June 16.—­I wrote this forenoon till I completed the 100 pages, which is well done.  I had a call from Colin Mackenzie, whom I had not seen for nearly two years.  He has not been so well, and looks ghastly, but I think not worse than I have seen him of late years.  We are very old acquaintances.  I remember he was one of a small party at college, that formed ourselves into a club called the Poetical Society.  The other members were Charles Kerr of Abbotrule (a singular being), Colin M’Laurin (insane), Colin, and I, who have luckily kept our wits.  I also saw this morning a Mr. Low, a youth of great learning, who has written a good deal on the early history of Scotland.[373] He is a good-looking, frank, gentlemanlike lad; with these good gifts only a parish schoolmaster in Aberdeenshire.  Having won a fair holiday I go to see Miss Kemble for the first time.  It is two or three years since I have been in a theatre, once my delight.

June 17.—­Went last night to theatre, and saw Miss Fanny Kemble’s Isabella,[374] which was a most creditable performance.  It has much of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, her aunt.  She wants her beautiful countenance, her fine form, and her matchless dignity of step and manner.  On the other hand, Miss Fanny Kemble has very expressive, though not regular, features, and what is worth it all, great energy mingled with and chastened by correct taste.  I suffered by the heat, lights, and exertion, and will not go back to-night, for it has purchased me a sore headache this theatrical excursion.  Besides, the play is Mrs. Beverley,[375] and I hate to be made miserable about domestic distress, so I keep my gracious presence at home to-night, though Ive and respect Miss Kemble for giving her active support to her father in his need, and preventing Covent Garden from coming down about their ears.  I corrected proofs before breakfast, attended Court, but was idle in the forenoon, the headache annoying me much.  Dinner will make me better.  And so it did.  I wrote in the evening three pages, and tolerably well, though I may say with the Emperor Titus (not Titus Oates) that I have lost a day.

June 18, [Blair-Adam].—­Young John Colquhoun of Killermont and his wife breakfasted with us,—­a neat custom that, and saves wine and wassail.  Then to Court, and arranged for our departure for Blair-Adam, it being near midsummer when the club meets.  Anne with me, and Sir Adam Ferguson.  The day was execrable.  Our meeting at Blair-Adam was cordial, but our numbers diminished; the good and very clever Lord Chief Baron[376] is returned to his own country, with more regrets than in Scotland usually attend a stranger.  Will Clerk has a bad cold, [Thomas] Thomson is detained, but the Chief Commissioner, Admiral Adam, Sir Adam, John Thomson and I, make an excellent concert.  I only hope our venerable host will not fatigue himself.  To-morrow we go to Culross, which Sir Robert Preston is repairing, and the wise are asking for whose future enjoyment.  He is upwards of ninety, but still may enjoy the bustle of life.