sanguine.  I never saw so much reason for indulging hope.  By the bye, I am admitted a member of the Maitland Club, a Society on the principle of the Roxburghe and Bannatyne.  What a tail of the alphabet I should draw after me were I to sign with the indications of the different societies I belong to, beginning with President of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and ended with umpire of the Six-foot-high Club![267] Dined at home, and in quiet, with the girls.

March 6.—­Made some considerable additions to the Appendix to General Preface.  I am in the sentiments towards the public that the buffoon player expresses towards his patron—­

    “Go tell my young lord, said this modest young man,
      If he will but invite me to dinner,
    I’ll be as diverting as ever I can—­
      I will, on the faith of a sinner.”

I will multiply the notes, therefore, when there is a chance of giving pleasure and variety.  There is a stronger gleam of hope on my affairs than has yet touched on them; it is not steady or certain, but it is bright and conspicuous.  Ten years may last with me, though I have little chance of it.  At the end of this time these works will have operated a clearance of debt, especially as Cadell offers to accommodate with such money as their house can save to pay off what presses.  I hope to save, rather than otherwise, and if I leave my literary property to my children, it will make a very good thing for them, and Abbotsford must in any event go to my family, so, on the whole, I have only to pray for quiet times, for how can men mind their serious business—­that is, according to Cadell’s views—­buying Waverley Novels when they are going mad about the Catholic question.  Dined at Mr. Nairne’s, where there was a great meeting of Bannatynians, rather too numerous, being on the part of our host an Election dinner.

March 7.—­Sent away proofs.  This extrication of my affairs, though only a Pisgah prospect, occupies my mind more than is fitting; but without some such hope I must have felt like one of the victims of the wretch Burke, struggling against a smothering weight on my bosom, till nature could endure it no longer.  No; I will not be the sport of circumstances.  Come of it what will, “I’ll bend my brows like Highland trows” and make a bold fight of it.

    “The best o’t, the warst o’t,
    Is only just to die."[268]

And die I think I shall, though I am not such a coward as mortem conscire me ipso.  But I ’gin to grow aweary of the sun, and when the plant no longer receives nourishment from light and air, there is a speedy prospect of its withering.

Dined with the Banking Club of Scotland, in virtue of Sir Malachi Malagrowther; splendid entertainment, of course.  Sir John Hay in the chair.