from
the grist of the Jolly Miller, who

"Once
Dwelled on the river Dee;
I care for nobody, no, not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

Breakfasted with me Mr. Franks, a young Irishman from Dublin, who
brought letters from Walter and Captain Longmore of the Royal Staff. He
has written a book of poetry, _Tales of Chivalry and Romance_, far from
bad, yet wants spirit. He talks of publishing his recollections in the
Peninsula, which must be interesting, for he has, I think, sense and
reflection.

Sandie Young[213] came in at breakfast-time with a Monsieur Brocque of
Montpelier.

Saw Sir Robert Dundas at Court, who condemns Lord Melville, and says he
will not show his letter to any one; in fact it would be exactly
placarding me in a private and confidential manner. He is to send my
letter to Lord Melville. Colin Mackenzie concurs in thinking Lord
Melville quite wrong. "_He must cool in the skin he het in._"

On coming home from the Court a good deal fatigued, I took a nap in my
easy-chair, then packed my books, and committed the refuse to Jock
Stevenson--

"Left not a limb on which a Dane could triumph."

Gave Mr. Gibson my father's cabinet, which suits a man of business well.
Gave Jock Stevenson the picture of my old favourite dog Camp, mentioned
in one of the introductions to _Marmion_, and a little crow-quill
drawing of Melrose Abbey by Nelson, whom I used to call the Admiral.
Poor fellow! he had some ingenuity, and was, in a moderate way, a good
penman and draughtsman. He left his situation of amanuensis to go into
Lord Home's militia regiment, but his dissipated habits got the better
of a strong constitution, and he fell into bad ways and poverty, and
died, I believe, in the hospital at Liverpool. Strange enough that Henry
Weber, who acted afterwards as my amanuensis for many years, had also a
melancholy fate ultimately. He was a man of very superior attainments,
an excellent linguist and geographer, and a remarkable antiquary. He
published a collection of ancient Romances, superior, I think, to the
elaborate Ritson. He also published an edition of Beaumont and Fletcher,
but too carelessly done to be reputable. He was a violent Jacobin, which
he thought he disguised from me, while I, who cared not a fig about the
poor young man's politics, used to amuse myself with teasing him. He was
an excellent and affectionate creature, but unhappily was afflicted with
partial insanity,