JULY.

[Edinburgh,] July 1st.—­Another sunny day.  This threatens absolutely Syrian drought.  As the Selkirk election comes on Monday, I go out to-day to Abbotsford, and carry young Davidoff and his tutor with me, to see our quiet way of managing the choice of a national representative.

I wrote a page or two last night slumbrously.

[Abbotsford,] July 2.—­Late at Court.  Got to Abbotsford last night with Count Davidoff about eight o’clock.  I worked a little this morning, then had a long and warm walk.  Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton from Chiefswood, the present inhabitants of Lockhart’s cottage, dined with us, which made the society pleasant.  He is a fine, soldierly-looking man[292]—­though affected with paralysis—­his wife a sweet good-humoured little woman.  He is supposed to be a writer in Blackwood’s Magazine.  Since we were to lose the Lockharts, we could scarce have had more agreeable folks.

At Selkirk, where Borthwickbrae was elected with the usual unanimity of the Forest freeholders.  This was a sight to my young Muscovite.  We walked in the evening to the lake.

July 5.—­Still very hot, but with thunder showers.  Wrote till breakfast, then walked and signed the death-warrant of a number of old firs at Abbotstown.  I hope their deaths will prove useful.  Their lives are certainly not ornamental.  Young Mr. Davidoff entered upon the cause of the late discontents in Russia, which he imputes to a deep-seated Jacobin conspiracy to overthrow the state and empire and establish a government by consuls.

[Edinburgh,] July 6.—­Returned last night with my frozen Muscovites to the Capital, and suffered as usual from the incursions of the black horse during the night.  It was absolute fever.  A bunch of letters, but little interesting.  Mr. Barry Cornwall[293] writes to condole with me.  I think our acquaintance scarce warranted this; but it is well meant and modestly done.  I cannot conceive the idea of forcing myself on strangers in distress, and I have half a mind to turn sharp round on some of my consolers.  Came home from Court.  R.P.  Gillies called; he is writing a satire.  He has a singular talent of aping the measure and tone of Byron, and this poem goes to the tune of Don Juan, but it is the Champagne after it has stood two days with the cork drawn.  Thereafter came Charles K. Sharpe and Will Clerk, as Robinson sayeth, to my exceeding refreshment.[294] And last, not least, Mr. Jollie, one of the triumvirs who manage my poor matters.  He consents to going on with the small edition of novels, which he did not before comprehend.  All this has consumed the day, but we will make up tide-way presently.  I must dress to go to Lord Medwyn[295] to dinner, and it is near time.