on_. I told him he might write to Longman for their
opinion. Seven is an awkward number, and will extremely cramp the work.
Eight, too, would go into six octavos, should it ever be called for in
that shape. But it shall be as they list to have it.

_January_ 21.--A long day of some pain relieved by labour. Dr. Ross came
in and recommended some stuff, which did little good. I would like ill
to lose the use of my precious limbs. Meanwhile, Patience, cousin, and
shuffle the cards.

Missie dined with us to-day--an honest Scotch lass, lady-like and frank.
I finished about six leaves, doing indeed little else.

_January_ 22.--Work, varied with camomile; we get on, though. A visit
from Basil Hall, with Mr. Audubon the ornithologist, who has followed
that pursuit by many a long wandering in the American forests. He is an
American by naturalisation, a Frenchman by birth;[448] but less of a
Frenchman than I have ever seen--no dash, or glimmer, or shine about
him, but great simplicity of manners and behaviour; slight in person,
and plainly dressed; wears long hair, which time has not yet tinged; his
countenance acute, handsome, and interesting, but still simplicity is
the predominant characteristic. I wish I had gone to see his drawings;
but I had heard so much about them that I resolved not to see them--"a
crazy way of mine, your honour."--Five more leaves finished.

_January_ 23.--I have got a piece of armour, a knee-cap of chamois
leather, which I think does my unlucky rheumatism some good. I begin,
too, to sleep at night, which is a great comfort. Spent this day
completely in labour; only betwixt dinner and tea, while husbanding a
tumbler of whisky and water, I read the new novel, _Elizabeth de
Bruce_[449]--part of it, that is.

_January_ 24.--Visit from Mr. Audubon, who brings some of his birds. The
drawings are of the first order--the attitudes of the birds of the most
animated character, and the situations appropriate; one of a snake
attacking a bird's nest, while the birds (the parents) peck at the
reptile's eyes--they usually, in the long-run, destroy him, says the
naturalist. The feathers of these gay little sylphs, most of them from
the Southern States, are most brilliant, and are represented with what,
were it [not] connected with so much spirit in the attitude, I would
call a laborious degree of execution. This extreme correctness is of
the utmost consequence to the naturalist, [but] as I think (having no
knowled