f proofs and copy for the Blucher to morrow;
that damned work will certainly end some time or other. As it drips and
dribbles out on the paper, I think of the old drunken Presbyterian
under the spout.

_March 26._--Despatched packets. Colonel and Captain Ferguson arrived to
breakfast. I had previously determined to give myself a day to write
letters; and, as I expect John Thomson to dinner, this day will do as
well as another. I cannot keep up with the world without shying a letter
now and then. It is true the greatest happiness I could think of would
be to be rid of the world entirely. Excepting my own family, I have
little pleasure in the world, less business in it, and am heartily
careless about all its concerns. Mr. Thomson came accordingly--not John
Thomson of Duddingston, whom the letter led me to expect, but John
Anstruther Thomson of Charlton [Fifeshire], the son-in-law of Lord
Ch.-Commissioner.

_March 27._--Wrote two leaves this morning, and gave the day after
breakfast to my visitor, who is a country gentleman of the best
description; knows the world, having been a good deal attached both to
the turf and the field; is extremely good-humoured, and a good deal of a
local antiquary. I showed him the plantations, going first round the
terrace, then to the lake, then came down by the Rhymer's Glen, and took
carriage at Huntly Burn, almost the grand tour, only we did not walk
from Huntly Burn. The Fergusons dined with us.

_March 28._--Mr Thomson left us about twelve for Minto, parting a
pleased guest, I hope, from a pleased landlord. When I see a "gemman as
_is_ a gemman," as the blackguards say, why, I know how to be civil.
After he left I set doggedly to work with _Bonaparte_, who had fallen a
little into arrear. I can clear the ground better now by mashing up my
old work in the Edinburgh Register with my new matter, a species of
_colcannen_, where cold potatoes are mixed with hot cabbage. After all,
I think Ballantyne is right, and that I have some talents for
history-writing after all. That same history in the Register reads
prettily enough. _Coragio_, cry Claymore. I finished five pages, but
with additions from Register they will run to more than double I hope;
like Puff in the Critic, be luxuriant.[498]

Here is snow back again, a nasty, comfortless, stormy sort of a day, and
I will work it off at _Boney_. What shall I do when _Bonaparte_ is done?
He engrosses me morning, noon, and night. Never mind; _Ko