April 9.—­I wrote as hard to-day as need be, finished my neat eight pages, and, notwithstanding, drove out and visited at Gattonside.  The devil must be in it if the matter drags out longer now.

April 10.—­Some incivility from the Leith Bank, which I despise with my heels.  I have done for settling my affairs all that any man—­much more than most men—­could have done, and they refuse a draught of L20, because, in mistake, it was L8 overdrawn.  But what can be expected of a sow but a grumph?  Wrought hard, hard.

April 11.—­The parks were rouped for L100 a year more than they brought last year.  Poor Abbotsford will come to good after all.  In the meantime it is Sic vos non vobis—­but who cares a farthing?  If Boney succeeds, we will give these affairs a blue eye, and I will wrestle stoutly with them, although

    “My banks they are covered with bees,"[500]

or rather with wasps.  A very tough day’s work.

April 12.—­Ha-a-lt—­as we used to say, my proof-sheets being still behind.  Very unhandsome conduct on the part of the Blucher[501] while I was lauding it so profusely.  It is necessary to halt and close up our files—­of correspondence I mean.  So it is a chance if, except for contradiction’s sake, or upon getting the proof-sheets, I write a line to-day at Boney.  I did, however, correct five revised sheets and one proof, which took me up so much of the day that I had but one turn through the courtyard.  Owing to this I had some of my flutterings, my trembling exies, as the old people called the ague.  Wrote a great many letters—­but no “copy.”

April 13.—­I have sometimes wondered with what regularity—­that is, for a shrew of my impatient temper—­I have been able to keep this Journal.  The use of the first person being, of course, the very essence of a diary, I conceive it is chiefly vanity, the dear pleasure of writing about the best of good fellows, Myself, which gives me perseverance to continue this idle task.  This morning I wrote till breakfast, then went out and marked trees to be cut for paling, and am just returned—­and what does any one care?  Ay, but, Gad!  I care myself, though.  We had at dinner to-day Mr. and Mrs. Cranstoun (Burns’s Maria of Ballochmyle[502]), Mr. Bainbridge and daughters, and Colonel Russell.

April 14.—­Went to Selkirk to try a fellow for an assault on Dr. Clarkson—­fined him seven guineas, which, with his necessary expenses, will amount to ten guineas.  It is rather too little; but as his income does not amount to L30 a year, it will pinch him severely enough, and is better than sending him to an ill-kept jail, where he would be idle and drunk from morning to night.  I had a dreadful headache while sitting in the Court—­rheumatism in perfection.  It did not last after I got warm by the fireside.

April 15.—­Delightful soft morning, with mild rain.  Walked out and got wet, as a sovereign cure for the rheumatism.  Was quite well, though, and scribbled away.