January 8.—­Slept well last night in consequence I think of my walk, which I will, God willing, repeat to-day.  I wrote some letters too long delayed, and sent off my packets to J.B.  Letter from C. Sharpe very pressing.  I should employ my interest at Windsor to oppose the alterations on the town of Edinburgh.  “One word from you, and all that.”  I don’t think I shall speak that word though.  I hate the alterations, that is certain; but then ne accesseris in consilium nisi vocatus,—­what is the use of my volunteering an opinion?  Again, the value of many people’s property may depend on this plan going forward.  Have I a right from mere views of amenity to interfere with those serious interests?  I something doubt it.  Then I have always said that I never meddle in such work, and ought I sotto voce now to begin it?  By my faith I won’t; there are enough to state the case besides me.[441]

The young Duke of B. came in to bid us good-bye, as he is going off to England.  God bless him!  He is a hawk of a good nest.  Afterwards I walked to the Welsh pool, Skene declining to go, for I

“-----not over stout of limb,
Seem stronger of the two.”

January 9.—­This morning received the long-expected news of the Duke of York’s death.[442] I am sorry both on public and private accounts.  His R.H. was, while he occupied the situation of next in the royal succession, a Breakwater behind the throne.  I fear his brother of Clarence’s opinions may be different, and that he will hoist a standard under which will rendezvous men of desperate hopes and evil designs.  I am sorry, too, on my own account.  The Duke of York was uniformly kind to me, and though I never tasked his friendship deeply, yet I find a powerful friend is gone.  His virtues were honour, good sense, integrity; and by exertion of these qualities he raised the British army from a very low ebb to be the pride and dread of Europe.  His errors were those of a sanguine and social temper; he could not resist the temptation of deep play, which was fatally allied with a disposition to the bottle.  This last is incident to his complaint, which vinous influence soothes for the time, while it insidiously increases it in the end.

Here blows a gale of wind.  I was to go to Galashiels to settle some foolish lawsuit, and afterwards to have been with Mr. Kerr of Kippilaw to treat about a march-dike.  I shall content myself with the first duty, for this day does not suit Bowden-moor.

Went over to Galashiels like the devil in a gale of wind, and found a writer contesting with half-a-dozen unwashed artificers the possession of a piece of ground the size and shape of a three-cornered pocket-handkerchief.  Tried to “gar them gree,” and if I succeed, I shall think I deserve something better than the touch of rheumatism, which is like to be my only reward.

Scotts of Harden and John Pringle of Clifton dined, and we got on very well.