January 19.—­During yesterday I received formal visits from my friends, Skene and Colin Mackenzie (who, I am glad to see, looks well), with every offer of service.  The Royal Bank also sent Sir John Hope and Sir Henry Jardine[125] to offer to comply with my wishes.  The Advocate came on the same errand.  But I gave all the same answer—­that my intention was to put the whole into the hands of a trustee, and to be contented with the event, and that all I had to ask was time to do so, and to extricate my affairs.  I was assured of every accommodation in this way.  From all quarters I have had the same kindness.  Letters from Constable and Robinson have arrived.  The last persist in saying they will pay all and everybody.  They say, moreover, in a postscript, that had Constable been in town ten days sooner, all would have been well.  When I saw him on 24th December, he proposed starting in three days, but dallied, God knows why, in a kind of infatuation, I think, till things had got irretrievably wrong.  There would have been no want of support then, and his stock under his own management would have made a return immensely greater than it can under any other. Now I fear the loss must be great, as his fall will involve many of the country dealers who traded with him.

I feel quite composed and determined to labour.  There is no remedy.  I guess (as Mathews makes his Yankees say) that we shall not be troubled with visitors, and I calculate that I will not go out at all; so what can I do better than labour?  Even yesterday I went about making notes on Waverley, according to Constable’s plan.  It will do good one day.  To-day, when I lock this volume, I go to W[oodstock].  Heigho!

Knight came to stare at me to complete his portrait.  He must have read a tragic page, compared to what he saw at Abbotsford.[126]

We dined of course at home, and before and after dinner I finished about twenty printed pages of Woodstock, but to what effect others must judge.  A painful scene after dinner, and another after supper, endeavouring to convince these poor dear creatures that they must not look for miracles, but consider the misfortune as certain, and only to be lessened by patience and labour.

January 20.—­Indifferent night—­very bilious, which may be want of exercise.  A letter from Sir J. Sinclair, whose absurd vanity bids him thrust his finger into every man’s pie, proposing that Hurst and Robinson should sell their prints, of which he says they have a large collection, by way of lottery like Boydell.

    “In scenes like these which break our heart
    Comes Punch, like you and——­”

Mais pourtant, cultivons notre jardin.  The public favour is my only lottery.  I have long enjoyed the foremost prize, and something in my breast tells me my evil genius will not overwhelm me if I stand by myself.  Why should I not?  I have no enemies—­many attached friends.  The popular ascendency which I have maintained is of the kind which is rather improved by frequent appearances before the public.  In fact, critics may say what they will, but “hain your reputation, and tyne your reputation,” is a true proverb.[127]