ate, Danton, Robespierre, and Marat.

I cannot conceive what possesses me, over every person besides, to
mislay papers. I received a letter Saturday at _e'en,_ enclosing a bill
for L750; _no deaf nuts_. Well, I read it, and note the contents; and
this day, as if it had been a wind-bill in the literal sense of the
words, I search everywhere, and lose three hours of my morning--turn
over all my confusion in the writing-desk--break open one or two
letters, lest I should have enclosed the sweet and quickly convertible
document in them,--send for a joiner, and disorganise my scrutoire, lest
it should have fallen aside by mistake. I find it at last--the place
where is of little consequence; but this trick must be amended.

Dined at the Royal Society Club, where, as usual, was a pleasant meeting
of from twenty to twenty-five. It is a very good institution; we pay two
guineas only for six dinners in the year, present or absent. Dine at
five, or rather half-past five, at the Royal Hotel, where we have an
excellent dinner, with soups, fish, etc., and all in good order; port
and sherry till half-past seven, then coffee, and we go to the Society.
This has great influence in keeping up the attendance, it being found
that this preface of a good dinner, to be paid for whether you partake
or not, brings out many a philosopher who might not otherwise have
attended the Society. Harry Mackenzie, now in his eighty-second or third
year, read part of an Essay on Dreams. Supped at Dr. Russell's usual
party,[56] which shall serve for one while.

_December_ 6.--A rare thing this literature, or love of fame or
notoriety which accompanies it. Here is Mr. H[enry] M[ackenzie] on the
very brink of human dissolution, as actively anxious about it as if the
curtain must not soon be closed on that and everything else.[57] He
calls me his literary confessor; and I am sure I am glad to return the
kindnesses which he showed me long since in George Square. No man is
less known from his writings. We would suppose a retired, modest,
somewhat affected man, with a white handkerchief, and a sigh ready for
every sentiment. No such thing: H.M. is alert as a contracting tailor's
needle in every sort of business--a politician and a sportsman--shoots
and fishes in a sort even to this day--and is the life of the company
with anecdote and fun. Sometimes, his daughter tells me, he is in low
spirits at home, but really I never see anything of it in society.

There is