laughed, and real laughter is a thing as rare as real tears.  I must say, too, there was a heart,—­a kindly feeling prevailed over the party.  Can London give such a dinner?  It may, but I never saw one; they are too cold and critical to be so easily pleased.  In the evening I went with some others to see the exhibition lit up for a promenade, where there were all the fashionable folks about town; the appearance of the rooms was very gay indeed.

March 8.—­It snowed all night, which must render the roads impassable, and will detain me here till Monday.  Hard work at Court, as Hammie is done up with the gout.  We dine with Lord Corehouse—­that’s not true by the by, for I have mistaken the day.  It’s to-morrow we dine there.  Wrought, but not too hard.

March 9.—­An idle morning.  Dalgleish being set to pack my books.  Wrote notes upon a Mr. Kinloch’s Collection of Scottish Ballads,[488] which I communicated to the young author in the Court this present morning.  We were detained till half-past three o’clock, so when I came home I was fatigued and slept.  I walk slow, heavily, and with pain; but perhaps the good weather may banish the Fiend of the joints.  At any rate, impatience will do nae good at a’, man.  Letter from Charles for L50.  Silver and gold have I none; but that which I have I will give unto him.  We dined at the Cranstouns,—­I beg his pardon, Lord Corehouse; Ferguson, Thomson, Will Clerk, etc., were there, also the Smiths and John Murray, so we had a pleasant evening.

March 10.—­The business at the Court was not so heavy as I have seen it the last day of the Session, yet sharp enough.  About three o’clock I got to a meeting of the Bannatyne Club.  I hope this institution will be really useful and creditable.  Thomson is superintending a capital edition of Sir James Melville’s Memoirs.[489] It is brave to see how he wags his Scots tongue, and what a difference there is in the force and firmness of the language, compared to the mincing English edition in which he has hitherto been alone known.  Nothing to-day but correcting proofs; Anne went to the play, I remained at home.

March 11.—­All my books packed this morning, and this and to-morrow will be blank days, or nearly such; but I am far ahead of the printer, who is not done with vol. vii., while I am deep in volume viii.  I hate packing; but my servants never pack books quite to please me.  James Ballantyne dined with us.  He kept up my heart about Bonaparte, which sometimes flags; and he is such a grumbler that I think I may trust him when he is favourable.  There must be sad inaccuracies, some which might certainly have been prevented by care; but as the Lazaroni used to say, “Did you but know how lazy I am!”

[Abbotsford,] March 12.—­Away we set, and came safely to Abbotsford amid all the dulness of a great thaw, which has set the rivers a-streaming in full tide.  The wind is wintry, but for my part