lodgers, who might have carried guns to destroy
the gentleman's creation, _i.e._ game; and for this risk the wretches
were kept in absolute and abject poverty. I would rather be--himself
than this brutal Earl. The daughter showed Lady Sinclair a well in the
midst of a small bog, of great depth, into which, like Thurtell and
Probert, they used to thrust the bodies of their victims till they had
an opportunity of burying them. Lady Sinclair stooped to taste the
water, but the young woman said, with a strong expression of horror,
"You would not drink it?" Such an impression had the tale, probably two
centuries old, made upon the present inhabitants of this melancholy
spot. The whole legend is curious; I will try to get hold of it.[149]

_March_ 11.--I sent Reynolds a sketch of two Scottish stories for
subjects of art for his _Keepsake_--the death of the Laird's Jock the
one, the other the adventure of Duncan Stuart with the stag.

Mr. Drummond Hay breakfasted with me--a good fellow, but a considerable
bore. He brought me a beautiful bronze statue of Hercules, about ten
inches or a foot in height, beautifully wrought. He bought it in France
for 70 francs, and refused L300 from Payne Knight. It is certainly a
most beautiful piece of art. The lion's hide which hung over the
shoulders had been of silver, and, to turn it to account, the arm over
which it hung was cut off; otherwise the statue was perfect and
extremely well wrought. Allan Swinton's skull sent back to Archibald
Swinton.

_March_ 12.--The boy got four leaves of copy to-day, and I wrote three
more. Received by Mr. Cadell from Treuttel and Wurtz for articles in
_Foreign Review_ L52, 10s., which is at my credit with him. Poor Gillies
has therefore kept his word so far, but it is enough to have sacrificed
L100 to him already in literary labour, which I make him welcome to. I
cannot spare him more--which, besides, would do him no good.

_March_ 13, [_Abbotsford_].--I wrote a little in the morning and sent
off some copy. We came off from Edinburgh at ten o'clock, and got to
Abbotsford by four, where everything looks unusually advanced; the birds
singing and the hedges budding, and all other prospects of spring too
premature to be rejoiced in.

I found that, like the foolish virgins, the servants had omitted to get
oil for my lamp, so I was obliged to be idle all the evening. But though
I had a diverting book, the _Tales of the Munster Festivals,_[150] yet
an evenin