1–2 January 1831

I cannot say the world opens pleasantly with me this new year. I will strike the balance. There are many things for which I have reason to be thankful. First.—Cadell's plans seem to have succeeded, and he augurs well as to the next two years, reckoning £30,000 on the stuff now on hand, and £20,000 on the insurance money, and £10,000 to be borrowed somehow. This will bring us wonderfully home. Second.—Cadell is of opinion if I meddle in politics, and I am strongly tempted to do so, I shall break the milk-pail, and threatens me with the fate of Basil Hall, who, as he says, destroyed his reputation by writing impolitic politics. Well, it would be my risk, and if I can do some good, which I rather think I can, is it right or manly to keep myself back? Third.—I feel myself decidedly weaker in point of health, and am now confirmed I have had a paralytic touch. I speak and read with embarrassment, and even my handwriting seems to stammer. This general failure "With mortal crisis doth portend, My days to appropinque an end." I am not solicitous about this, only if I were worthy I would pray God for a sudden death, and no interregnum between I cease to exercise reason and I cease to exist. The Scotts of Harden, Pringles of Stitchill, and Russells of Ashestiel, are all here; I am scarce fit for company though.

Held a great palaver with the Scotts, etc. I find my language apt to fail me; but this is very like to be fancy, and I must be cautious of giving way to it. This cautions me against public exertion much more than Cadell's prognostications, which my blood rises against, and which are ill calculated to keep me in restraint. We dozed through a gloomy day, being the dullest of all possible thaws.