December 14.—­Annoyed with this cursed complaint, though I live like a hermit on pulse and water.  Bothered, too, with the Court, which leaves me little room for proof-sheets, and none for copy.  They sat to-day till past two, so before I had walked home, and called for half an hour on the Chief Commissioner, the work part of the day was gone; and then my lassitude—­I say lassitude—­not indolence—­is so great that it costs me an hour’s nap after I come home.  We dined to-day with R. Dundas of Arniston—­Anne and I. There was a small cabal about Cheape’s election for Professor of Civil Law, which it is thought we can carry for him.  He deserves support, having been very indifferently used in the affair of the Beacon,[429] where certain high Tories showed a great desire to leave him to the mercy of the enemy; as Feeble says, “I will never bear a base mind."[430] We drank some “victorious Burgundy,” contrary to all prescription.

December 15.—­Egad!  I think I am rather better for my good cheer!  I have passed one quiet night at least, and that is something gained.  A glass of good wine is a gracious creature, and reconciles poor mortality to itself, and that is what few things can do.

Our election went off very decently; no discussions or aggravating speeches.  Sir John Jackass seconded the Whig’s nominee.  So much they will submit to to get a vote.  The numbers stood—­Cheape,[431] 138; Bell, 132.  Majority, 6—­mighty hard run.  The Tory interest was weak among the old stagers, where I remember it so strong, but preferment, country residence, etc., has thinned them.  Then it was strong in the younger classes.  The new Dean, James Moncreiff,[432] presided with strict propriety and impartiality.  Walter and Jane dined with us.

December 16.—­Another bad night.  I remember I used to think a slight illness was a luxurious thing.  My pillow was then softened by the hand of affection, and all the little cares which were put in exercise to soothe the languor or pain were more flattering and pleasing than the consequences of the illness were disagreeable.  It was a new sense to be watched and attended, and I used to think that the Malade imaginaire gained something by his humour.  It is different in the latter stages.  The old post-chaise gets more shattered and out of order at every turn; windows will not be pulled up; doors refuse to open, or being open will not shut again—­which last is rather my case.  There is some new subject of complaint every moment; your sicknesses come thicker and thicker; your comforting or sympathising friends fewer and fewer; for why should they sorrow for the course of nature?  The recollection of youth, health, and uninterrupted powers of activity, neither improved nor enjoyed, is a poor strain of comfort.  The best is, the long halt will arrive at last, and cure all.

We had a long sitting in the Court.  Came home through a cold easterly rain without a greatcoat, and was well wet.  A goodly medicine for my aching bones.[433] Dined at Mr. Adam Wilson’s, and had some good singing in the evening.  Saw Dr. Stokoe, who attended Boney in Saint Helena, a plain, sensible sort of man.[434]