Wrote five pages to-day, and went to see Mr. Scrope, who is fast with the gout—­a bad companion to attend him

                 “to Athole Braes,
    To shoot the dun deer down, down—­
    To shoot the dun deer down.”

July 24.—­Finished five pages before eleven o’clock, at which time Mr. Deputy Register[15] arrived from Minto, and we had an agreeable afternoon, talking about the old days we have had together.  I was surprised to find that Thomson knew as little as I do myself how to advise Charles to a good course of Scottish History.  Hailes and Pinkerton, Robertson and Laing—­there is nothing else for it—­and Pinkerton is poor work.  Laing, besides his party spirit, has a turn for generalising, which renders him rather dull, which was not the nature of the acute Orcadian.

July 25.—­Thomson left us this morning early.  I finished four pages, and part of a fifth, then drove to Huntly Burn and returned through the Glen; I certainly turn heavy-footed, not in the female sense, however.  I had one or two falls among the slippy heather, not having Tom Purdie to give me his arm.  I suppose I shall need a go-cart one of these days; and if it must be so—­so let it be. Fiat voluntas tua.

A letter from John Gibson in the evening brought me word that Lord Newton had adjudged the profits of Woodstock and Napoleon to be my own.  This is a great matter, and removes the most important part of my dispute with Constable’s creditors.  I waked in the middle of the night.  Sure I am not such a feather-headed gull as not to be able to sleep for good news.  I am thankful that it is as it is.  Had it been otherwise, I could have stood it.  The money realised will pay one-third of all that I owe in the world—­and what will pay the other two-thirds?  I am as well and as capable as when those misfortunes began—­January was a year.  The public favour may wane, indeed, but it has not failed as yet, and I must not be too anxious about that possibility.

James B. has found fault with my tales for being too historical; formerly it was for being too infantine.  He calls out for starch, and is afraid of his cravat being too stiff.  O ye critics, will nothing melt ye?

July 26.—­Wrote till one o’clock, and finished the first volume of Tales—­about six leaves.  To-morrow I resume the Chronicles, tooth and nail.  They must be good, if possible.  After all, works of fiction, viz., cursed lies, are easier to write, and much more popular than the best truths.  Walked over to the head of the Roman road, coming round by Bauchland and the Abbot’s Walk.  Wrote letters in the evening.

July 27.—­In the morning still busied with my correspondence.  No great desire to take up the Chronicles.  But it must be done.  Devil take the necessity, and the folly and knavery, that occasioned it!  But this is no matter now.  Accordingly I set tightly to work, and got on till two, when I took a walk.  Was made very happy by the arrival of Sophia and her babies, all in good health and spirits.