“Heaven sure sent letters for some wretch’s plague."[248]

Lady Scott seems to make no way, yet can scarce be said to lose any.  She suffers much occasionally, especially during the night.  Sleeps a great deal when at ease; all symptoms announce water upon the chest.  A sad prospect.

In the evening a despatch from Lord Melville, written with all the familiarity of former times, desiring me to ride down and press Mr. Scott of Harden to let Henry stand, and this in Lord Montagu’s name as well as his own, so that the two propositions cross each other on the road, and Henry is as much desired by the Buccleuch interest as he desires their support.

Jedburgh, April 17.—­Came over to Jedburgh this morning, to breakfast with my good old friend Mr. Shortreed, and had my usual warm reception.  Lord Gillies held the Circuit Court, and there was no criminal trial for any offence whatsoever.  I have attended these circuits with tolerable regularity since 1792, and though there is seldom much of importance to be done, yet I never remember before the Porteous roll[249] being quite blank.  The judge was presented with a pair of white gloves, in consideration of its being a maiden circuit.  Harden came over and talked about his son’s preferment, naturally much pleased.

Received L100 from John Lockhart, for review of Pepys;[250] but this is by far too much; L50 is plenty.  Still I must impeticos the gratility for the present,[251]—­for Whitsunday will find me only with L300 in hand, unless Blackwood settles a few scores of pounds for Malachi.

Wrote a great many letters.  Dined with the Judge, where I met the disappointed candidate, Sir John Scott Douglas, who took my excuse like a gentleman.  Sir William Elliot, on the other hand, was, being a fine man, very much out of sorts, that having got his own consent, he could not get that of the county.  He showed none of this, however, to me.

April 18.—­This morning I go down to Kelso from Jedburgh to poor Don’s funeral.  It is, I suppose, forty years since I saw him first.  I was staying at Sydenham, a lad of fourteen, or by ’r Lady some sixteen; and he, a boy of six or seven, was brought to visit me on a pony, a groom holding the leading rein—­and now, I, an old grey man, am going to lay him in his grave.  Sad work.  I detest funerals; there is always a want of consistency; it is a tragedy played by strolling performers, who are more likely to make you laugh than cry.  No chance of my being made to laugh to-day.  The very road I go is a road of grave recollections.  Must write to Charles seriously on the choice of his profession, and I will do it now.

[Abbotsford,] April 19.—­Returned last night from the house of death and mourning to my own, now the habitation of sickness and anxious apprehension.  Found Lady S. had tried the foxglove in quantity, till it made her so sick she was forced to desist.  The result cannot yet be judged.  Wrote to Mrs. Thomas Scott to beg her to let her daughter Anne, an uncommonly, sensible, steady, and sweet-tempered girl, come and stay with us a season in our distress, who I trust will come forthwith.