ct
all those which affect the subject of _Napoleon_, and which, in spite of
numerous excellent resolutions, I have never separated from the common
file from which they are now to be selected. Confound them! but they
_are_ confounded already. Indolence is a delightful indulgence, but at
what a rate we purchase it! To-day we go to Mertoun, and having spent
some time in making up my Journal to this length, and in a chat with
Captain John, who dropped in, I will presently set to the review--knock
it off, if possible, before we start at five o'clock. To-morrow, when I
return, we will begin the disagreeable task of a thorough rummage of
papers, books, and documents. My character as a man of letters, and as a
man of honour, depends on my making that work as correct as possible. It
has succeeded, notwithstanding every effort here and in France[114] to
put it down, and it shall not lose ground for want of backing. We went
to dine and pass the night at Mertoun, where we met Sir John Pringle,
Mr. and Mrs. Baillie Mellerstain, and their daughters.

_January_ 10.--When I rose this morning the weather was changed and the
ground covered with snow. I am sure it's winter fairly. We returned from
Mertoun after breakfast through an incipient snowstorm, coming on
partially, and in great flakes, the sun bursting at intervals through
the clouds. At last _Die Wolken laufen zusammen_. We made a slow journey
of it through the swollen river and heavy roads, but here we are at
last.

I am rather sorry we expect friends to-day, though these friends be the
good Fergusons. I have a humour for work, to which the sober, sad
uniformity of a snowy day always particularly disposes me, and I am sure
I will get poor Gillies off my hand, at least if I had morning and
evening. Then I would set to work with arranging everything for these
second editions of _Napoleon, The Romances_, etc., which must be soon
got afloat. I must say "the wark gangs bonnily on."[115] Well, I will
ring for coals, mend my pen, and try what can be done.

I wrought accordingly on Gillies's review for the _Life of Moliere_, a
gallant subject. I am only sorry I have not time to do it justice. It
would have required a complete re-perusal of his works, for which, alas!
I have no leisure.

"For long, though pleasant, is the way,
And life, alas! allows but one ill winter's day."

Which is too literally my own case.

_January_ 11.--Renewed my labour, finished the review, _ta