November 21.—­Wrought at the review.  At one o’clock I attended the general meeting of the Union Scottish Assurance Company.  There was a debate arose whether the ordinary acting directors should or should not have a small sum, amounting to about a crown a piece allotted to them each day of their regular attendance.  The proposal was rejected by many, and upon grounds which sound very well,—­such as the shabbiness of men being influenced by a trifling consideration like this, and the absurdity of the Company volunteering a bounty to one set of men, when there are others willing to act gratuitously, and many gentlemen volunteered their own services; though I cannot help suspecting that, as in the case of ultroneous offers of service upon most occasions, it was not likely to be acceptable.  The motion miscarried, however—­impoliticly rejected, as I think.  The sound of five shillings sounds shabby, but the fact is that it does in some sort reconcile the party to whom it is offered to leave his own house and business at an exact hour; whereas, in the common case, one man comes too late—­another does not come at all—­the attendance is given by different individuals upon different days, so that no one acquires the due historical knowledge of the affairs of the Company.  Besides, the Directors, by taking even this trifling sum of money, render themselves the paid servants of the Company, and are bound to use a certain degree of diligence, much greater than if they continued to serve, as hitherto, gratuitously.  The pay is like enlisting money which, whether great or small, subjects to engagements under the Articles of war.

A china-merchant spoke,—­a picture of an orator with bandy legs, squinting eyes, and a voice like an ungreased cart-wheel—­a liberty boy, I suppose.  The meeting was somewhat stormy, but I preserved order by listening with patience to each in turn; determined that they should weary out the patience of the meeting before I lost mine.  An orator is like a top.  Let him alone and he must stop one time or another—­flog him, and he may go on for ever.

Dined with Directors, of whom I only knew the Manager, Sutherland Mackenzie, Sir David Milne, and Wauchope, besides one or two old Oil Gas friends.  It went off well enough.

November 22.—­Wrought in the morning.  Then made arrangements for a dinner to celebrate the Duke of Buccleuch coming of age—­that which was to have been held at Melville Castle being postponed, owing to Lord M.’s accident.  Sent copy of Second Series of Chronicles of Canongate to Ballantyne.