it!  To-day we go to Mertoun, and having spent some time in making up my Journal to this length, and in a chat with Captain John, who dropped in, I will presently set to the review—­knock it off, if possible, before we start at five o’clock.  To-morrow, when I return, we will begin the disagreeable task of a thorough rummage of papers, books, and documents.  My character as a man of letters, and as a man of honour, depends on my making that work as correct as possible.  It has succeeded, notwithstanding every effort here and in France[114] to put it down, and it shall not lose ground for want of backing.  We went to dine and pass the night at Mertoun, where we met Sir John Pringle, Mr. and Mrs. Baillie Mellerstain, and their daughters.

January 10.—­When I rose this morning the weather was changed and the ground covered with snow.  I am sure it’s winter fairly.  We returned from Mertoun after breakfast through an incipient snowstorm, coming on partially, and in great flakes, the sun bursting at intervals through the clouds.  At last Die Wolken laufen zusammen.  We made a slow journey of it through the swollen river and heavy roads, but here we are at last.

I am rather sorry we expect friends to-day, though these friends be the good Fergusons.  I have a humour for work, to which the sober, sad uniformity of a snowy day always particularly disposes me, and I am sure I will get poor Gillies off my hand, at least if I had morning and evening.  Then I would set to work with arranging everything for these second editions of Napoleon, The Romances, etc., which must be soon got afloat.  I must say “the wark gangs bonnily on."[115] Well, I will ring for coals, mend my pen, and try what can be done.

I wrought accordingly on Gillies’s review for the Life of Moliere, a gallant subject.  I am only sorry I have not time to do it justice.  It would have required a complete re-perusal of his works, for which, alas!  I have no leisure.

    “For long, though pleasant, is the way,
    And life, alas! allows but one ill winter’s day.”

Which is too literally my own case.

January 11.—­Renewed my labour, finished the review, talis qualis, and sent it off.  Commenced then my infernal work of putting to rights.  Much cry and little woo’, as the deil said when he shore the sow.  But I have detected one or two things that had escaped me, and may do more to-morrow.  I observe by a letter from Mr. Cadell that I had somewhat misunderstood his last.  It is he, not Longman, that wishes to publish the thousand copies of St. Ronan’s Series, and there is no immediate call for Napoleon.  This makes little difference in my computation.  The pressing necessity of correction is put off for two or three months probably, and I have time to turn myself to the Chronicles.  I do not much like the task, but when did I ever like labour of any kind?  My hands were fully occupied to-day with writing letters and adjusting papers—­both a great bore.