March 18.—­I was sorely worried by the black dog this morning, that vile palpitation of the heart—­that tremor cordis—­that hysterical passion which forces unbidden sighs and tears, and falls upon a contented life like a drop of ink on white paper, which is not the less a stain because it conveys no meaning.  I wrought three leaves, however, and the story goes on.  I dined at the Club of the Selkirkshire yeomanry, now disbanded.

    “The Eldrich knight gave up his arms
    With many a sorrowful sigh.”

The dissolution of the Yeomanry was the act of the last ministry.  The present did not alter the measure on account of the expense saved.  I am one of the oldest, if not the very oldest Yeoman in Scotland, and have seen the rise, progress, and now the fall of this very constitutional part of the national force.  Its efficacy, on occasions of insurrection, was sufficiently proved in the Radical time.  But besides, it kept up a spirit of harmony between the proprietors of land and the occupiers, and made them known to and beloved by each other; and it gave to the young men a sort of military and high-spirited character, which always does honour to a country.  The manufacturers are in great glee on this occasion.  I wish Parliament, as they have turned the Yeoman adrift somewhat scornfully, may not have occasion to roar them in again.[152]

March 19.—­I applied myself again to my labour, my mind flowing in a less, gloomy current than yesterday.  I laboured with little interruption, excepting a walk as far as Faldonside with the dogs, and at night I had not finished more than three leaves.  But, indeed, it is pretty fair; I must not work my brains too hard, in case of provoking the hypochondria which extreme exertion or entire indolence are equally unfavourable to.

March 20.—­Thomson breakfasted.  I left him soon, being desirous to finish my labours.  The volume is finished, all but one fourth or somewhat shorter; four days should despatch it easily, but I have letters to write and things are getting into disorder.  I took a drive with my daughter, for exercise, and called at Huntly Burn.  This evening went on with work as usual; there was not above four pages finished, but my conscience is quiet on my exertions.

March 21.—­I received young Whytbank to breakfast, and talked genealogy, which he understands well; I have not a head for it.  I only value it as interspersed with anecdote.  Whytbank’s relationship and mine exists by the Shaws.  A younger brother of Shaw of Sauchie, afterwards Greenock, chief of the name, was minister of the Kirk of Selkirk.  My great-grandfather, John Rutherford, minister of the gospel at Yarrow, married one of this reverend gentleman’s daughters; and John Pringle, rector of Fogo, great-grandfather of the present Whytbank, married another.  It was Christian Shaw, my grandmother, who possessed the manuscript respecting the murder