August 26.—­Encore review.  Walked from twelve till three, then drove to Mertoun with Lockhart and Allan.  Dined en famille, and home by half-past ten.  We thought of adding a third volume to the Chronicles, but Gibson is afraid it would give grounds for a pretext to seize this work on the part of Constable’s creditors, who seem determined to take any advantage of me, but they can only show their teeth I trust; though I wish the arbitration was ended.

August 27.—­Sent off proofs in morning, revised in afternoon.  Walked from one till four.  What a life of uniformity!  Yet I never wish to change it.  I even regret I must go to town to meet Lady Compton[26] next week.

A singular letter from a lady, requesting I would father a novel of hers.  That won’t pass.[27]

Cadell writes me, transmitting a notice from the French papers that Gourgaud has gone, or is going, to London to verify the facts alleged in my history of Napoleon, and the bibliopolist is in a great funk.  I lack some part of his instinct.  I have done Gourgaud no wrong:  every word imputed to him exists in the papers submitted to me as historical documents[28], and I should have been a shameful coward if I had shunned using them.  At my years it is somewhat late for an affair of honour, and as a reasonable man I would avoid such an arbitrament, but will not plead privilege of literature.  The country shall not be disgraced in my person, and having stated why I think I owe him no satisfaction, I will at the same time most willingly give it to him.

    “Il sera recu,
      Biribi,
    A la facon de Barbaru,
      Mon ami.”

I have written to Will Clerk to stand my friend if necessary.  He has mettle in him, and thinks of my honour as well as my safety.

August 28.—­I am still bothering with the review, but gave Lockhart fifteen leaves, which is something.  Learned with regret that Williams leaves his situation of Rector of the New Academy.  It is a shot in the wing of the institution; for he is a heaven-born teacher.  Walked at two till four along the thicket, and by the river-side, where I go seldom; I can’t say why, unless that the walk is less private than those more distant.  Lockhart, Allan, and I, talk of an excursion to Kelso to-morrow.  I have no friends there now.  Yet once how many!

August 29.—­Went on our little expedition, breakfasting at Mertoun.  Called at Fleurs, where we found Sir John S. and his whole family.  The great lady received us well, though we had been very remiss in our duty.  From that we went to Kelso, where I saw not a soul to acknowledge former acquaintance.  How should I, when my residence there was before 1783, I fancy?[29] The little cottage in which I lived with poor Aunt Jenny is still standing, but the great garden is divided betwixt three proprietors.  Its huge platanus tree withered, I was told, in the same season which was fatal to so many of the species.  It