28 January–3 February 1828

I am in the scrape of sitting for my picture, and had to repair for two hours to-day to Mr. Colvin Smith—Lord Gillies's nephew. The Chief Baron had the kindness to sit with me great part of the time, as the Chief Commissioner had done on a late occasion. The picture is for the Chief Commissioner, and the Chief Baron desires a copy. I trust it will he a good one. At home in the evening, and wrote. I am well on before the press, notwithstanding late hours, lassitude, and laziness. I have read Cooper's Prairie—better, I think, than his Red Rover, in which you never get foot on shore, and to understand entirely the incidents of the story it requires too much knowledge of nautical language. It's very clever, though.

This day at the Court, and wrote letters at home, besides making a visit or two—rare things with me. I have an invitation from Messrs Saunders and Otley, booksellers, offering me from £1500 to £2000 annually to conduct a journal; but I am their humble servant. I am too indolent to stand to that sort of work, and I must preserve the undisturbed use of my leisure, and possess my soul in quiet. A large income is not my object; I must clear my debts; and that is to be done by writing things of which I can retain the property. Made my excuses accordingly.

After Court hours I had a visit from Mr. Charles Heath, the engraver, accompanied by a son of Reynolds the dramatist. His object was to engage me to take charge as editor of a yearly publication called The Keepsake, of which the plates are beyond comparison beautiful, but the letter-press indifferent enough. He proposed £800 a year if I would become editor, and £400 if I would contribute from seventy to one hundred pages. I declined both, but told him I might give him some trifling thing or other, and asked the young men to breakfast the next day. Worked away in the evening and completed, "in a way and in a manner," the notes on Guy Mannering. The first volume of the Chronicles is now in Ballantyne's hands, all but a leaf or two. Am I satisfied with my exertions? So so. Will the public be pleased with them? Umph! I doubt the bubble will burst. While it is current, however, it is clear I should stand by it. Each novel of three volumes brings £4000, and I remain proprietor of the mine when the first ore is cropped out. This promises a good harvest, from what we have experienced. Now, to become a stipendiary editor of a New-Year's Gift-Book is not to be thought of, nor could I agree to work for any quantity of supply to such a publication. Even the pecuniary view is not flattering, though these gentlemen meant it should be so. But one hundred of their close-printed pages, for which they offer £400, is not nearly equal to one volume of a novel, for which I get £1300, and have the reversion of the copyright. No, I may give them a trifle for nothing, or sell them an article for a round price, but no permanent engagement will I make. Being the Martyrdom, there was no Court. I wrought away with what appetite I could.

I received the young gentlemen to breakfast and expressed my resolution, which seemed to disappoint them, as perhaps they expected I should have been glad of such an offer. However, I have since thought there are these rejected parts of the Chronicles, which Cadell and Ballantyne criticised so severely, which might well enough make up a trifle of this kind, and settle the few accounts which, will I nill I, have crept in this New Year. So I have kept the treaty open. If I give them 100 pages I should expect £500. I was late at the Court and had little time to write any till after dinner, and then was not in the vein; so commentated.

I had my two youths again to breakfast, but I did not say more about my determination, save that I would help them if I could make it convenient. The Chief Commissioner has agreed to let Heath have his pretty picture of a Study at Abbotsford, by Edwin Landseer, in which old Maida occurs. The youth Reynolds is what one would suppose his father's son to be, smart and forward, and knows the world. I suppose I was too much fagged with sitting in the Court to-day to write hard after dinner, but I did work, however.

Corrected proofs, which are now nearly up with me. This day was an idle one, for I remained in Court till one, and sat for my picture till half-past three to Mr. Smith. He has all the steadiness and sense in appearance which his cousin R.P.G. lacks. Whether he has genius or no, I am no judge. My own portrait is like, but I think too broad about the jowls, a fault which they all fall into, as I suppose, by placing their subject upon a high stage and looking upwards to them, which must foreshorten the face. The Chief Baron and Chief Commissioner had the goodness to sit with me. Dressed and went with Anne to dine at Pinkie House, where I met the President, Lady Charlotte, etc.; above all, Mrs. Scott of Gala, whom I had not seen for some time. We had much fun, and I was, as Sir Andrew Aguecheek says, in good fooling. A lively French girl, a governess I think, but very pretty and animated, seemed much amused with the old gentleman. Home at eleven o'clock. By the by, Sir John Hope had found a Roman eagle on his estate in Fife with sundry of those pots and coffeepots, so to speak, which are so common: but the eagle was mislaid, so I did not see it.

I corrected proofs and wrote this morning,—but slowly, heavily, lazily. There was a mist on my mind which my exertions could not dispel. I did not get two pages finished, but I corrected proofs and commentated.