inner, enter a big splay-footed, trifle-headed, old pottering
minister, who came to annoy me about a claim which one of his
parishioners has to be Earl of Annandale, and which he conceits to be
established out of the Border Minstrelsy. He mentioned a curious
thing--that three brothers of the Johnstone family, on whose descendants
the male representative of these great Border chiefs devolved, were
forced to fly to the north in consequence of their feuds with the
Maxwells, and agreed to change their names. They slept on the side of
the Soutra Hills, and asking a shepherd the name of the place, agreed in
future to call themselves Sowtra or Sowter Johnstones. The old
pudding-headed man could not comprehend a word I either asked him or
told him, and maundered till I wished him in the Annandale
beef-stand.[286] Mr. Gibson came in after tea, and we talked business.
Then I was lazy and stupid, and dosed over a book instead of writing. So
on the whole, _Confiteor, confiteor, culpa mea, culpa mea_!

_June_ 14.--In the morning I began with a page and a half before
breakfast. This is always the best way. You stand like a child going to
be bathed, shivering and shaking till the first pitcherful is flung
about your ears, and then are as blithe as a water-wagtail. I am just
come home from Parliament House; and now, my friend _Nap._, have at you
with a down-right blow! Methinks I would fain make peace with my
conscience by doing six pages to-night. Bought a little bit of Gruyere
cheese, instead of our domestic choke-dog concern. When did I ever
purchase anything for my own eating? But I will say no more of that. And
now to the bread-mill.

_June_ 15.--I laboured all the evening, but made little way. There were
many books to consult; and so all I could really do was to make out my
task of three pages. I will try to make up the deficit of Tuesday to-day
and to-morrow. Letters from Walter--all well. A visit yesterday from
Charles Sharpe.

_June_ 16.--Yesterday sate in the Court till nearly four. I had, of
course, only time for my task. I fear I will have little more to-day,
for I have accepted to dine at Hector's. I got, yesterday, a present of
two engravings from Sir Henry Raeburn's portrait of me, which (poor
fellow!) was the last he ever painted, and certainly not his worst.[287]
I had the pleasure to give one to young Mr. Davidoff for his uncle, the
celebrated Black Captain of the campaign of 1812. Curious that he should
be interes