January 6.—­This seems to be a feeding storm, coming on by little and little.  Wrought all day, and dined quiet.  My disorder is wearing off, and the quiet society of the Skenes suits with my present humour.  I really thought I was in for some very bad illness.  Curious expression of an Indian-born boy just come from Bengal, a son of my cousin George Swinton.  The child saw a hare run across the fields, and exclaimed, “See, there is a little tiger!”

January 7, Sunday.—­Knight, a young artist, son of the performer, came to paint my picture at the request of Terry.  This is very far from being agreeable, as I submitted to this distressing state of constraint last year to Newton, at request of Lockhart; to Leslie at request of my American friend;[112] to Wilkie, for his picture of the King’s arrival at Holyrood House; and some one besides.  I am as tired of the operation as old Maida, who had been so often sketched that he got up and went away with signs of loathing whenever he saw an artist unfurl his paper and handle his brushes.  But this young man is civil and modest; and I have agreed he shall sit in the room while I work, and take the best likeness he can, without compelling me into fixed attitudes or the yawning fatigues of an actual sitting.  I think, if he has talent, he may do more my way than in the customary mode; at least I can’t have the hang-dog look which the unfortunate Theseus has who is doomed to sit for what seems an eternity.[113]

I wrought till two o’clock—­indeed till I was almost nervous with correcting and scribbling.  I then walked, or rather was dragged, through the snow by Tom Purdie, while Skene accompanied.  What a blessing there is in a man like Tom, whom no familiarity can spoil, whom you may scold and praise and joke with, knowing the quality of the man is unalterable in his love and reverence to his master.  Use an ordinary servant in the same way and he will be your master in a month.  We should thank God for the snow as well as summer flowers.  This brushing exercise has put all my nerves into tone again, which were really jarred with fatigue until my very backbone seemed breaking.  This comes of trying to do too much.  J.B.’s news are as good as possible.—­Prudence, prudence, and all will do excellently.

January 8.—­Frost and snow still.  Write to excuse myself from attending the funeral of my aunt, Mrs. Curle, which takes place to-morrow at Kelso.  She was a woman of the old Sandy-Knowe breed, with the strong sense, high principle, and indifferent temper which belonged to my father’s family.  She lived with great credit on a moderate income, and, I believe, gave away a great deal of it.[114]

January 9.—­Mathews the comedian and his son came to spend a day at Abbotsford.  The last is a clever young man, with much of his father’s talent for mimicry.  Rather forward though.[115] Mr. Scrope also came out, which fills our house.