We dined of course at home, and before and after dinner I finished about twenty printed pages of _Woodstock_, but to what effect others must judge. A painful scene after dinner, and another after supper, endeavouring to convince these poor dear creatures that they must not look for miracles, but consider the misfortune as certain, and only to be lessened by patience and labour. _January_ 20.--Indifferent night--very bilious, which may be want of exercise. A letter from Sir J. Sinclair, whose absurd vanity bids him thrust his finger into every man's pie, proposing that Hurst and Robinson should sell their prints, of which he says they have a large collection, by way of lottery like Boydell. "In scenes like these which break our heart Comes Punch, like you and----" _Mais pourtant, cultivons notre jardin_. The public favour is my only lottery. I have long enjoyed the foremost prize, and something in my breast tells me my evil genius will not overwhelm me if I stand by myself. Why should I not? I have no enemies--many attached friends. The popular ascendency which I have maintained is of the kind which is rather improved by frequent appearances before the public. In fact, critics may say what they will, but "_hain_ your reputation, and _tyne_ your reputation," is a true proverb.[127] Sir William Forbes called--the same kind, honest friend as ever, with all offers of assistance,[128] etc. etc. All anxious to serve me, and careless about their own risk of loss. And these are the cold, hard, money-making men whose questions and control I apprehended.