“Lo! stout hearts of men!” Called on said “uncle,” also on David Hume, Lord Chief-Commissioner, Will Clerk, Mrs. Jobson, and others.  My knee made no allowance for my politeness, but has begun to swell again, and to burn like a scorpion’s bite.

January 20.—­Scarce slept all night; scarce able to stand or move this morning; almost an absolute fixture.

    “A sleepless knight,
    A weary knight,
          God be the guide."[447]

This is at the Court a blank day, being that of the poor Duke of York’s funeral.  I can sit at home, luckily, and fag hard.

And so I have, pretty well; six leaves written, and four or five proof-sheets corrected.  Cadell came to breakfast, and proposes an eighth volume for Napoleon.  I told him he might write to Longman for their opinion.  Seven is an awkward number, and will extremely cramp the work.  Eight, too, would go into six octavos, should it ever be called for in that shape.  But it shall be as they list to have it.

January 21.—­A long day of some pain relieved by labour.  Dr. Ross came in and recommended some stuff, which did little good.  I would like ill to lose the use of my precious limbs.  Meanwhile, Patience, cousin, and shuffle the cards.

Missie dined with us to-day—­an honest Scotch lass, lady-like and frank.  I finished about six leaves, doing indeed little else.

January 22.—­Work, varied with camomile; we get on, though.  A visit from Basil Hall, with Mr. Audubon the ornithologist, who has followed that pursuit by many a long wandering in the American forests.  He is an American by naturalisation, a Frenchman by birth;[448] but less of a Frenchman than I have ever seen—­no dash, or glimmer, or shine about him, but great simplicity of manners and behaviour; slight in person, and plainly dressed; wears long hair, which time has not yet tinged; his countenance acute, handsome, and interesting, but still simplicity is the predominant characteristic.  I wish I had gone to see his drawings; but I had heard so much about them that I resolved not to see them—­“a crazy way of mine, your honour.”—­Five more leaves finished.

January 23.—­I have got a piece of armour, a knee-cap of chamois leather, which I think does my unlucky rheumatism some good.  I begin, too, to sleep at night, which is a great comfort.  Spent this day completely in labour; only betwixt dinner and tea, while husbanding a tumbler of whisky and water, I read the new novel, Elizabeth de Bruce[449]—­part of it, that is.

January 24.—­Visit from Mr. Audubon, who brings some of his birds.  The drawings are of the first order—­the attitudes of the birds of the most animated character, and the situations appropriate; one of a snake attacking a bird’s nest, while the birds (the parents) peck at the reptile’s eyes—­they usually, in the long-run, destroy him, says the naturalist.  The feathers of these