Again, this new disorder seems a presage of the advance of age with its infirmities.  But age is but the cypress avenue which terminates in the tomb, where the weary are at rest.

I have been putting my things to rights to go off to-morrow.  Though I always wonder why it should be so, I feel a dislike to order and to task-work of all kinds—­a predominating foible in my disposition.  I do not mean that it influences me in morals; for even in youth I had a disgust at gross irregularities of any kind, and such as I ran into were more from compliance with others and a sort of false shame, than any pleasure I sought or found in dissipation.  But what I mean is a detestation of precise order in petty matters—­in reading or answering letters, in keeping my papers arranged and in order, and so on.  Weber, and then Gordon, used to keep my things in some order—­now they are verging to utter confusion.  And then I have let my cash run ahead since I came from the Continent—­I must slump the matter as I can.

[Shandwick Place,] January 15.—–­ Off we came, and despite of rheumatism I got through the journey comfortably.  Greeted on my arrival by a number of small accounts whistling like grape-shot; they are of no great avail, and incurred, I see, chiefly during the time of illness.  But I believe it will take me some hard work till I pay them, and how to get the time to work?  It will be hard purchased if, as I think not unlikely, this bitch of a rheumatism should once more pin me to my chair.  Coming through Galashiels, we met the Laird of Torwoodlee, who, on hearing how long I had been confined, asked how I bore it, observing that he had once in his life (Torwoodlee must be between sixty and seventy) been confined for five days to the house, and was like to hang himself.  I regret God’s free air as much as any man, but I could amuse myself were it in the Bastile.

January 16.—­Went to Court, and returned through a curious atmosphere, half mist, half rain, famous for rheumatic joints.  Yet I felt no increase of my plaguey malady, but, on the contrary, am rather better.  I had need, otherwise a pair of crutches for life were my prettiest help.

Walter dined with us to-day, Jane remaining with her mother.  The good affectionate creatures leave us to-morrow.  God send them a quick passage through the Irish Channel!  They go to Gort, where Walter’s troop is lying—­a long journey for winter days.

January 17.—­Another proper day of mist, sleet, and rain, through which I navigated homeward.  I imagine the distance to be a mile and a half.  It is a good thing to secure as much exercise.

I observed in the papers my old friend Gifford’s funeral.  He was a man of rare attainments and many excellent qualities.  The translation of Juvenal is one of the best versions ever made of a classical author, and his satire of the Baviad and Maeviad squabashed at one blow a set of coxcombs who might have humbugged the world long enough.