March 10.—­I am not made entirely in the same mould of passions like other people.  Many men would deeply regret a breach with so old a friend as Lord Melville, and many men would be in despair at losing the good graces of a Minister of State for Scotland, and all pretty visions about what might be done for myself and my sons, especially Charles.  But I think my good lord doth ill to be angry, like the patriarch of old, and I have, in my odd sans souciance character, a good handful of meal from the grist of the Jolly Miller, who

                      “Once
    Dwelled on the river Dee;
    I care for nobody, no, not I,
    Since nobody cares for me.”

Breakfasted with me Mr. Franks, a young Irishman from Dublin, who brought letters from Walter and Captain Longmore of the Royal Staff.  He has written a book of poetry, Tales of Chivalry and Romance, far from bad, yet wants spirit.  He talks of publishing his recollections in the Peninsula, which must be interesting, for he has, I think, sense and reflection.

Sandie Young[213] came in at breakfast-time with a Monsieur Brocque of Montpelier.

Saw Sir Robert Dundas at Court, who condemns Lord Melville, and says he will not show his letter to any one; in fact it would be exactly placarding me in a private and confidential manner.  He is to send my letter to Lord Melville.  Colin Mackenzie concurs in thinking Lord Melville quite wrong. “He must cool in the skin he het in.”

On coming home from the Court a good deal fatigued, I took a nap in my easy-chair, then packed my books, and committed the refuse to Jock Stevenson—­

    “Left not a limb on which a Dane could triumph.”

Gave Mr. Gibson my father’s cabinet, which suits a man of business well.  Gave Jock Stevenson the picture of my old favourite dog Camp, mentioned in one of the introductions to Marmion, and a little crow-quill drawing of Melrose Abbey by Nelson, whom I used to call the Admiral.  Poor fellow! he had some ingenuity, and was, in a moderate way, a good penman and draughtsman.  He left his situation of amanuensis to go into Lord Home’s militia regiment, but his dissipated habits got the better of a strong constitution, and he fell into bad ways and poverty, and died, I believe, in the hospital at Liverpool.  Strange enough that Henry Weber, who acted afterwards as my amanuensis for many years, had also a melancholy fate ultimately.  He was a man of very superior attainments, an excellent linguist and geographer, and a remarkable antiquary.  He published a collection of ancient Romances, superior, I think, to the elaborate Ritson.  He also published an edition of Beaumont and Fletcher, but too carelessly done to be reputable.  He was a violent Jacobin, which he thought he disguised from me, while I, who cared not a fig about the poor young man’s politics, used to amuse myself with teasing him.  He was an excellent and affectionate creature, but unhappily