August 8.—­Wrote my task this morning, and now for walk.  Dine to-day at Chiefswood; have company to-morrow.  Why, this is dissipation!  But no matter, Mrs. Duty, if the task is done.  “Ay, but,” says she, “you ought to do something extra—­provide against a rainy day.”  Not I, I’ll make a rainy day provide against a fair one, Mrs. Duty.  I write twice as much in bad weather.  Seriously, I write fully as much as I ought.  I do not like this dull aching in the chest and the back, and its giving way to exercise shows that it originates in remaining too long in a sitting posture.  So I’ll take the field, while the day is good.

August 9.—­I wrote only two leaves to-day, but with as many additions as might rank for three.  I had a long and warm walk.  Mrs. Tytler of Woodhouselee, the Hamiltons, and Colonel Ferguson dined here.  How many early stories did the old lady’s presence recall!  She might almost be my mother, yet there we sat, like two people of another generation, talking of things and people the rest knew nothing of.  When a certain period of life is survived, the difference of years between the survivors, even when considerable, becomes of much less consequence.

August 10.—­Rose early, and wrote hard till two, when I went with Anne to Minto.  The place, being new to my companion, gave her much amusement.  We found the Scotts of Harden, etc., and had a very pleasant party.  I like Lady M. particularly, but missed my facetious and lively friend, Lady A[nna] M[aria].[318] It is the fashion for women and silly men to abuse her as a blue-stocking.  If to have wit, good sense, and good-humour, mixed with a strong power of observing, and an equally strong one of expressing the result, be blue, she shall be as blue as they will.  Such cant is the refuge of persons who fear those who they [think] can turn them into ridicule; it is a common trick to revenge supposed raillery with good substantial calumny.  Slept at Minto.

August 11.—­I was up as usual, and wrote about two leaves, meaning to finish my task at home; but found my Sheriff-substitute[319] here on my return, which took up the evening.  But I shall finish the volume on Sunday; that is less than a month after beginning it.  The same exertion would bring the book out at Martinmas, but December is a better time.

August 12.—­Wrote a little in the morning; then Duty and I have settled that this is to be a kind of holiday, providing the volume be finished to-morrow.  I went to breakfast at Chiefswood, and after that affair was happily transacted, I wended me merrily to the Black Cock Stripe, and there caused Tom Purdie and John Swanston cut out a quantity of firs.  Got home about two o’clock, and set to correct a set of proofs.  James Ballantyne presages well of this work, but is afraid of inaccuracies—­so am I—­but things must be as they may.  There is a kind of glamour about me, which sometimes makes me read dates, etc., in the proof-sheets, not as they actually do stand, but as they ought to stand.  I wonder if a pill of holy trefoil would dispel this fascination.