except to charge at the head of two thousand men, who were still unbroken, and either turn the fate of the day or die sword in hand, as became his pretensions.  The Chevalier gave him some evasive answer, and, turning his horse’s head, rode off the field.  Lord Elcho called after him (I write the very words), “There you go for a damned cowardly Italian,” and never would see him again, though he lost his property and remained an exile in the cause.  Lord Elcho left two copies of his memoirs, one with Sir James Steuart’s family, one with Lord Wemyss.  This is better evidence than the romance of Chevalier Johnstone; and I have little doubt it is true.  Yet it is no proof of the Prince’s cowardice, though it shows him to have been no John of Gaunt.  Princes are constantly surrounded with people who hold up their own life and safety to them as by far the most important stake in any contest; and this is a doctrine in which conviction is easily received.  Such an eminent person finds everybody’s advice, save here and there that of a desperate Elcho, recommend obedience to the natural instinct of self-preservation, which very often men of inferior situations find it difficult to combat, when all the world are crying to them to get on and be damned, instead of encouraging them to run away.  At Prestonpans the Chevalier offered to lead the van, and he was with the second line, which, during that brief affair, followed the first very close.  Johnstone’s own account, carefully read, brings him within a pistol-shot of the first line.  At the same time, Charles Edward had not a head or heart for great things, notwithstanding his daring adventure; and the Irish officers, by whom he was guided, were poor creatures.  Lord George Murray was the soul of the undertaking.[166]

February 11.—­Court sat till half-past one.  I had but a trifle to do, so wrote letters to Mrs. Maclean Clephane and nephew Walter.  Sent the last, L40 in addition to L240 sent on the 6th, making his full equipment L280.  A man, calling himself Charles Gray of Carse, wrote to me, expressing sympathy for my misfortunes, and offering me half the profits of what, if I understand him right, is a patent medicine, to which I suppose he expects me to stand trumpeter.  He endeavours to get over my objections to accepting his liberality (supposing me to entertain them) by assuring me his conduct is founded on a sage selfishness.  This is diverting enough.  I suppose the Commissioners of, Police will next send me a letter of condolence, begging my acceptance of a broom, a shovel, and a scavenger’s greatcoat, and assuring me that they had appointed me to all the emoluments of a well-frequented crossing.  It would be doing more than they have done of late for the cleanliness of the streets, which, witness my shoes, are in a piteous pickle.  I thanked the selfish sage with due decorum—­for what purpose can anger serve?  I remember once before, a mad woman, from about Alnwick, baited me with letters