He that takes the forlorn hope in an attack, is often deserted by those that should support him, and who generally throw the blame of their own cowardice upon his rashness.  We shall see this will end in the same way.  But I foresaw it from the beginning.  The bankers will be persuaded that it is a squib which may burn their own fingers, and will curse the poor pyrotechnist that compounded it; if they do, they be d—­d.  Slept indifferently, and dreamed of Napoleon’s last moments, of which I was reading a medical account last night, by Dr. Arnott.  Horrible death—­a cancer on the pylorus.  I would have given something to have lain still this morning and made up for lost time.  But desidiae valedixi.  If you once turn on your side after the hour at which you ought to rise, it is all over.  Bolt up at once.  Bad night last—­the next is sure to be better.

    “When the drum beats, make ready;
    When the fife plays, march away—­
    To the roll-call, to the roll-call, to the roll-call,
    Before the break of day.”

Dined with Chief-Commissioner, Admiral Adam, W. Clerk, Thomson, and I. The excellent old man was cheerful at intervals—­at times sad, as was natural.  A good blunder he told us, occurred in the Annandale case, which was a question partly of domicile.  It was proved that leaving Lochwood, the Earl had given up his kain and carriages;[203] this an English Counsel contended was the best of all possible proofs that the noble Earl designed an absolute change of residence, since he laid aside his walking-stick and his coach.

First epistle of Malachi is getting out of print, or rather is out of print already.

March 3.—­Could not get the last sheets of Malachi, Second Epistle, last night, so they must go out to the world uncorrected—­a great loss, for the last touches are always most effectual; and I expect misprints in the additional matter.  We were especially obliged to have it out this morning, that it may operate as a gentle preparative for the meeting of inhabitants at two o’clock. Vogue la galere—­we shall see if Scotsmen have any pluck left.  If not, they may kill the next Percy themselves.  It is ridiculous enough for me, in a state of insolvency for the present, to be battling about gold and paper currency.  It is something like the humorous touch in Hogarth’s Distressed Poet, where the poor starveling of the Muses is engaged, when in the abyss of poverty, in writing an Essay on payment of the National Debt; and his wall is adorned with a plan of the mines of Peru.  Nevertheless, even these fugitive attempts, from the success which they have had, and the noise they are making, serve to show the truth of the old proverb—­

    “When house and land are gone and spent,
    Then learning is most excellent.”

On the whole, I am glad of this brulzie, as far as I am concerned; people will not dare talk of me as an object of pity—­no more “poor-manning.”  Who asks how many punds Scots the old champion had in his pocket when