very young, of which I think I have some shadowy recollection—­whether I had heard the stories of the miller of Thirlestane[469] and similar molendinar tragedies, I cannot tell; but not even recollection of the Lass of Patie’s Mill, or the Miller of Mansfield, or he who “dwelt on the river Dee,” have ever got over my inclination to connect gloom with a mill, especially when sun is setting.  So I entered into the spirit of the terror with which Lord Francis has invested his haunted spot.  I dine with the Solicitor to-day, so quoad labour ’tis a blank.  But then to-morrow is a new day.

    “To-morrow to fresh meads and pastures new."[470]

February 11.—­Wrought a good deal in the morning, and landed Boney at Smolensk.  But I have him to bring off again; and, moreover, I must collate the authorities on the movements of the secondary armies of Witgenstein and the Admiral with the break-tooth name.  Dined with Lord Minto, where I met Thomson, Cranstoun, and other gay folks.  These dinner parties narrow my working hours; yet they must sometimes be, or one would fall out of the line of society, and go to leeward entirely, which is not right to venture.  This is the high time for parties in Edinburgh; no wonder one cannot keep clear.

February 12.—­I was obliged to read instead of writing, and the infernal Russian names, which everybody spells ad libitum, makes it difficult to trace the operations on a better map than mine.  I called to-day on Dr. Shortt, principal surgeon at Saint Helena, and who presided at the opening of Bonaparte’s body.  He mentions as certain the falsehood of a number of the assertions concerning his usage, the unhealthy state of the island, and so forth.  I have jotted down his evidence elsewhere.  I could not write when I came home.  Nervous a little, I think, and not yet up to the motions of Tchitchagoff, as I must be before I can write.  Will [Clerk] and Sir A. Ferguson dine here to-day—­the first time any one has had that honour for long enough, unless at Abbotsford.  The good Lord Chief-Commissioner invited himself, and I asked his son, Admiral Adam.  Col.  Ferguson is of the party.

February 13.—­The dining parties come thick, and interfere with work extremely.  I am, however, beforehand very far.  Yet, as James B. says—­the tortoise comes up with the hare.  So Puss must make a new start; but not this week.  Went to see the exhibition—­certainly a good one for Scotland—­and less trash than I have seen at Somerset-House (begging pardon of the pockpuddings).  There is a beautiful thing by Landseer—­a Highlander and two stag-hounds engaged with a deer.  Very spirited, indeed.  I forgot my rheumatism, and could have wished myself of the party.  There were many fine folks, and there was a collation, chocolate, and so forth.  We dine at Sir H. Jardine’s, with Lord Ch.-Com., Lord Chief-Baron, etc.