June 20.—­My course is still the same.  But I have a painful letter from Lockhart, which takes away the last hope of poor Johnnie’s recovery.  It is no surprise to me.  The poor child, so amiable in its disposition, and so promising from its talents, was not formed to be long with us, and I have long expected that it must needs come to this.  I hope I shall not outlive my children in other cases, and I think there is little chance of it.  My father did not long survive the threescore and ten; it will be wonderful if I reach that goal of ordinary mortality.  God send it may find me prepared; and, whatever I may have been formerly, high spirits are not now like to carry me away.

June, 21.—­At Court, and called on Ballantyne on my return.  I was obliged to go to the Register Office at one, where I waited nearly an hour without meeting my brethren.  But I wrote a letter to Lockhart in the meantime.  My niece Ann arrived, to my great satisfaction.  I am glad that Anne, my daughter, has such a sensible and clever companion.  Dined at Baron Hume’s.

June 22.—­Wrought.  Had a note from Ballantyne complaining of my manuscript, and requesting me to read it over.  I would give L1000 if I could; but it would take me longer to read than to write.  I cannot trace my pieds de mouche but with great labour and trouble; so e’en take your own share of the burden, my old friend; and, since I cannot read, be thankful I can write.  I will look at his proof, however, and then be quiet and idle for the rest of the evening.  I am come to Charles the First’s trial, and though I have it by heart, I must refresh myself with a reading of Clarendon.  Charles Sharpe and Francis Scott came in the evening.

June 23.—­This morning the two Annes and I went to Sir Robert Liston at Milburn Tower—­a beautiful retreat.  The travels of the venerable diplomatist are indicated by the various articles of curiosity which he has picked up in different corners of the world, and put together with much taste.  The conservatory and gardens are very fine, and contain, I suppose, very curious plants;—­I am sure, hard names enough.  But then the little Gothic tower, embowered amid trees and bushes, surrounded by these pleasant gardens, offering many a sunny walk for winter, many a shade for summer, are inexpressibly pleasing.  The good old knight and his lady are worthy of it, for they enjoy it.  The artificial piece of water is a failure, like most things of the kind.  The offices, without being on an extravagant scale, are most substantial; the piggery, in particular, is quite a palace, and the animals clean and comfortable.  I think I have caught from them a fit of piggish obstinacy.  I came at one, and cannot prevail upon myself to go to work.  I answer the calls of duty as Caliban does those of Prospero, “There’s wood enough within.”  To be sure, I have not got the Clarendon.