July 28.—­Worked hard in the morning.  The two Ballantynes, and Mr. Hogarth with them.  Owen Rees came early in the day.  Fergusons came to dinner.  Rees in great kindness and good-humour, but a little drumlie, I think, about Napoleon.  We heard Sandie’s violin after dinner—­

    “——­Whose touch harmonious can remove
    The pangs of guilty power and hopeless love."[16]

I do not understand or care about fine music; but there is something in his violin which goes to the very heart.  Sophia sung too, and we were once more merry in hall—­the first time for this many a month and many a day.

July 29.—­Could not do more than undertake my proofs to-day, of which J.B. has brought out a considerable quantity.  Walked at one with Hogarth and Rees—­the day sultry, hot, and we hot accordingly, but crept about notwithstanding.  I am sorry to see my old and feal friend James rather unable to walk—­once so stout and active—­so was I in my way once.  Ah! that vile word, what a world of loss it involves!

July 30.—­One of the most peppering thunder-storms which I have heard for some time.  Routed and roared from six in the morning till eight continuously.

“The thunder ceased not, nor the fire reposed;
Well done, old Botherby.”

Time wasted, though very agreeably, after breakfast.  At noon, set out for Chiefswood in the carriage, and walked home, footing it over rough and smooth, with the vigour of early days.  James Ballantyne marched on too, somewhat meltingly, but without complaint.  We again had beautiful music after dinner.  The heart of age arose.  I have often wondered whether I have a taste for music or no.  My ear appears to me as dull as my voice is incapable of musical expression, and yet I feel the utmost pleasure in any such music as I can comprehend, learned pieces always excepted.  I believe I may be about the pitch of Terry’s connoisseurship, and that “I have a reasonable good ear for a jig, but your solos and sonatas give me the spleen.”

July 31.—­Employed the morning writing letters and correcting proofs; this is the second day and scarce a line written, but circumstances are so much my apology that even Duty does not murmur, at least not much.  We had a drive up to Galashiels, and sent J.B. off to Edinburgh in the Mail.  Music in the evening as before.

FOOTNOTES: 

[1] Written by R. Plumer Ward, author of Tremaine and other works.  Mr. Ward’s Political Life, including a Diary to 1820, was published in 1850. in two vols. 8vo, edited by Hon. E. Phipps.

[2] See post, p. 60, note.

[3] See ante, vol. i. pp. 101-2.

[4] Napoleon.

[5] Archibald Campbell Tait, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.

[6] David Hume, the historian, died August 25, 1776.