EGO.—­Why, Mrs. Duty, I would as gladly be friends with [you] as Crabbe’s[311] tradesman fellow with his conscience; but you should have some consideration with human frailty.

DUTY.—­Reckon not on that.  But, however, good-night for the present.  I would only recommend to you to think no thoughts in which I am not mingled—­to read no books in which I have no concern—­to write three sheets of botheration all the six days of the week per diem, and on the seventh to send them to the printer.  Thus advising, I heartily bid you farewell.

EGO.—­Farewell, madam (exit Duty) and be d—­d to ye for an unreasonable bitch!  “The devil must be in this greedy gled!” as the Earl of Angus said to his hawk; “will she never be satisfied?"[312] I believe in my soul she is the very hag who haunted the merchant Abudah.[313]

I’ll have my great chest upstairs exorcised, but first I’ll take a nap till supper, which must take place within ten minutes.

August 3.—­Wrote half a task in the morning.  From eleven till half-past eight in Selkirk taking precognitions about a row, and came home famished and tired.  Now, Mrs. Duty, do you think there is no other Duty of the family but yourself?  Or can the Sheriff-depute neglect his Duty, that the author may mind his?  The thing cannot be; the people of Selkirk must have justice as well as the people of England books.  So the two Duties may go pull caps about it.  My conscience is clear.

August 4.—­Wrote to Miss Edgeworth on her sister’s marriage, which consumed the better part of the morning.  I must read for Marengo. Item, I must look at the pruning. Item, at the otter hunt; but my hope is constant to make up a good day’s task notwithstanding.  Failed in finding the otter, and was tired and slept, and did but a poor day’s work.

August 6.—­Wrote to-day a very good day’s work.  Walked to Chiefswood, and saw old Mrs. Tytler,[314] a friend when life was young.  Her husband, Lord Woodhouselee, was a kind, amiable, and accomplished man; and when we lived at Lasswade Cottage, soon after my marriage, we saw a great deal of the family, who were very kind to us as newly entered on the world.[315] Walked home, and worked in the evening; four leaves finished.

August 7.—­My niece Anne leaves us this morning, summoned back from one scene of distress to another.  Her uncle, David Macculloch, is extremely ill—­a paralytic stroke, I fancy.  She is a charming girl, lady-like in thought and action, and very pleasant in society.  We are to dine to-day with our neighbours at Gattonside.  Meantime I will avail myself of my disposition to labour, and work instead of journalising.

Mr. H. Cranstoun[316] looked in a morning call.  He is become extremely deaf.  He gave me a letter from the Countess Purgstall, his sister, which I have not the heart to open, so many reproaches I have deserved for not writing.  It is a sad thing, though, to task eyes as hard wrought as mine to keep up correspondence.  Dined at Gattonside.[317]