February 14.—­“Death’s gi’en the art an unco devel."[471] Sir George Beaumont’s dead; by far the most sensible and pleasing man I ever knew; kind, too, in his nature, and generous; gentle in society, and of those mild manners which tend to soften the causticity of the general London [tone] of persiflage and personal satire.  As an amateur, he was a painter of the very highest rank.  Though I know nothing of the matter, yet I should hold him a perfect critic on painting, for he always made his criticisms intelligible, and used no slang.  I am very sorry, as much as is in my nature to be, for one whom I could see but seldom.  He was the great friend of Wordsworth, and understood his poetry, which is a rare thing, for it is more easy to see his peculiarities than to feel his great merit, or follow his abstract ideas.  I dined to-day at Lord Ch.-Commissioner’s—­Lord Minto, and Lord Ch.-Baron, also Harden.  Little done to-day.

February 15.—­Rheumatism returns with the snow.  I had thoughts of going to Abbotsford on Saturday, but if this lasts, it will not do; and, sooth to speak, it ought not to do; though it would do me much pleasure if it would do.

I have a letter from Baron Von Goethe,[472] which I must have read to me; for though I know German, I have forgot their written hand.  I make it a rule seldom to read, and never to answer, foreign letters from literary folks.  It leads to nothing but the battle-dore and shuttle-cock intercourse of compliments, as light as cork and feathers.  But Goethe is different, and a wonderful fellow, the Ariosto at once, and almost the Voltaire of Germany.  Who could have told me thirty years ago I should correspond, and be on something like an equal footing, with the author of Goetz?  Ay, and who could have told me fifty things else that have befallen me?[473]

February 16.—­R.  Still snow; and, alas! no time for work, so hard am I fagged by the Court and the good company of Edinburgh.  I almost wish my rheumatics were bad enough to give me an apology for staying a week at home.  But we have Sunday and Monday clear.  If not better, I will cribb off Tuesday; and Wednesday is Teind day.  We dined to-day with Mr. Borthwick, younger of Crookston.

February 17.—­James Ferguson ill of the rheumatism in head and neck, and Hector B. Macdonald in neck and shoulders.  I wonder, as Commodore Trunnion says, what the blackguard hell’s-baby has to say to the Clerks of Session.[474] Went to the Second Division to assist Hector. N.B.—­Don’t like it half so well as my own, for the speeches are much longer.  Home at dinner, and wrought in the evening.

February 18.—­Very cold weather.  I am rather glad I am not in the country.  What says Dean Swift—­

    “When frost and snow come both together,
    Then sit by the fire and save shoe leather.” 
Wrought all morning and finished five pages.  Missie dined with us.