December 17.—­This was a day of labour, agreeably varied by a pain which rendered it scarce possible to sit upright.  My Journal is getting a vile chirurgical aspect.

I begin to be afraid of the odd consequences complaints in the post equitem are said to produce.  Walter and Jane dined.  Mrs. Skene came in the evening.

December 18.—­Almost sick with pain, and it stops everything.  I shall tire of my Journal if it is to contain nothing but biles and plasters and unguents.  In my better days I had stories to tell; but death has closed the long dark avenue upon loves and friendships; and I can only look at them as through the grated door of a long burial-place filled with monuments of those who were once dear to me, with no insincere wish that it may open for me at no distant period, provided such be the will of God.  My pains were those of the heart, and had something flattering in their character; if in the head, it was from the blow of a bludgeon gallantly received and well paid back.

I went to the meeting of the Commissioners;[435] there was none to-day.  The carriage had set me down; so I walked from the college in one of the sourest and most unsocial days which I ever felt.  Why should I have liked this?  I do not know; it is my dogged humour to yield little to external circumstances.  Sent an excuse to the Royal Society, however.

December 19.—­Went to Court.  No, I lie; I had business there.  Wrote a task; no more; could not.  Went out to Dalkeith, and dined with the Duke.  It delights me to hear this hopeful young nobleman talk with sense and firmness about his plans for improving his estate, and employing the poor.  If God and the world spare him, he will be far known as a true Scots lord.[436]

December 20.—­Being a Teind day, I had a little repose.  We dined at Hector Macdonald’s with William Clerk and some youngsters.  Highland hospitality as usual.  I got some work done to-day.

December 21.—­In the house till two o’clock nearly.  Came home, corrected proof-sheets, etc., mechanically.  All well, would the machine but keep in order, but “The spinning wheel is auld and stiff.”

I think I shall not live to the usual verge of human existence.  I shall never see the threescore and ten, and shall be summed up at a discount.  No help for it, and no matter either.

December 22.—­Poor old Honour and Glory dead—­once Lord Moira, more lately Lord Hastings.  He was a man of very considerable talents, but had an overmastering degree of vanity of the grossest kind.  It followed of course that he was gullible.  In fact the propensity was like a ring in his nose into which any rogue might put a string.  He had a high reputation for war, but it was after the pettifogging hostilities in America where he had done some clever things.  He died, having the credit, or rather having had the credit, to leave more debt than any man since Caesar’s time.  L1,200,000 is said to be the least.  There was a time that I knew him well, and regretted the foibles which mingled with his character, so as to make his noble qualities sometimes questionable, sometimes ridiculous.  He was always kind to me.  Poor Plantagenet!  Young Percival went out to dine at Dalkeith with me.