a state of insurrection. A choice subject for a journal, but what better have I? I did not quite finish my task to-day, nay, I only did one third of it. It is so difficult to consult the maps after candles are lighted, or to read the Moniteur, that I was obliged to adjourn. The task is three pages or leaves of my close writing per diem, which corresponds to about a sheet (16 pages) of _Woodstock_, and about 12 of _Bonaparte_, which is a more comprehensive page. But I was not idle neither, and wrote some _Balaam_[260] for Lockhart's _Review_. Then I was in hand a leaf above the tale, so I am now only a leaf behind it. _April_ 27.--This is one of those abominable April mornings which deserve the name of _Sans Cullotides_, as being cold, beggarly, coarse, savage, and intrusive. The earth lies an inch deep with snow, to the confusion of the worshippers of Flora. By the way, Bogie attended his professional dinner and show of flowers at Jedburgh yesterday. Here is a beautiful sequence to their _floralia_. It is this uncertainty in April, and the descent of snow and frost when one thinks themselves clear of them, and that after fine encouraging weather, that destroys our Scottish fruits and flowers. It is as imprudent to attach yourself to flowers in Scotland as to a caged bird; the cat, sooner or later, snaps up one, and these--_Sans Cullotides_--annihilate the other. It was but yesterday I was admiring the glorious flourish of the pears and apricots, and now hath come the killing frost.[261] But let it freeze without, we are comfortable within. Lady Scott continues better, and, we may hope, has got the turn of her disease. _April_ 28.--Beautiful morning, but ice as thick as pasteboard, too surely showing that the night has made good yesterday's threat. Dalgleish, with his most melancholy face, conveys the most doleful tidings from Bogie. But servants are fond of the woful, it gives such consequence to the person who communicates bad news. Wrote two letters, and read till twelve, and then for a stout walk among the plantations till four. Found Lady Scott obviously better, I think, than I had left her in the morning. In walking I am like a spavined horse, and heat as I get on. The flourishing plantations around me are a great argument for me to labour hard. "_Barbarus has segetes?_" I will write my finger-ends off first. _April_ 29.--I was always afraid, privately, that _Woodstock_ would not stand the test. In that case my fate would have been that of the unfortunate minstrel trumpeter Maclean at the battle of Sheriffmuir-- "By misfortune he happened to fa', man; By saving his neck His trumpet did break, And came off without music at a', man."[262]