om
Peterhead, a quiz of a poetical creature, and a bookbinder, a friend of
theirs. The plan was to consult me about publishing a great quantity of
ballads which this Mr. Buchan has collected. I glanced them over. He has
been very successful, for they are obviously genuine, and many of them
very curious. Others are various editions of well-known ballads. I could
not make the man comprehend that these last were of little value, being
generally worse readings of what was already published. A small edition
published by subscription may possibly succeed. It is a great pity that
few of these ballads are historical, almost all being of the romantic
cast. They certainly ought to be preserved, after striking out one or
two which have been sophisticated, I suppose by Mr. Buchan himself,
which are easily distinguishable from the genuine ballads.[24] No one
but Burns ever succeeded in patching up old Scottish songs with any good
effect.

_August_ 24.--Corrected proofs and wrote letters in the morning. Began a
review upon Monteath's Planter for Lockhart.[25] Other matters at a
stand. A drive down to Mertoun, and engaged to dine there on Sunday
first. This consumed the day.

_August_ 25.--Mr. Adolphus left us this morning after a very agreeable
visit. We all dined at Dr. Brewster's. Met Sir John Wright, Miss Haig,
etc. Slandered our neighbours, and were good company. Major John Scott
there. I did a little more at the review to-day. But I cannot go on with
the tale without I could speak a little Hindostanee--a small seasoning
of curry-powder. Ferguson will do it if I can screw it out of him.

_August_ 26.--Encore review. Walked from twelve till three, then drove
to Mertoun with Lockhart and Allan. Dined _en famille_, and home by
half-past ten. We thought of adding a third volume to the _Chronicles_,
but Gibson is afraid it would give grounds for a pretext to seize this
work on the part of Constable's creditors, who seem determined to take
any advantage of me, but they can only show their teeth I trust; though
I wish the arbitration was ended.

_August_ 27.--Sent off proofs in morning, revised in afternoon. Walked
from one till four. What a life of uniformity! Yet I never wish to
change it. I even regret I must go to town to meet Lady Compton[26] next
week.

A singular letter from a lady, requesting I would father a novel of
hers. That won't pass.[27]

Cadell writes me, transmitting a notice from the French papers that
Gourgaud