March 16.—­Pleasant days make short Journals, and I have little to say to-day.  I wrote in the morning at Woodstock; walked from one till four; was down at Huntly Burn and paid my respects to the ladies.  The spring seems promising, and everything in great order.  Visited Will Straiton’s widow, who squeezed out among many tears a petition for a house.  I do not think I shall let her have one, as she has a bad temper, but I will help her otherwise; she is greedy besides, as was the defunct philosopher William.  In a year or two I shall have on the toft field a gallant show of extensive woodland, sweeping over the hill, and its boundaries carefully concealed.  In the evening, after dinner, read Mrs. Charlotte Smith’s novel of Desmond[224]—­decidedly the worst of her compositions.

March 17.—­Sent off a packet to J.B.; only three pages copy, so must work hard for a day or two.  I wish I could wind up my bottom handsomely—­an odd but accredited phrase.  The conclusion will be luminous; we must try to make it dashing.  Go spin, you jade, go spin.  Have a good deal to do between-hands in sorting up the newly arrived accession of books.

I need not have exulted so soon in having attained ease and quiet.  I am robbed of both with a vengeance.  A letter from Lockhart, with one enclosed from Sophia, announces the medical people think the child is visibly losing strength, that its walking becomes more difficult, and, in short, that the spine seems visibly affected.  They recommend tepid baths in sea-water, so Sophia has gone down to Brighton, leaving Lockhart in town, who is to visit her once a week.  Here is my worst augury verified.[225] The bitterness of this probably impending calamity is extreme.  The child was almost too good for this world; beautiful in features; and, though spoiled by every one, having one of the sweetest tempers, as well as the quickest intellect I ever saw; a sense of humour quite extraordinary in a child, and, owing to the general notice which was taken of him, a great deal more information than suited his years.  He was born in the eighth month, and such children are never strong—­seldom long-lived.  I look on this side and that, and see nothing but protracted misery, a crippled frame, and decayed constitution, occupying the attention of his parents for years, and dying at the end of that period, when their hearts were turned on him; or the poor child may die before Sophia’s confinement, and that may again be a dangerous and bad affair; or she may, by increase of attention to him, injure her own health.  In short, to trace into how many branches such a misery may flow is impossible.  The poor dear love had so often a slow fever, that when it pressed its little lips to mine, I always foreboded to my own heart what all I fear are now aware of.