Being troubled with thick-coming fancies, and a slight palpitation of the heart, I have been reading the Chronicle of the Good Knight Messire Jacques de Lalain—­curious, but dull, from the constant repetition of the same species of combats in the same style and phrase.  It is like washing bushels of sand for a grain of gold.  It passes the time, however, especially in that listless mood when your mind is half on your book, half on something else.  You catch something to arrest the attention every now and then, and what you miss is not worth going back upon; idle man’s studies, in short.  Still things occur to one.  Something might be made out of the Pass or Fountain of Tears,[176] a tale of chivalry,—­taken from the Passages of Arms, which Jacques de Lalain maintained for the first day of every month for a twelvemonth.[177] The first mention perhaps of red-hot balls appears in the siege of Oudenarde by the citizens of Ghent. Chronique, p. 293.  This would be light summer work.

J.B. came and sat an hour.  I led him to talk of Woodstock; and, to say truth, his approbation did me much good.  I am aware it may—­nay, must—­be partial; yet is he Tom Tell-truth, and totally unable to disguise his real feelings.[178] I think I make no habit of feeding on praise, and despise those whom I see greedy for it, as much as I should an under-bred fellow, who, after eating a cherry-tart, proceeded to lick the plate.  But when one is flagging, a little praise (if it can be had genuine and unadulterated by flattery, which is as difficult to come by as the genuine mountain-dew) is a cordial after all.  So now—­vamos corazon—­let us atone for the loss of the morning.

February 20.—­Yesterday, though late in beginning, I nearly finished my task, which is six of my close pages, about thirty pages of print, to a full and uninterrupted day’s work.  To-day I have already written four, and with some confidence.  Thus does flattery or praise oil the wheels.  It is but two o’clock.  Skene was here remonstrating against my taking apartments at the Albyn Club,[179] and recommending that I should rather stay with them.[180] I told him that was altogether impossible; I hoped to visit them often, but for taking a permanent residence I was altogether the country mouse, and voted for

    “—­A hollow tree,
    A crust of bread and liberty."[181]

The chain of friendship, however bright, does not stand the attrition of constant close contact.

February 21.—­Corrected the proofs of Malachi[182] this morning; it may fall dead, and there will be a squib lost; it may chance to light on some ingredients of national feeling and set folk’s beards in a blaze—­and so much the better if it does.  I mean better for Scotland—­not a whit for me.  Attended the hearing in P[arliament] House till near four o’clock, so I shall do little to-night, for I am tired and sleepy.  One person talking for a long time, whether in pulpit or