June 9.—­In the morning I advised Sheriff Court processes, carried on the Demonology till twelve, then put books, etc., in some order to leave behind me.  Will it be ordered that I come back not like a stranger, or sojourner, but to inhabit here?  I do not know; I shall be happy either way.  It is perhaps a violent change in the end of life to quit the walk one has trod so long, and the cursed splenetic temper, which besets all men, makes you value opportunities and circumstances when one enjoys them no longer.  Well! things must be as they may, as says that great philosopher Corporal Nym.[368]

[Edinburgh.]—­I had my walk, and on my return found the Lockharts come to take luncheon, and leave of us.  Reached Edinburgh at nine o’clock.  Found, among less interesting letters, two from Lord Northampton on the death of the poor Marchioness,[369] and from Anna Jane Clephane on the same melancholy topic. Hei mihi!

June 10.—­Corrected proofs, prepared some copy, and did all that was right.  Dined and wrought in the evening, yet I did not make much way after all.

June 11.—­In the morning, the usual labour of two hours.  God bless that habit of being up at seven!  I could do nothing without it, but it keeps me up to the scratch, as they say.  I had a letter this morning with deep mourning paper and seal; the mention of my nephew in the first line made me sick, fearing it had related to Walter.  It was from poor Sir Thomas Bradford, who has lost his lady, but was indeed an account of Walter,[370] and a good one.

June 12.—­A day of general labour and much weariness.

June 13.—­The same may be said of this day.

June 14.—­And of this, only I went out for an hour and a half to Mr. Colvin Smith, to conclude a picture for Lord Gillies.  This is a sad relief from labour.

    “...  Sedet aeternumque sedebit
    Infelix Theseus."[371]

But Lord Gillies has been so kind and civil that I must have his picture as like as possible.

June 15.—­I had at breakfast the son of Mr. Fellenburg[372] of Hofwyll, Switzerland, a modest young man.  I used to think his father something of a quack, in proposing to discover how a boy’s natural genius lies, with a view to his education.  How would they have made me a scholar, is a curious question.  Whatever was forced on me as a task I should have detested.  There was also a gentlemanlike little man, the Chevalier de——­, silent, and speaks no English.  Poor George Scott, Harden, is dead of the typhus fever.  Poor dear boy!  I am sorry for him, and yet more for his parents.  I have a letter from Henry on the subject.