ge Scott,
Harden, is dead of the typhus fever. Poor dear boy! I am sorry for him,
and yet more for his parents. I have a letter from Henry on the subject.

_June_ 16.--I wrote this forenoon till I completed the 100 pages, which
is well done. I had a call from Colin Mackenzie, whom I had not seen
for nearly two years. He has not been so well, and looks ghastly, but I
think not worse than I have seen him of late years. We are very old
acquaintances. I remember he was one of a small party at college, that
formed ourselves into a club called the Poetical Society. The other
members were Charles Kerr of Abbotrule (a singular being), Colin
M'Laurin (insane), Colin, and I, who have luckily kept our wits. I also
saw this morning a Mr. Low, a youth of great learning, who has written a
good deal on the early history of Scotland.[373] He is a good-looking,
frank, gentlemanlike lad; with these good gifts only a parish
schoolmaster in Aberdeenshire. Having won a fair holiday I go to see
Miss Kemble for the first time. It is two or three years since I have
been in a theatre, once my delight.

_June_ 17.--Went last night to theatre, and saw Miss Fanny Kemble's
Isabella,[374] which was a most creditable performance. It has much of
the genius of Mrs. Siddons, her aunt. She wants her beautiful
countenance, her fine form, and her matchless dignity of step and
manner. On the other hand, Miss Fanny Kemble has very expressive, though
not regular, features, and what is worth it all, great energy mingled
with and chastened by correct taste. I suffered by the heat, lights, and
exertion, and will not go back to-night, for it has purchased me a sore
headache this theatrical excursion. Besides, the play is Mrs.
Beverley,[375] and I hate to be made miserable about domestic distress,
so I keep my gracious presence at home to-night, though Ive and respect
Miss Kemble for giving her active support to her father in his need, and
preventing Covent Garden from coming down about their ears. I corrected
proofs before breakfast, attended Court, but was idle in the forenoon,
the headache annoying me much. Dinner will make me better. And so it
did. I wrote in the evening three pages, and tolerably well, though I
may say with the Emperor Titus (not Titus Oates) that I have lost a day.

_June_ 18, _[Blair-Adam]_.--Young John Colquhoun of Killermont and his
wife breakfasted with us,--a neat custom that, and saves wine and
wassail. Then to Court, and arranged fo