low with his conscience; but you should have
some consideration with human frailty.

DUTY.--Reckon not on that. But, however, good-night for the present. I
would only recommend to you to think no thoughts in which I am not
mingled--to read no books in which I have no concern--to write three
sheets of botheration all the six days of the week _per diem_, and on
the seventh to send them to the printer. Thus advising, I heartily bid
you farewell.

EGO.--Farewell, madam (exit Duty) and be d--d to ye for an unreasonable
bitch! "The devil must be in this greedy gled!" as the Earl of Angus
said to his hawk; "will she never be satisfied?"[312] I believe in my
soul she is the very hag who haunted the merchant Abudah.[313]

I'll have my great chest upstairs exorcised, but first I'll take a nap
till supper, which must take place within ten minutes.

_August_ 3.--Wrote half a task in the morning. From eleven till
half-past eight in Selkirk taking precognitions about a _row_, and came
home famished and tired. Now, Mrs. Duty, do you think there is no other
Duty of the family but yourself? Or can the Sheriff-depute neglect his
Duty, that the author may mind _his_? The thing cannot be; the people of
Selkirk must have justice as well as the people of England books. So the
two Duties may go pull caps about it. My conscience is clear.

_August_ 4.--Wrote to Miss Edgeworth on her sister's marriage, which
consumed the better part of the morning. I must read for Marengo.
_Item_, I must look at the pruning. _Item_, at the otter hunt; but my
hope is constant to make up a good day's task notwithstanding. Failed in
finding the otter, and was tired and slept, and did but a poor day's
work.

_August_ 6.--Wrote to-day a very good day's work. Walked to Chiefswood,
and saw old Mrs. Tytler,[314] a friend when life was young. Her husband,
Lord Woodhouselee, was a kind, amiable, and accomplished man; and when
we lived at Lasswade Cottage, soon after my marriage, we saw a great
deal of the family, who were very kind to us as newly entered on the
world.[315] Walked home, and worked in the evening; four leaves
finished.

_August_ 7.--My niece Anne leaves us this morning, summoned back from
one scene of distress to another. Her uncle, David Macculloch, is
extremely ill--a paralytic stroke, I fancy. She is a charming girl,
lady-like in thought and action, and very pleasant in society. We are to
dine to-day with our neighbours at Gattonside. Meantime I