He told me a Maclean story which was new to me.  At the battle of Sheriffmuir that clan was commanded by a chief called Hector.  In the action, as the chief rushed forward, he was frequently in situations of peril.  His foster-father followed him with seven sons, whom he reserved as a body-guard, whom he threw forward into the battle as he saw his chief pressed.  The signal he gave was, “Another for Hector!” The youths replied, “Death for Hector!” and were all successively killed.  These words make the sign and countersign at this day of the clan Gillian.[60]

Young Shortreed dined with us and the two Fergusons, Sir Adam and the Colonel.  We had a pleasant evening.

October 19.—­Wrought out my task, and better—­as I have done for these several days past.  Lady Anna Maria Elliot arrived unexpectedly to dinner, and though she had a headache, brought her usual wit and good-humour to enliven us.

October 20.—­The day being basely muggy, I had no walk, which I was rather desirous to secure.  I wrought, however; and two-thirds of the last volume of Tales of my Grandfather are finished.  I received a large packet of proofs, etc., which for some reason had been delayed.  We had two of Dr. Brewster’s boys to dinner—­fine children; they are spirited, promising, and very well-behaved.

October 21.—­Wrought till one o’clock, then walked out for two hours, though with little comfort, the bushes being loaded with rain; but exercise is very necessary to me, and I have no mind to die of my arm-chair.  A letter from Skene, acquainting me that the Censors of the French press have prohibited the insertion of my answer to the man Gourgaud.  This is their freedom of the press!  The fact is there is an awkward “composition” between the Government and the people of France, that the latter will endure the former so long as they will allow them to lull themselves asleep with recollections of their past glory, and neither the one nor the other sees that truth and honesty and freedom of discussion are the best policy.  He knows, though, there is an answer; and that is all I care about.

October 22.—­Another vile damp drizzling day.  I do not know any morning in my life so fit for work, on which I nevertheless, while desirous of employing it to purpose, make less progress.  A hang-dog drowsy feeling wrought against me, and I was obliged to lay down the pen and indulge myself in a drumly sleep.

The Haigs of Bemerside, Captain Hamilton, Mr. Bainbridge and daughter, with young Nicol Milne and the Fergusons, dined here.  Miss Haig sings Italian music better than any person I ever heard out of the Opera-house.  But I am neither a judge nor admirer of the science.  I do not know exactly what is aimed at, and therefore cannot tell what is attained.  Had a letter from Colin Mackenzie, who has proposed himself for the little situation in the Register House.  I have written, him, begging him to use the best interest in his own behalf, and never mind me.