General Gourgaud.
Madame Mirbel died in 1849. The portrait alluded to was probably a
miniature which has been engraved at least once—by J.T.Wedgwood.
Went to Galignani's, where the brothers, after some palaver, offered me
£105 for the sheets of Napoleon, to be reprinted at Paris in English. I
told them I would think of it. I suppose Treuttel and Wurtz had
apprehended something of this kind, for they write me that they had made
a bargain with my publisher (Cadell, I suppose) for the publishing of my
book in all sorts of ways. I must look into this.
Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act II. Sc. 3.—J.G.L.
Dined with Marshal Macdonald and a splendid party;  amongst others,
Marshal Marmont—middle size, stout-made, dark complexion, and looks
sensible. The French hate him much for his conduct in 1814, but it is
only making him the scape-goat. Also, I saw Mons. de Molé, but
especially the Marquis de Lauriston, who received me most kindly. He is
personally like my cousin Colonel Russell. I learned that his brother,
Louis Law,  my old friend, was alive, and the father of a large
family. I was most kindly treated, and had my vanity much flattered by
the men who had acted such important parts talking to me in the most
The Marshal had visited Scotland in 1825—and Scott saw a
good deal of him under the roof of his kinsman, Mr. Macdonald
In the evening to Princess Galitzin, where were a whole covey of
Princesses of Russia arrayed in tartan! with music and singing to boot.
The person in whom I was most interested was Mad. de Boufflers, 
upwards of eighty, very polite, very pleasant, and with all the
agrémens of a French Court lady of the time of Mad. Sévigné, or of the
correspondent rather of Horace Walpole. Cooper was there, so the Scotch
and American lions took the field together.—Home, and settled our
affairs to depart.
Lauriston, the ancient seat of the Laws, so famous in
French history, is very near Edinburgh, and the estate was in their
possession at the time of the Revolution. Two or three cadets of the
family were of the first emigration, and one of them (M. Louis Law) was
a frequent guest of the Poet's father, and afterwards corresponded
during many years with himself. I am not sure whether it was M. Louis
Law whose French designation so much amused the people of Edinburgh. One
brother of the Marquis de Lauriston, however, was styled Le Chevalier
de Mutton-hole, this being the name of a village on the Scotch
The Madame de Boufflers best known to the world
[Hippolyte de Saujon Comtesse de Boufflers], the correspondent not only
of Walpole, but of David Hume, must have been nearer a hundred than
eighty years of age at this date, if we are to believe the Biographie
Universelle, which gives 1724 as the date of her birth. It does not
record her death. It is known that she took refuge in England during the
Revolution; but Count Paul de Rémusat, who has been consulted on the
subject, has kindly pointed out that the lady of whom Scott speaks must
have been the widow of the Chevalier de Boufflers-Remencourt, known by
his poems and stories. Her maiden name was de Jean de Manville, and her
first husband was a Comte de Sabran. She died in 1827.—See
Correspondance inédite de la Comtesse de Sabran, Paris, 8vo, 1875.
November 7.—Off at seven; breakfasted at Beaumont, and pushed on to
Airaines. This being a forced march, we had bad lodgings, wet wood,
uncomfortable supper, damp beds, and an extravagant charge. I was never
colder in my life than when I waked with the sheets clinging round me
like a shroud.
November 8.—We started at six in the morning, having no need to be
called twice, so heartily was I weary of my comfortless couch.
Breakfasted at Abbeville; then pushed on to Boulogne, expecting to find
the packet ready to start next morning, and so to have had the advantage
of the easterly tide. But, lo ye! the packet was not to sail till next
day. So after shrugging our shoulders—being the solace à la mode de
France—and recruiting ourselves with a pullet and a bottle of Chablis
à la mode d'Angleterre, we set off for Calais after supper, and it was
betwixt three and four in the morning before we got to Dessein's, when
the house was full, or reported to be so. We could only get two wretched
brick-paved garrets, as cold and moist as those of Airaines, instead of
the comforts which we were received with at our arrival. But I was
better prepared. Stripped off the sheets, and lay down in my
dressing-gown, and so roughed it out—tant bien que mal.
November 9.—At four in the morning we were called; at six we got on
board the packet, where I found a sensible and conversible man—a very
pleasant circumstance. The day was raw and cold, the wind and tide surly
and contrary, the passage slow, and Anne, contrary to her wont,
excessively sick. We had little trouble at the Custom House, thanks to
the secretary of the Embassy, Mr. Jones, who gave me a letter to Mr.
Ward. [At Dover] Mr. Ward came with the Lieutenant-Governor of the
castle, and wished us to visit that ancient fortress. I regretted much
that our time was short, and the weather did not admit of our seeing
views, so we could only thank the gentlemen in declining their civility.
The castle, partly ruinous, seems to have been very fine. The Cliff, to
which Shakespeare gave his immortal name, is, as all the world knows, a
great deal lower than his description implies. Our Dover friends, justly
jealous of the reputation of their cliff, impute this diminution of its
consequence to its having fallen in repeatedly since the poet's time. I
think it more likely that the imagination of Shakespeare, writing
perhaps at a period long after he may have seen the rock, had described
it such as he conceived it to have been. Besides, Shakespeare was born
in a flat country, and Dover Cliff is at least lofty enough to have
suggested the exaggerated features to his fancy. At all events, it has
maintained its reputation better than the Tarpeian Rock;—no man could
leap from it and live.
Left Dover after a hot luncheon about four o'clock, and reached London
at half-past three in the morning. So adieu to la belle France, and
welcome merry England. 
Readers who may wish to compare with the visit of 1826
Scott's impressions of Paris in 1815 will find a brilliant record of the
latter in Paul's Letters, xii.-xvi.
[Pall Mall,] November 10.—Ere I leave la belle France, however,
it is fit I should express my gratitude for the unwontedly kind
reception which I met with at all hands. It would be an unworthy piece
of affectation did I not allow that I have been pleased—highly
pleased—to find a species of literature intended only for my own
country has met such an extensive and favourable reception in a foreign
land where there was so much a priori to oppose its progress.
For my work I think I have done a good deal; but, above all, I have been
confirmed strongly in the impressions I had previously formed of the
character of Nap., and may attempt to draw him with a firmer hand.
The succession of new people and unusual incidents has had a favourable
effect [on my mind], which was becoming rutted like an ill-kept highway.
My thoughts have for some time flowed in another and pleasanter channel
than through the melancholy course into which my solitary and deprived
state had long driven them, and which gave often pain to be endured
without complaint, and without sympathy. "For this relief," as Francisco
says in Hamlet, "much thanks."
To-day I visited the public offices, and prosecuted my researches. Left
inquiries for the Duke of York, who has recovered from a most desperate
state. His legs had been threatened with mortification; but he was saved
by a critical discharge; also visited the Duke of Wellington, Lord
Melville, and others, besides the ladies in Piccadilly. Dined and spent
the evening quietly in Pall Mall.
November 11.—Croker came to breakfast, and we were soon after joined
by Theodore Hook, alias "John Bull" ; he has got as fat as the
actual monarch of the herd. Lockhart sat still with us, and we had, as
Gil Blas says, a delicious morning, spent in abusing our neighbours, at
which my three neighbours are no novices any more than I am myself,
though (like Puss in Boots, who only caught mice for his amusement) I
am only a chamber counsel in matters of scandal. The fact is, I have
refrained, as much as human frailty will permit, from all satirical
composition. Here is an ample subject for a little black-balling in the
case of Joseph Hume, the great Æconomist, who has [managed] the Greek
loan so egregiously. I do not lack personal provocation (see 13th March
last), yet I won't attack him—at present at least—but qu'il se garde
"I'm not a king, nor nae sic thing,
My word it may not stand;
And Joseph may a buffet bide,
Come he beneath my brand."
A Sunday newspaper started in 1820, to advocate the cause
of George IV., and to vilify the Queen and her friends, male and female.
The first number was published on December 17th, and "told at once from
the convulsed centre to the extremity of the Kingdom. There was talent
of every sort in the paper that could have been desired or devised for
such a purpose. It seemed as if a legion of sarcastic devils had brooded
in Synod over the elements of withering derision." Hook, however, was
the master spirit, the majority of the lampoons in prose, and all the
original poetry in the early volumes from the "Hunting the Hare," were
from his own pen, except, perhaps, "Michael's Dinner," which has been
laid at Canning's door.
At dinner we had a little blow-out on Sophia's part: Lord Dudley, Mr.
Hay, Under Secretary of State, [Sir Thomas Lawrence, etc.] Mistress
(as she now calls herself) Joanna Baillie, and her sister, came in the
evening. The whole went off pleasantly.
Oddly enough Scott appears to have been the indirect means of placing
Hook in the editorial chair. When he was in London, in April 1820, a
nobleman called upon him, and asked if he could find him in Edinburgh
some clever fellow to undertake the editorship of a paper about to be
established. Sir Walter suggested that his Lordship need not go so far
a-field, described Hook's situation, and the impression he had received
of him from his table talk, and his Magazine, the Arcadian. This was
all that occurred, but when, towards the end of the year, John Bull
electrified London, Sir Walter confessed that he could not help fancying
that his mentioning this man's name had had its consequences.
Hook, in spite of his £2000 per annum for several years from John
Bull, and large prices received for his novels, died in poverty in
1841, a prematurely aged man. His sad story may be read in a most
powerful sketch in the Quarterly Review, attributed to Mr. Lockhart.
November 12.—Went to sit to Sir T.L. to finish the picture for his
Majesty, which every one says is a very fine one. I think so myself; and
wonder how Sir Thomas has made so much out of an old weather-beaten
block. But I believe the hard features of old Dons like myself are more
within the compass of the artist's skill than the lovely face and
delicate complexion of females. Came home after a heavy shower. I had a
long conversation about ——— with Lockhart. All that was whispered is
true—a sign how much better our domestics are acquainted with the
private affairs of our neighbours than we are. A dreadful tale of incest
and seduction, and nearly of blood also—horrible beyond expression in
its complications and events—"And yet the end is not;"—and this man
was amiable, and seemed the soul of honour—laughed, too, and was the
soul of society. It is a mercy our own thoughts are concealed from each
other. Oh! if, at our social table, we could see what passes in each
bosom around, we would seek dens and caverns to shun human society! To
see the projector trembling for his falling speculations; the voluptuary
rueing the event of his debauchery; the miser wearing out his soul for
the loss of a guinea—all—all bent upon vain hopes and vainer
regrets—we should not need to go to the hall of the Caliph Vathek to
see men's hearts broiling under their black veils.  Lord keep us
from all temptation, for we cannot be our own shepherd!
See Beckford's Vathek, Hall of Eblis.
We dined to-day at Lady Stafford's [at West-hill].  Lord S. looks
very poorly, but better than I expected. No company, excepting Sam
Rogers and Mr. Grenville, —the latter is better known by the name
of Tom Grenville—a very amiable and accomplished man, whom I knew
better about twenty years since. Age has touched him, as it has
doubtless affected me. The great lady received us with the most cordial
kindness, and expressed herself, I am sure, sincerely, desirous to be of
service to Sophia.
Lady Stafford says: "We were so lucky as to have Sir W.
Scott here for a day, and were glad to see him look well, and though
perfectly unaltered by his successes, yet enjoying the satisfaction they
must have given him."—Sharpe's Letters, vol. ii. p. 379.
November 13.—I consider Charles's business as settled by a private
intimation which I had to that effect from Sir W.K.; so I need negotiate
no further, but wait the event. Breakfasted at home, and somebody with
us, but the whirl of visits so great that I have already forgot the
party. Lockhart and I dined at an official person's, where there was a
little too much of that sort of flippant wit, or rather smartness, which
becomes the parochial Joe Miller of boards and offices. You must not be
grave, because it might lead to improper discussions; and to laugh
without a joke is a hard task. Your professed wags are treasures to this
species of company. Gil Blas was right in censuring the literary society
of his friend Fabricio; but nevertheless one or two of the mess would
greatly have improved the conversation of his Commis.
The Right Hon. Thomas Grenville died in 1846 at the age
of ninety-one. He left his noble collection of books to the nation.
Went to poor Lydia White's, and found her extended on a couch,
frightfully swelled, unable to stir, rouged, jesting, and dying. She has
a good heart, and is really a clever creature, but unhappily, or rather
happily, she has set up the whole staff of her rest in keeping literary
society about her. The world has not neglected her. It is not always so
bad as it is called. She can always make up her soirée, and generally
has some people of real talent and distinction. She is wealthy, to be
sure, and gives petit dinners, but not in a style to carry the point
à force d'argent. In her case the world is good-natured, and perhaps
it is more frequently so than is generally supposed.
November 14.—We breakfasted at honest Allan Cunningham's—honest
Allan—a leal and true Scotsman of the old cast. A man of genius,
besides, who only requires the tact of knowing when and where to stop,
to attain the universal praise which ought to follow it. I look upon the
alteration of "It's hame and it's hame," and "A wet sheet and a flowing
sea," as among the best songs going. His prose has often admirable
passages; but he is obscure, and overlays his meaning, which will not do
now-a-days, when he who runs must read.
Dined at Croker's, at Kensington, with his family, the Speaker,  and
the facetious Theodore Hook.
The Right Hon. Charles Manners Sutton, afterwards
Viscount Canterbury. He died in 1845.
We came away rather early, that Anne and I might visit Mrs. Arbuthnot to
meet the Duke of Wellington. In all my life I never saw him better. He
has a dozen of campaigns in his body—and tough ones. Anne was delighted
with the frank manners of this unequalled pride of British war, and me
he received with all his usual kindness. He talked away about Bonaparte,
Russia, and France.
November 15.—At breakfast a conclave of medical men about poor
little Johnnie Lockhart. They give good words, but I cannot help fearing
the thing is very precarious, and I feel a miserable anticipation of
what the parents are to undergo. It is wrong, however, to despair. I was
myself a very weak child, and certainly am one of the strongest men of
my age in point of constitution. Sophia and Anne went to the Tower, I to
the Colonial Office, where I laboured hard.
Dined with the Duke of Wellington. Anne with me, who could not look
enough at the vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre. The party were Mr.
and Mrs. Peel, and Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot,  Vesey Fitzgerald,
Bankes, and Croker, with Lady Bathurst and Lady Georgina. One gentleman
took much of the conversation, and gave us, with unnecessary emphasis,
and at superfluous length, his opinion of a late gambling transaction.
This spoiled the evening. I am sorry for the occurrence though, for Lord
------ is fetlock deep in it, and it looks like a vile bog. This
misfortune, with the foolish incident at ———, will not be suffered to
fall to the ground, but will be used as a counterpoise to the Greek
loan. Peel asked me, in private, my opinion of three candidates for the
Scotch gown, and I gave it him candidly. We will see if it has
Mrs. Arbuthnot was Harriet, third daughter of the Hon. H.
Fane, and wife of Charles Arbuthnot, a great friend of the Duke of
Wellington. She died in 1838, Mr. Arbuthnot in 1850.
I begin to tire of my gaieties; and the late hours and constant feasting
disagree with me. I wish for a sheep's head and whisky toddy against all
the French cookery and champagne in the world.
Sir Walter had recommended George Cranstoun, his early
friend, one of the brethren of the mountain, who succeeded Lord
Hermand, and took his seat on the Scotch bench before the end of the
month. The appointment satisfied both political parties, though Cockburn
said that "his removal was a great loss to the bar which he had long
adorned, and where he had the entire confidence of the public." An
admirable sketch of Cranstoun is given in No. 32 of Peter's Letters.
He retired in 1839, and died at Corehouse, his picturesque seat on the
Clyde, in 1850.
Well, I suppose I might have been a Judge of Session this
term—attained, in short, the grand goal proposed to the ambition of a
Scottish lawyer. It is better, however, as it is, while, at least, I can
maintain my literary reputation.
I had some conversation to-day with Messrs. Longman and Co. They agreed
to my deriving what advantage I could in America, and that very
November 16.—Breakfasted with Rogers, with my daughters and Lockhart.
R. was exceedingly entertaining, in his dry, quiet, sarcastic manner. At
eleven to the Duke of Wellington, who gave me a bundle of remarks on
Bonaparte's Russian campaign, written in his carriage during his late
mission to St. Petersburg.  It is furiously scrawled, and the
Russian names hard to distinguish, but it shall do me yeoman's
service. Then went to Pentonville, to old Mr. Handley, a solicitor of
the old school, and manager of the Devonshire property. Had an account
of the claim arising on the estate of one Mrs. Owen, due to the
representatives of my poor wife's mother. He was desperately excursive,
and spoke almost for an hour, but the prospect of £4000 to my children
made me a patient auditor. Thence I passed to the Colonial Office, where
I concluded my extracts. [Lockhart and I] dined with Croker at the
Admiralty au grand couvert. No less than five Cabinet Ministers were
present—Canning, Huskisson, Melville, [Peel,] and Wellington, with
sub-secretaries by the bushel. The cheer was excellent, but the presence
of too many men of distinguished rank and power always freezes the
conversation. Each lamp shines brightest when placed by itself; when too
close, they neutralise each other. 
This striking paper was afterwards printed in full under
the title, "Memorandum on the War in Russia in 1812," in the
Despatches edited by his Son (Dec. 1823 to May 1827), Murray, 1868,
vol. i. 8vo, pp. 1-53. Sir Walter Scott's letter to the Duke on the
subject is given at p. 590 of the same volume, and see this Journal
under Feb. 15, 1827.
November 17.—My morning here began with the arrival of Bahauder Jah;
soon after Mr. Wright;  then I was called out to James Scott the
young painter. I greatly fear this modest and amiable creature is
throwing away his time. Next came an animal who is hunting out a fortune
in Chancery, which has lain perdu for thirty years. The fellow, who is
in figure and manner the very essence of the creature called a sloth,
has attached himself to this pursuit with the steadiness of a
well-scented beagle. I believe he will actually get the prize.
In returning from this dinner Sir Walter said, "I have
seen some of these great men at the same table for the last
Mr. William Wright, Barrister, Lincoln's Inn.—See
Life, vol. viii. p. 84.
Sir John Malcolm acknowledges and recommends my Persian visitor Bruce.
Saw the Duke of York. The change on H.R.H. is most wonderful. From a
big, burly, stout man, with a thick and sometimes an inarticulate mode
of speaking, he has sunk into a thin-faced, slender-looking old man, who
seems diminished in his very size. I could hardly believe I saw the same
person, though I was received with his usual kindness. He speaks much
more distinctly than formerly; his complexion is clearer; in short,
H.R.H. seems, on the whole, more healthy after this crisis than when in
the stall-fed state, for such it seemed to be, in which I remember him.
God grant it! his life is of infinite value to the King and country—it
is a breakwater behind the throne.
November 18.—Was introduced by Rogers to Mad. D'Arblay, the
celebrated authoress of Evelina and Cecilia,—an elderly lady, with
no remains of personal beauty, but with a gentle manner and a pleasing
expression of countenance. She told me she had wished to see two
persons—myself, of course, being one; the other George Canning. This
was really a compliment to be pleased with—a nice little handsome pat
of butter made up by a neat-handed Phillis  of a dairymaid, instead
of the grease, fit only for cart-wheels, which one is dosed with by the
pound. Mad. D'Arblay told us the common story of Dr. Burney, her
father, having brought home her own first work, and recommended it to
her perusal, was erroneous. Her father was in the secret of Evelina
being printed. But the following circumstances may have given rise to
the story:—Dr. Burney was at Streatham soon after the publication,
where he found Mrs. Thrale recovering from her confinement, low at the
moment, and out of spirits. While they were talking together, Johnson,
who sat beside in a kind of reverie, suddenly broke out, "You should
read this new work, madam—you should read Evelina; every one says it
is excellent, and they are right." The delighted father obtained a
commission from Mrs. Thrale to purchase his daughter's work, and retired
the happiest of men. Mad. D'Arblay said she was wild with joy at this
decisive evidence of her literary success, and that she could only give
vent to her rapture by dancing and skipping round a mulberry-tree in the
garden. She was very young at this time. I trust I shall see this lady
again. She has simple and apparently amiable manners, with quick
Dined at Mr. Peel's with Lord Liverpool, Duke of Wellington, Croker,
Bankes, etc. The conversation very good—Peel taking the lead in his own
house, which he will not do elsewhere. We canvassed the memorable
criminal case of Ashford,  Peel almost convinced of the man's
innocence. Should have been at the play, but sat too late at Mr. Peel's.
A murder committed in 1817. The accused claimed the
privilege of Wager of Battle, which was allowed by the Court for the
last time, as the law was abolished in 1819.—See Notes and Queries,
2d series, vol. xi. pp. 88, 259, 317, and p. 431 for a curious account
of the bibliography of this very singular case.
So ends my campaign among these magnificoes and potent signiors, 
with whom I have found, as usual, the warmest acceptation. I wish I
could turn a little of my popularity amongst them to Lockhart's
advantage, who cannot bustle for himself. He is out of spirits just
now, and views things au noir. I fear Johnnie's precarious state is
I finished my sittings to Lawrence, and am heartily sorry there should
be another picture of me except that which he has finished. The person
is remarkably like, and conveys the idea of the stout blunt carle that
cares for few things, and fears nothing. He has represented the author
as in the act of composition, yet has effectually discharged all
affectation from the manner and attitude. He seems pleased with it
himself. He dined with us at Peel's yesterday, where, by the way, we saw
the celebrated Chapeau de Paille, which is not a Chapeau de Paille at
November 19.—Saw this morning Duke of Wellington and Duke of York;
the former so communicative that I regretted extremely the length of
time,  but have agreed on a correspondence with him. Trop d'honneur
pour moi. The Duke of York saw me by appointment. He seems still
mending, and spoke of state affairs as a high Tory. Were his health
good, his spirit is as strong as ever. H.R.H. has a devout horror of the
liberals. Having the Duke of Wellington, the Chancellor, and (perhaps) a
still greater person on his side, he might make a great fight when they
split, as split they will. But Canning, Huskisson, and a mitigated party
of Liberaux will probably beat them. Canning's will and eloquence are
almost irresistible. But then the Church, justly alarmed for their
property, which is plainly struck at, and the bulk of the landed
interest, will scarce brook a mild infusion of Whiggery into the
Administration. Well, time will show.
Sir Walter no doubt means that he regretted not having
seen the Duke at an earlier period of his historical labours.—J.G.L.
We visited our friends Peel, Lord Gwydyr, Arbuthnot, etc., and left our
tickets of adieu. In no instance, during my former visits to London, did
I ever meet with such general attention and respect on all sides.
Lady Louisa Stuart dined—also Wright and Mr. and Mrs. Christie. Dr. and
Mrs. Hughes came in the evening; so ended pleasantly our last night in
[Oxford,] November 20.—Left London after a comfortable breakfast,
and an adieu to the Lockhart family. If I had had but comfortable hopes
of their poor, pale, prostrate child, so clever and so interesting, I
should have parted easily on this occasion, but these misgivings
overcloud the prospect. We reached Oxford by six o'clock, and found
Charles and his friend young Surtees waiting for us, with a good fire in
the chimney, and a good dinner ready to be placed on the table. We had
struggled through a cold, sulky, drizzly day, which deprived of all
charms even the beautiful country near Henley. So we came from cold and
darkness into light and warmth and society. N.B.—We had neither
daylight nor moonlight to see the view of Oxford from the Maudlin
Bridge, which I used to think one of the most beautiful in the world.
Upon finance I must note that the expense of travelling has mounted
high. I am too old to rough it, and scrub it, nor could I have saved
fifty pounds by doing so. I have gained, however, in health, spirits, in
a new stock of ideas, new combinations, and new views. My
self-consequence is raised, I hope not unduly, by the many flattering
circumstances attending my reception in the two capitals, and I feel
confident in proportion. In Scotland I shall find time for labour and
[Cheltenham,] November 21.—Breakfasted with Charles in his chambers
[at Brasenose], where he had everything very neat. How pleasant it is
for a father to sit at his child's board! It is like an aged man
reclining under the shadow of the oak which he has planted. My poor
plant has some storms to undergo, but were this expedition conducive to
no more than his entrance into life under suitable auspices, I should
consider the toil and the expense well bestowed. We then sallied out to
see the lions—guides being Charles, and friend Surtees, Mr. John
Hughes, young Mackenzie (Fitz-Colin), and a young companion or two of
Charles's. Remembering the ecstatic feelings with which I visited Oxford
more than twenty-five years since, I was surprised at the comparative
indifference with which I revisited the same scenes. Reginald Heber,
then composing his Prize Poem, and imping his wings for a long flight of
honourable distinction, is now dead in a foreign land—Hodgson and other
able men all entombed. The towers and halls remain, but the voices which
fill them are of modern days. Besides, the eye becomes satiated with
sights, as the full soul loathes the honeycomb. I admired indeed, but my
admiration was void of the enthusiasm which I formerly felt. I remember
particularly having felt, while in the Bodleian, like the Persian
magician who visited the enchanted library in the bowels of the
mountain, and willingly suffered himself to be enclosed in its
recesses,  while less eager sages retired in alarm. Now I had some
base thoughts concerning luncheon, which was most munificently supplied
by Surtees [at his rooms in University College], with the aid of the
best ale I ever drank in my life, the real wine of Ceres, and worth that
of Bacchus. Dr. Jenkyns,  the vice-chancellor, did me the honour to
call, but I saw him not. I called on Charles Douglas at All-Souls, and
had a chat of an hour with him. 
See Weber's Tales of the East, 3 vols. 8vo, Edin. 1812.
History of Avicene, vol. ii. pp. 452-457.
Before three set out for Cheltenham, a long and uninteresting drive,
which we achieved by nine o'clock. My sister-in-law [Mrs. Thomas Scott]
and her daughter instantly came to the hotel, and seem in excellent
health and spirits.
Dr. Richard Jenkyns, Master of Balliol College.—J.G.L.
Charles Douglas succeeded his brother, Baron Douglas of
Douglas, in 1844.
November 22.—Breakfasted and dined with Mrs. Scott, and leaving
Cheltenham at seven, pushed on to Worcester to sleep.
November 23.—Breakfasted at Birmingham, and slept at Macclesfield. As
we came in between ten and eleven, the people of the inn expressed
surprise at our travelling so late, as the general distress of the
manufacturers has rendered many of the lower class desperately
outrageous. The inn was guarded by a special watchman, who alarmed us by
giving his signal of turn out, but it proved to be a poor deserter who
had taken refuge among the carriages, and who was reclaimed by his
sergeant. The people talk gloomily of winter, when the distress of the
poor will be increased.
November 24.—Breakfasted at Manchester. Ere we left, the senior
churchwarden came to offer us his services, to show us the town,
principal manufactures, etc. We declined his polite offer, pleading
haste. I found his opinion about the state of trade more agreeable than
I had ventured to expect. He said times were mending gradually but
steadily, and that the poor-rates were decreasing, of which none can be
so good a judge as the churchwarden. Some months back the people had
been in great discontent on account of the power engines, which they
conceived diminished the demand for operative labour. There was no
politics in their discontent, however, and at present it was
diminishing. We again pressed on—and by dint of exertion reached Kendal
to sleep; thus getting out of the region of the stern, sullen, unwashed
artificers, whom you see lounging sulkily along the streets of the towns
in Lancashire, cursing, it would seem by their looks, the stop of trade
which gives them leisure, and the laws which prevent them employing
their spare time. God's justice is requiting, and will yet further
requite those who have blown up this country into a state of
unsubstantial opulence, at the expense of the health and morals of the
November 25.—Took two pair of horses over the Shap Fells, which are
covered with snow, and by dint of exertion reached Penrith to breakfast.
Then rolled on till we found our own horses at Hawick, and returned to
our own home at Abbotsford about three in the morning. It is well we
made a forced march of about one hundred miles, for I think the snow
would have stopped us had we lingered.
[Abbotsford,] November 26.—Consulting my purse, found my good £60
diminished to Quarter less Ten. In purse £8. Naturally reflected how
much expense has increased since I first travelled. My uncle's servant,
during the jaunts we made together while I was a boy, used to have his
option of a shilling per diem for board wages, and usually preferred it
to having his charges borne. A servant nowadays, to be comfortable on
the road, should have 4s. or 4s. 6d. board wages, which before 1790
would have maintained his master. But if this be pitiful, it is still
more so to find the alteration in my own temper. When young, on
returning from such a trip as I have just had, my mind would have loved
to dwell on all I had seen that was rich and rare, or have been placing,
perhaps in order, the various additions with which I had supplied my
stock of information—and now, like a stupid boy blundering over an
arithmetical question half obliterated on his slate, I go stumbling on
upon the audit of pounds, shillings, and pence. Why, the increase of
charge I complain of must continue so long as the value of the thing
represented by cash continues to rise, or as the value of the thing
representing continues to decrease—let the economists settle which is
the right way of expressing the process when groats turn plenty and eggs
"And so 'twill be when I am gone,
The increasing charge will still go on,
And other bards shall climb these hills,
And curse your charge, dear evening bills."
Well, the skirmish has cost me £200. I wished for information—and I
have had to pay for it. The information is got, the money is spent, and
so this is the only mode of accounting amongst friends.
I have packed my books, etc., to go by cart to Edinburgh to-morrow. I
idled away the rest of the day, happy to find myself at home, which is
home, though never so homely. And mine is not so homely neither; on the
contrary, I have seen in my travels none I liked so well—fantastic in
architecture and decoration if you please—but no real comfort
sacrificed to fantasy. "Ever gramercy my own purse," saith the
song;  "Ever gramercy my own house," quoth I.
November 27.—We set off after breakfast, but on reaching Fushie
Bridge at three, found ourselves obliged to wait for horses, all being
gone to the smithy to be roughshod in this snowy weather. So we stayed
dinner, and Peter, coming up with his horses, bowled us into town about
eight. Walter came and supped with us, which diverted some heavy
thoughts. It is impossible not to compare this return to Edinburgh with
others in more happy times. But we should rather recollect under what
distress of mind I took up my lodgings in Mrs. Brown's last summer, and
then the balance weighs deeply on the favourable side. This house is
comfortable and convenient. 
"But of all friends in field or town,
Ever gramercy," etc.
Dame Juliana Berners.
A furnished house in Walker Street which he had taken for
the winter (No. 3).
[Edinburgh,] November 28.—Went to Court and resumed old habits.
Dined with Walter and Jane at Mrs. Jobson's. When we returned were
astonished at the news of ——'s death, and the manner of it; a quieter,
more inoffensive, mild, and staid mind I never knew. He was free from
all these sinkings of the imagination which render those who are liable
to them the victims of occasional low spirits. All belonging to this
gifted, as it is called, but often unhappy, class, must have felt at
times that, but for the dictates of religion, or the natural recoil of
the mind from the idea of dissolution, there have been times when they
would have been willing to throw away life as a child does a broken toy.
But poor ——— was none of these: he was happy in his domestic
relations; and on the very day on which the rash deed was committed was
to have embarked for rejoining his wife and child, whom I so lately saw
anxious to impart to him their improved prospects.
O Lord, what are we—lords of nature? Why, a tile drops from a housetop,
which an elephant would not feel more than the fall of a sheet of
pasteboard, and there lies his lordship. Or something of inconceivably
minute origin, the pressure of a bone, or the inflammation of a particle
of the brain takes place, and the emblem of the Deity destroys himself
or some one else. We hold our health and our reason on terms slighter
than one would desire were it in their choice to hold an Irish cabin.
November 29.—Awaked from horrid dreams to reconsideration of the sad
reality; he was such a kind, obliging, assiduous creature. I thought he
came to my bedside to expostulate with me how I could believe such a
scandal, and I thought I detected that it was but a spirit who spoke, by
the paleness of his look and the blood flowing from his cravat. I had
the nightmare in short, and no wonder.
I felt stupefied all this day, but wrote the necessary letters
notwithstanding. Walter, Jane, and Mrs. Jobson dined with us—but I
could not gather my spirits. But it is nonsense, and contrary to my
system, which is of the stoic school, and I think pretty well
maintained. It is the only philosophy I know or can practise, but it
cannot always keep the helm.
November 30.—I went to the Court, and on my return set in order a
sheet or two of copy. We came back about two—the new form of hearing
counsel makes our sederunt a long one. Dined alone, and worked in the