August 8.—­Huntly Gordon proposed to me that I should give him my correspondence, which we had begun to arrange last year.  I resolved not to lose the opportunity, and began to look out and arrange the letters from about 1810, throwing out letters of business and such as are private.  They are of little consequence, generally speaking, yet will be one day curious.  I propose to have them bound up, to save trouble.  It is a sad task; how many dead, absent, estranged, and altered!  I wrought till the Skenes came at four o’clock.  I love them well; yet I wish their visit had been made last week, when other people were here.  It kills time, or rather murders it, this company-keeping.  Yet what remains on earth that I like so well as a little society?  I wrote not a line to-day.

August 9.—­I finished the arrangement of the letters so as to put them into Mr. Gordon’s hands.  It will be a great job done.  But, in the meanwhile, it interrupts my work sadly, for I kept busy till one o’clock to-day with this idle man’s labour.  Still, however, it might have been long enough ere I got a confidential person like Gordon to arrange these confidential papers.  They are all in his hands now.  Walked after one.

August 10.—­This is a morning of fidgety, nervous confusion.  I sought successively my box of Bramah pens, my proof-sheets, and last, not least anxiously, my spectacles.  I am convinced I lost a full hour in these various chases.  I collected all my insubordinate movables at once, but had scarce corrected the proof and written half-a-score of lines, than enter Dalgleish, declaring the Blucher hour is come.  The weather, however, is rainy, and fitted for a day of pure work, but I was able only to finish my task of three pages.

The death of the Premier is announced.  Late George Canning, the witty, the accomplished, the ambitious; he who had toiled thirty years, and involved himself in the most harassing discussions to attain this dizzy height; he who had held it for three months of intrigue and obloquy—­and now a heap of dust, and that is all.  He was an early and familiar friend of mine, through my intimacy with George Ellis.  No man possessed a gayer and more playful wit in society; no one, since Pitt’s time, had more commanding sarcasm in debate; in the House of Commons he was the terror of that species of orators called the Yelpers.  His lash fetched away both skin and flesh, and would have penetrated the hide of a rhinoceros.  In his conduct as a statesman he had a great fault:  he lent himself too willingly to intrigue.  Thus he got into his quarrel with Lord Castlereagh,[20] and lost credit with the country for want of openness.  Thus too, he got involved with the Queen’s party to such an extent that it fettered him upon that memorable quarrel, and obliged him to butter Sir Robert Wilson with dear friend, and gallant general, and so forth.  The last composition with the Whigs was a sacrifice of principle on both sides.  I have some reason to think they counted on getting rid of him in two or three years.  To me Canning was always personally most kind.  I saw, with pain, a great change in his health when I met him at Colonel Bolton’s at Stors in 1825.  In London I thought him looking better.