January 1831

Retain my purpose, however, and set out for Edinburgh alone—that is, no one but my servant. The snow became impassable, and in Edinburgh I remain immovably fixed for ten days—that is, till Wednesday—never once getting out of doors, save to dinner, when I went and returned in a sedan chair. I commenced my quarantine in Mackenzie's Hotel, where I was deadly cold, and it was tolerably noisy. The second day Mr. Cadell made a point of my coming to his excellent house, where I had no less excellent an apartment and the most kind treatment—- that is, not making a show of me, for which I was in but bad tune. The physical folks, Abercrombie and Ross, bled me with cupping-glasses, purged me confoundedly, and restricted me of all creature comforts. But they did me good, as I am sure they meant to do sincerely; and I got rid of a giddy feeling, which I have been plagued with, and have certainly returned much better. I did not neglect my testamentary affairs. I executed my last will, leaving Walter burdened, by his own choice, with £1000 to Sophia, and another received at her marriage, and £2000 to Anne, and the same to Charles. He is to advance them money if they want it; if not, to pay them interest, which is his own choice, otherwise I would have sold the books and rattletraps. I have made provisions for clearing my estate by my publications, should it be possible; and should that prove possible, from the time of such clearance being effected, to be a fund available to all my children who shall be alive or leave representatives. My bequests must, many of them, seem hypothetical; but the thing, being uncertain, must be so stated. Besides, during the unexpected stay in town, I employed Mr. Fortune, an ingenious artist, to make a machine to assist my lame leg,—an odd enough purchase to be made at this time of day, yet who would not purchase ease? I dined with the Lord Chief Commissioner, with the Skenes twice, with Lord Medwyn, and was as happy as anxiety about my daughter would permit me. The appearance of the streets was most desolate: the hackney-coaches, with four horses, strolling about like ghosts, the foot-passengers few but the lowest of the people. I wrote a good deal of Count Robert, yet I cannot tell why my pen stammers egregiously, and I write horridly incorrect. I long to have friend Laidlaw's assistance.