at the bar, or anywhere else, unless the interest be great, and the eloquence of the highest character, always sets me to sleep.  I impudently lean my head on my hand in the Court and take my nap without shame.  The Lords may keep awake and mind their own affairs. Quod supra nos nihil ad nos. These clerks’ stools are certainly as easy seats as are in Scotland, those of the Barons of Exchequer always excepted.

February 22.—­Paid Lady Scott her fortnight’s allowance, L24.

Ballantyne breakfasted, and is to negotiate about Malachi with Constable and Blackwood.  It reads not amiss; and if I can get a few guineas for it I shall not be ashamed to take them; for paying Lady Scott, I have just left between L3 and L4 for any necessary occasion and my salary does not become due until 20th March, and the expense of removing, etc., is to be provided for: 

    “But shall we go mourn for that, my dear? 
      The cold moon shines by night,
    And when we wander here and there,
      We then do go most right."[183]

The mere scarcity of money (so that actual wants are provided) is not poverty—­it is the bitter draft to owe money which we cannot pay.  Laboured fairly at Woodstock to-day, but principally in revising and adding to Malachi, of which an edition as a pamphlet is anxiously desired.  I have lugged in my old friend Cardrona[184]—­I hope it will not be thought unkindly.  The Banks are anxious to have it published.  They were lately exercising lenity towards me, and if I can benefit them, it will be an instance of the “King’s errand lying in the cadger’s gate.”

February 23.—­Corrected two sheets of Woodstock this morning.  These are not the days of idleness.  The fact is, that the not seeing company gives me a command of my time which I possessed at no other period in my life, at least since I knew how to make some use of my leisure.  There is a great pleasure in sitting down to write with the consciousness that nothing will occur during the day to break the spell.  Detained in the Court till past three, and came home just in time to escape a terrible squall.  I am a good deal jaded, and will not work till after dinner.  There is a sort of drowsy vacillation of mind attends fatigue with me.  I can command my pen as the school copy recommends, but cannot equally command my thought, and often write one word for another.  Read a little volume called The Omen[185]—­very well written—­deep and powerful language. Aut Erasmus aut Diabolus, it is Lockhart or I am strangely deceived.  It is passed for Wilson’s though, but Wilson has more of the falsetto of assumed sentiment, less of the depth of gloomy and powerful feeling.