nd flogging that he did not), we should have had a still more serious
share of the explosion. The explanation I received from the drivers was,
that they had been told by the overseer that as the _mine_ had been so
long in _going off_, he dared say we would have time to pass it--so we
just waited long enough to make the danger imminent. I have only to add
that two or three people got behind the carriage, just for nothing but
to see how our honours got past.

Went to the Oil Gas Committee[7] this morning, of which concern I am
president, or chairman. It has amused me much by bringing me into
company with a body of active, business-loving, money-making citizens of
Edinburgh, chiefly Whigs by the way, whose sentiments and proceedings
amuse me. The stock is rather low in the market, 35s. premium instead
of L5. It must rise, however, for the advantages of the light are
undeniable, and folks will soon become accustomed to idle apprehensions
or misapprehensions. From L20 to L25 should light a house capitally,
supposing you leave town in the vacation. The three last quarters cost
me L10, 10s., and the first, L8, was greatly overcharged. We will see
what this, the worst and darkest quarter, costs.

Dined with Sir Robert Dundas,[8] where we met Lord and Lady Melville. My
little _nieces_ (_ex officio_) gave us some pretty music. I do not know
and cannot utter a note of music; and complicated harmonies seem to me a
babble of confused though pleasing sounds. Yet songs and simple
melodies, especially if connected with words and ideas, have as much
effect on me as on most people. But then I hate to hear a young person
sing without feeling and expression suited to the song. I cannot bear a
voice that has no more life in it than a pianoforte or a bugle-horn.
There is something about all the fine arts, of soul and spirit, which,
like the vital principle in man, defies the research of the most
critical anatomist. You feel where it is not, yet you cannot describe
what it is you want. Sir Joshua, or some other great painter, was
looking at a picture on which much pains had been bestowed--"Why, yes,"
he said, in a hesitating manner, "it is very clever--very well
done--can't find fault; but it wants something; it wants--it wants, damn
me--it wants THAT"--throwing his hand over his head and snapping his
fingers. Tom Moore's is the most exquisite warbling I ever heard. Next
to him, David Macculloch[9] for Scots songs. The last, when a boy at
Du