I have been a mere wretch. I lay in bed till past eleven,
thinking to get rid of the rheumatism; then I walked as far as Turnagain
with much pain, and since that time I have just roasted myself like a
potato by the fireside in my study, slumbering away my precious time,
and unable to keep my eyes open or my mind intent on anything, if I
would have given my life for it. I seemed to sleep tolerably, too, last
night, but I suppose Nature had not her dues properly paid; neither has
she for some time.

I saw the filling up of the quarry on the terrace walk, and was pleased.
Anne and I dined at Mertoun, as has been my old wont and use as
Christmas day comes about. We were late in setting out, and I have
rarely seen so dark a night. The mist rolled like volumes of smoke on
the road before us.

_December_ 26.--Returned to Abbotsford this morning. I heard it reported
that Lord B. is very ill. If that be true it affords ground for hope
that Sir John ------ is not immortal. Both great bores. But the Earl has
something of wild cleverness, far exceeding the ponderous stupidity of
the Cavaliero Jackasso.

_December_ 27.--Still weak with this wasting illness, but it is clearly
going off. Time it should, quoth Sancho. I began my work again, which
had slumbered betwixt pain and weakness. In fact I could not write or
compose at all.

_December_ 28.--Stuck to my work. Mr. Scrope came to dinner, and
remained next day. We were expecting young Percival and his wife, once
my favourite and beautiful Nancy M'Leod, and still a very fine woman;
but they came not.

In bounced G. T[homson], alarmed by an anonymous letter, which
acquainted him that thirty tents full of Catholics were coming to
celebrate high mass in the Abbey church; and to consult me on such a
precious document he came prancing about seven at night. I hope to get
him a kirk before he makes any extraordinary explosion of simplicity.

_December_ 29.--Mr. and Mrs. Percival came to-day. He is son of the late
lamented statesman, equally distinguished by talents and integrity. The
son is a clever young man, and has read a good deal; pleasant, too, in
society; but tampers with phrenology, which is unworthy of his father's
son. There is a certain kind of cleverish men, either half educated or
cock-brained by nature, who are attached to that same turnipology. I am
sorry this gentleman should take such whims--sorry even for his name's
sake. Walter and Jane arrived; so our Christmas pa