.

_April_ 7.--We had a gay scene this morning--the foxhounds and merry
hunters in my little base court, which rung with trampling steeds, and
rejoiced in scarlet jackets and ringing horns. I have seen the day
worlds would not have bribed me to stay behind them; but that is over,
and I walked a sober pace up to the Abbot's Knowe, from which I saw them
draw my woods, but without finding a fox. I watched them with that
mixture of interest, affection, and compassion which old men feel at
looking on the amusements of the young. I was so far interested in the
chase itself as to be sorry they did not find. I had so far the
advantage of the visit, that it gave me an object for the morning
exercise, which I would otherwise only have been prompted to by health
and habit. It is pleasant to have one's walk,--as heralds say, with a
difference. By the way, the foxhunters hunted the cover far too fast.
When they found a path they ran through it pell-mell without beating at
all. They had hardly left the hare-hole cover, when a fox, which they
had over-run, stole away. This is the consequence of breeding dogs too
speedy.

_April_ 8.--We have the news of the Catholic question being carried in
the House of Lords, by a majority of 105 upon the second reading. This
is decisive, and the balsam of Fierabras must be swallowed.[291] It
remains to see how it will work. Since it was indubitably necessary, I
am glad the decision on the case has been complete. On these last three
days I have finished my review of Tytler for Lockhart and sent it off by
this post. I may have offended Peter by censuring him for a sort of
petulance towards his predecessor Lord Hailes. This day visited by Mr.
Carr, who is a sensible, clever young man, and by his two
sisters[292]--beautiful singer the youngest--and to my taste, and
English music.

_April_ 9.--Laboured correcting proofs and revising; the day infinitely
bad. Worked till three o'clock; then tried a late walk, and a wet one.

I hear bad news of James Ballantyne. Hypochondriac I am afraid, and
religiously distressed in mind.

I got a book from the Duke de Levis, the same gentleman with whom I had
an awkward meeting at Abbotsford, owing to his having forgot his
credentials, which left me at an unpleasant doubt as to his character
and identity.[293] His book is inscribed to me with hyperbolical
praises. Now I don't like to have, like the Persian poets who have the
luck to please the Sun of the Universe,