_September 25, [Edinburgh]_,--Got into town by one o'clock, the purpose
being to give my deposition before Lord Newton in a case betwixt me and
Constable's creditors. My oath seemed satisfactory; but new reasons were
alleged for additional discussion, which is, I trust, to end this
wearisome matter. I dined with Mr. Gibson, and slept there. J.B. dined
with us, and we had thoughts how to save our copyright by a bargain with
Cadell. I hope it will turn to good, as I could add notes to a future
edition, and give them some value.

_September 26, [Abbotsford]_.--Set off in mail coach, and my horses met
me at Yair Bridge. I travelled with rather a pleasant man, an agent, I
found, on Lord Seaford's[43] West Indian Estates. Got home by twelve
o'clock, and might have been here earlier if the Tweed had not been too
large for fording. I must note down my cash lest it gets out of my head;
"may the foul fa' the gear, and the blathrie o't,"[44] and yet there's
no doing either with it or without it.

_September_ 27.--The morning was damp, dripping, and unpleasant; so I
even made a work of necessity, and set to the _Tales_ like a dragon. I
murdered M'Lellan of Bomby at Thrieve Castle; stabbed the Black Douglas
in the town of Stirling; astonished King James before Roxburgh; and
stifled the Earl of Mar in his bath in the Canongate. A wild world, my
masters, this Scotland of ours must have been. No fear of want of
interest; no lassitude in those days for want of work,

"For treason, d' ye see,
Was to them a dish of tea,
And murther bread and butter."

We dined at Gattonside with Mr. Bainbridge, who kindly presented me with
six bottles of super-excellent Jamaica rum, and with a manuscript
collection of poetry, said to be Swift's handwriting, which it
resembles. It is, I think, poor Stella's. Nothing very new in it.

_September_ 28.--Another dropping and busy day. I wrought hard at the
_Historical Tales_, which get on fast.

_September_ 29.--I went on with the little history which now (_i.e._
vol. ii.) doth appropinque an end. Received in the evening [Nos. 37 to
41?] of the Roxburghe publications. They are very curious, and,
generally speaking, well selected. The following struck me:--An Italian
poem on the subject of Floddenfield; the legend of St. Robert of
Knaresborough; two plays, printed from MS. by Mr. Haslewood. It does not
appear that Mr. H. fully appreciated the light which he was throwing on
the theatric