March 16.—­Day sullen and bitter cold.  I fear it brings chilblains on its wings.  A dashing of snow, in thin flakes, wandering from the horizon, and threatening a serious fall.  As the murderer says to Banquo, “Let it come down!”—­we shall have the better chance of fair weather hereafter.  It cleared up, however, and I walked from one, or thereabout, till within a quarter of four.  A card from Mr. Dempster of Skibo,[275] whose uncle, George Dempster, I knew many years since, a friend of Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and all that set—­a fine good-humoured old gentleman.  Young Mrs. Dempster is a daughter of my early friend and patron, Robert Dundas of Arniston, Lord Advocate, and I like her for his sake.  Mr. Dempster is hunting, and I should have liked to have given his wife and sister refuge during the time he must spend over moss and moor.  But the two Annes going to Edinburgh to a fancy ball makes it impossible till they return on Friday night.

March 17.—­The Annes went off at eight, morning.  After breakfast I drove down to Melrose and waited on Mrs. and Miss Dempster, and engaged them for Saturday.  Weather bitter cold; yea, atrociously so.  Naboclish—­the better for work.  Ladies whose husbands love fox-hunting are in a poor way.  Here are two pleasant and pretty women pegged up the whole day

    “In the worst inn’s worst room"[276]

for the whole twenty-four hours without interruption.  They manage the matter otherwise in France, where ladies are the lords of the ascendant.  I returned from my visit to my solitary work and solitary meal.  I eked out the last two hours’ length by dint of smoking, which I find a sedative without being a stimulant.

March 18.—­I like the hermit life indifferent well, nor would, I sometimes think, break my heart, were I to be in that magic mountain where food was regularly supplied by ministering genii,[277] and plenty of books were accessible without the least intervention of human society.  But this is thinking like a fool.  Solitude is only agreeable when the power of having society is removed to a short space, and can be commanded at pleasure.  “It is not good for man to be alone.”  It blunts our faculties and freezes our active virtues.  And now, my watch pointing to noon, I think after four hours’ work I may indulge myself with a walk.  The dogs see me about to shut my desk, and intimate their happiness by caresses and whining.  By your leave, Messrs. Genii of the Mountain library, if I come to your retreat I’ll bring my dogs with me.

The day was showery, but not unpleasant—­soft dropping rains, attended by a mild atmosphere, that spoke of flowers in their seasons, and a chirping of birds that had a touch of Spring in it.  I had the patience to get fully wet, and the grace to be thankful for it.

Come! a leetle flourish on the trumpet.  Let us rouse the genius of this same red mountain, so called because it is all the year covered with roses.  There can be no difficulty in finding it, for it lies towards the Caspian, and is quoted in the Persian tales.  Well, I open my Ephemerides, form my scheme under the suitable planet, and the genie obeys the invocation and appears.