July 22, [Abbotsford].—­Rose a little later than usual, and wrote a letter to Mrs. Joanna Baillie.  She is writing a tragedy[13] on witchcraft.  I shall be curious to see it.  Will it be real witchcraft—­the ipsissimus diabolus—­or an impostor, or the half-crazed being who believes herself an ally of condemned spirits, and desires to be so?  That last is a sublime subject.  We set out after breakfast, and reached this about two.  I walked from two till four; chatted a long time with Charles after dinner, and thus went my day sine linea.  But we will make it up.  James Ballantyne dislikes my “Drovers.”  But it shall stand.  I must have my own way sometimes.

I received news of two deaths at once:  Lady Die Scott, my very old friend, and Archibald Constable, the bookseller.

July 23.—­Yes! they are both for very different reasons subjects of reflection.  Lady Diana Scott, widow of Walter Scott of Harden, was the last person whom I recollect so much older than myself, that she kept always at the same distance in point of years, so that she scarce seemed older to me (relatively) two years ago, when in her ninety-second year, than fifty years before.  She was the daughter (alone remaining) of Pope’s Earl of Marchmont, and, like her father, had an acute mind and an eager temper.  She was always kind to me, remarkably so indeed when I was a boy.

Constable’s death might have been a most important thing to me if it had happened some years ago, and I should then have lamented it much.  He has lived to do me some injury; yet, excepting the last L5000, I think most unintentionally.  He was a prince of booksellers; his views sharp, powerful, and liberal; too sanguine, however, and, like many bold and successful schemers, never knowing when to stand or stop, and not always calculating his means to his objects with mercantile accuracy.  He was very vain, for which he had some reason, having raised himself to great commercial eminence, as he might also have attained great wealth with good management.  He knew, I think, more of the business of a bookseller in planning and executing popular works than any man of his time.  In books themselves he had much bibliographical information, but none whatever that could be termed literary.  He knew the rare volumes of his library not only by the eye, but by the touch, when blindfolded.  Thomas Thomson saw him make this experiment, and, that it might be complete, placed in his hand an ordinary volume instead of one of these libri rariores.  He said he had over-estimated his memory; he could not recollect that volume.  Constable was a violent-tempered man with those that he dared use freedom with.  He was easily overawed by people of consequence, but, as usual, took it out of those whom poverty made subservient to him.  Yet he was generous, and far from bad-hearted.  In person good-looking, but very corpulent latterly; a large feeder, and deep drinker, till his health became weak.  He died of water in the chest, which the natural strength of his constitution set long at defiance.  I have no great reason to regret him; yet I do.  If he deceived me, he also deceived himself.[14]