Annus Mirabilis.

It may, however, stand for Lord Bathurst, who became President of the Council shortly afterwards in Wellington’s Administration.

[478] Mr. W.H.  Murray, Manager of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh.  This excellent actor retired from the stage with a competency, and spent the last years of his life in St. Andrews, where he died in March 1852, aged 61.

[479] This was the dinner at which the veil was publicly withdrawn from the authorship of Waverley; it took place on Friday, 23d February 1827, and a full account of the proceedings is given in the Life, vol. ix. pp. 79-84.

[480] Sir Walter parodies the conclusion of King Robert the Bruce’s “Maxims or Political Testament.”—­See Hailes’ Annals, A.D. 1311.—­J.G.L.

MARCH.

March 1.—­At Court until two—­wrote letters under cover of the lawyers’ long speeches, so paid up some of my correspondents, which I seldom do upon any other occasion.  I sometimes let letters lie for days unopened, as if that would postpone the necessity of answering them.  Here I am at home, and to work we go—­not for the first time to-day, for I wrought hard before breakfast.  So glides away Thursday 1st.  By the by, it is the anniversary of Bosworth Field.  In former days Richard III. was always acted at London on this day; now the custom, I fancy, is disused.  Walpole’s Historic Doubts threw a mist about this reign.  It is very odd to see how his mind dwells upon it at first as the mere sport of imagination, till at length they become such Delilahs of his imagination that he deems it far worse than infidelity to doubt his Doubts.  After all, the popular tradition is so very strong and pointed concerning the character of Richard, that it is I think in vain to doubt the general truth of the outline.  Shakespeare, we may be sure, wrote his drama in the tone that was to suit the popular belief, although where that did Richard wrong, his powerful scene was sure to augment the impression.  There was an action and a reaction.

March 2.—­Clerk walked home with me from the Court.  I was scarce able to keep up with him; could once have done it well enough.  Funny thing at the Theatre.  Among the discourse in “High Life below Stairs,"[481] one of the ladies’ ladies asks who wrote Shakespeare.  One says, “Ben Jonson,” another, “Finis.”  “No,” said Will Murray, “it is Sir Walter Scott; he confessed it at a public meeting the other day.” March 3.—­Very severe weather, came home covered with snow.  White as a frosted-plum-cake, by jingo!  No matter; I am not sorry to find I can stand a brush of weather yet; I like to see Arthur’s Seat and the stern old Castle with their white watch-cloaks on.  But, as Byron said to Moore, “d—–­n it, Tom, don’t be poetical.”  I settled to Boney, and wrote right long and well.

March 4.—­I sat in by the chimney-neuk with no chance of interruption, and “feagued it away.”  Sir Adam came, and had half an hour’s chat and laugh.  My jaws ought to be sore, if the unwontedness of the motion could do it.  But I have little to laugh at but myself, and my own bizarreries are more like to make me cry.  Wrought hard, though—­there’s sense in that.