March 16.—­

    “A trifling day we have had here,
    Begun with trifle and ended.”

But I hope no otherwise so ended than to meet the rubrick of the ballad, for it is but three o’clock.  In the morning I was l’homme qui cherche—­everything fell aside,—­the very pens absconded, and crept in among a pack of letters and trumpery, where I had the devil’s work finding them.  Thus the time before breakfast was idled, or rather fidgeted, away.  Afterwards it was rather worse.  I had settled to finish the review, when, behold, as I am apt to do at a set task, I jibb’d, and my thoughts would rather have gone with Waterloo.  So I dawdled, as the women say, with both, now writing a page or two of the review, now reading a few pages of the Battle of Waterloo by Captain Pringle, a manuscript which is excellently-written.[494] Well, I will find the advantage of it by and by.  So now I will try to finish this accursed review, for there is nothing to prevent me, save the untractable character that hates to work on compulsion, whether of individuals or circumstances.

March 17.—­I wrought away at the review and nearly finished it.  Was interrupted, however, by a note from Ballantyne, demanding copy, which brought me back from Home and Mackenzie to Boney.  I had my walk as usual, and worked nevertheless very fairly.  Corrected proofs.

March 18.—­Took up Boney again.  I am now at writing, as I used to be at riding, slow, heavy, and awkward at mounting, but when I did get fixed in my saddle, could screed away with any one.  I have got six pages ready for my learned Theban[495] to-morrow morning.  William Laidlaw and his brother George dined with me, but I wrote in the evening all the same.

March 19.—­Set about my labours, but enter Captain John Ferguson from the Spanish Main, where he has been for three years.  The honest tar sat about two hours, and I was heartily glad to see him again.  I had a general sketch of his adventures, which we will hear more in detail when we can meet at kail-time.  Notwithstanding this interruption I have pushed far into the seventh page.  Well done for one day.  Twenty days should finish me at this rate, and I read hard too.  But allowance must be made for interruptions.

March 20.—­To-day worked till twelve o’clock, then went with Anne on a visit of condolence to Mrs. Pringle of Yair and her family.  Mr. Pringle was the friend both of my father and grandfather; the acquaintance of our families is at least a century old.

March 21.—­Wrote till twelve, then out upon the heights though the day was stormy, and faced the gale bravely.  Tom Purdie was not with me.  He would have obliged me to keep the sheltered ground.  But, I don’t know—­

    “Even in our ashes live our wonted fires.”

There is a touch of the old spirit in me yet that bids me brave the tempest,—­the spirit that, in spite of manifold infirmities, made me a roaring boy in my youth, a desperate climber, a bold rider, a deep drinker, and a stout player at single-stick, of all which valuable qualities there are now but slender remains.  I worked hard when I came in, and finished five pages.