May 1.—I walked to-day to the western corner of the Chiefswood
plantation, and marked out a large additional plantation to be drawn
along the face of the hill. It cost me some trouble to carry the
boundaries out of the eye, for nothing is so paltry as a plantation of
almost any extent if its whole extent lies defined to the eye. By
availing myself of the undulations of the ground I think I have avoided
this for the present; only when seen from the Eildon Hills the cranks
and turns of the enclosure will seem fantastic, at least until the trees
This cost Tom and me three or four hours. Lieut.-Colonel Ferguson joined
us as we went home, and dined at Abbotsford.
My cousin, Barbara Scott of Raeburn, came here to see Lady S. I think
she was shocked with the melancholy change. She insisted upon walking
back to Lessudden House, making her walk 16 or 18 miles, and though the
carriage was ordered she would not enter it.
May 2.—Yesterday was a splendid May day—to-day seems inclined to be
soft, as we call it; but tant mieux. Yesterday had a twang of frost
in it. I must get to work and finish Boaden's Life of Kemble, and
Kelly's Reminiscences,  for the Quarterly.
See Miscellaneous Prose Works, vol. xx. pp. 152-244, or
Quarterly Review No. 67, Kelly's Reminiscences.
I wrote and read for three hours, and then walked, the day being soft
and delightful; but alas! all my walks are lonely from the absence of my
poor companion. She does not suffer, thank God, but strength must fail
at last. Since Sunday there has been a gradual change—very
gradual—but, alas! to the worse. My hopes are almost gone. But I am
determined to stand this grief as I have done others.
May 3,—Another fine morning. I answered a letter from Mr. Handley,
who has taken the pains to rummage the Chancery Records until he has
actually discovered the fund due to Lady Scott's mother, £1200; it seems
to have been invested in the estates of a Mr. Owen, as it appears for
Madame Charpentier's benefit, but, she dying, the fund was lost sight of
and got into Chancery, where I suppose it must have accumulated, but I
cannot say I understand the matter; at a happier moment the news would
have given poor Charlotte much pleasure, but now—it is a day too late.
May 4.—On visiting Lady Scott's sick-room this morning I found her
suffering, and I doubt if she knew me. Yet, after breakfast, she seemed
serene and composed. The worst is, she will not speak out about the
symptoms under which she labours. Sad, sad work; I am under the most
melancholy apprehension, for what constitution can hold out under these
continued and wasting attacks?
My niece, Anne Scott, a prudent, sensible, and kind young woman, arrived
to-day, having come down to assist us in our distress from so far as
Cheltenham. This is a great consolation.
May 5.—Haunted by gloomy thoughts; but I corrected proofs from seven
to ten, and wrote from half-past ten to one. My old friend Sir Adam
called, and took a long walk with me, which was charity. His gaiety
rubbed me up a little. I had also a visit from the Laird and Lady of
Harden. Henry Scott carries the county without opposition.
May 6.—The same scene of hopeless (almost) and unavailing anxiety.
Still welcoming me with a smile, and asserting she is better. I fear the
disease is too deeply entwined with the principles of life. Yet the
increase of good weather, especially if it would turn more genial,
might, I think, aid her excellent constitution. Still labouring at this
Review, without heart or spirits to finish it. I am a tolerable Stoic,
but preach to myself in vain.
"Since these things are necessities,
Then let us meet them like necessities." 
2 Henry IV., Act III. Sc. I, slightly altered.
And so we will.
May 7.—Hammered on at the Review till my backbone ached. But I
believe it was a nervous affection, for a walk cured it. Sir Adam and
the Colonel dined here. So I spent the evening as pleasantly as I well
could, considering I am so soon to leave my own house, and go like a
stranger to the town of which I have been so long a citizen, and leave
my wife lingering, without prospect of recovery, under the charge of two
poor girls. Talia cogit dura necessitas.
May 8.—I went over to the election at Jedburgh. There was a numerous
meeting; the Whigs, who did not bring ten men to the meeting, of course
took the whole matter under their patronage, which was much of a piece
with the Blue Bottle drawing the carriage. I tried to pull up once or
twice, but quietly, having no desire to disturb the quiet of the
election. To see the difference of modern times! We had a good dinner,
and excellent wine; and I had ordered my carriage at half-past seven,
almost ashamed to start so soon. Everybody dispersed at so early an
hour, however, that when Henry had left the chair, there was no carriage
for me, and Peter proved his accuracy by showing me it was but a
quarter-past seven. In the days I remember they would have kept it up
till day-light; nor do I think poor Don would have left the chair before
midnight. Well, there is a medium. Without being a veteran Vice, a grey
Iniquity, like Falstaff, I think an occasional jolly bout, if not
carried to excess, improved society; men were put into good humour; when
the good wine did its good office, the jest, the song, the speech, had
double effect; men were happy for the night, and better friends ever
after, because they had been so.
May 9.—My new Liverpool neighbour, Mr. Bainbridge, breakfasts here
to-day with some of his family. They wish to try the fishing in
Cauldshields Loch, and [there is] promise of a fine soft morning. But
the season is too early.
They have had no sport accordingly after trying with Trimmers. Mr.
Bainbridge is a good cut of John Bull—plain, sensible, and downright;
the maker of his own fortune, and son of his own works.
May 10.—To-morrow I leave my home. To what scene I may suddenly be
recalled, it wrings my heart to think. If she would but be guided by the
medical people, and attend rigidly to their orders, something might be
hoped, but she is impatient with the protracted suffering, and no
wonder. Anne has a severe task to perform, but the assistance of her
cousin is a great comfort. Baron Weber, the great composer, wants me
(through Lockhart) to compose something to be set to music by him, and
sung by Miss Stephens—as if I cared who set or who sung any lines of
mine. I have recommended instead Beaumont and Fletcher's unrivalled song
in the Nice Valour:
"Hence, all ye vain delights," etc.
[Edinburgh],  May 11.—
"Der Abschiedstag ist da,
Schwer liegt er auf den Herzen—schwer." 
[Mrs. Brown's Lodgings, No. 6 North St. David Street.]
Charlotte was unable to take leave of me, being in a sound sleep, after
a very indifferent night. Perhaps it was as well. Emotion might have
hurt her; and nothing I could have expressed would have been worth the
risk. I have foreseen, for two years and more, that this menaced event
could not be far distant. I have seen plainly, within the last two
months, that recovery was hopeless. And yet to part with the companion
of twenty-nine years when so very ill—that I did not, could not
foresee.  It withers my heart to think of it, and to recollect that
I can hardly hope again to seek confidence and counsel from that ear to
which all might be safely confided. But in her present lethargic state,
what would my attentions have availed? and Anne has promised close and
constant intelligence. I must dine with James Ballantyne to-day en
famille. I cannot help it; but would rather be at home and alone.
However, I can go out too. I will not yield to the barren sense of
hopelessness which struggles to invade me. I passed a pleasant day with
honest J.B., which was a great relief from the black dog which would
have worried me at home. We were quite alone.
This is the opening couplet of a German trooper's song,
alluded to in Life, vol. ii. p. 13. The literal translation is:—
"The day of departure is come;
Heavy lies it on the hearts—heavy."—J.G.L.
Scott had written:—"and yet to part with the companion
of twenty years just six," and had then deleted the three words, "years
just six," and written "nine" above them. It looks as if he had meant at
first to refer to the change in his fortunes, "just six" MONTHS before,
and had afterwards thought it better to refrain. This would account for
a certain obscurity of meaning.
[Edinburgh,] May 12.—Well, here I am in Arden. And I may say with
Touchstone, "When I was at home I was in a better place,"  and yet
this is not by any means to be complained of. Good apartments, the
people civil and apparently attentive. No appearance of smoke, and
absolute warrandice against my dreaded enemies, bugs. I must, when there
is occasion, draw to my own Bailie Nicol Jarvie's consolation, "One
cannot carry the comforts of the Saut-Market about with one." Were I at
ease in mind, I think the body is very well cared for. I have two steady
servants, a man and woman, and they seem to set out sensibly enough.
Only one lodger in the house, a Mr. Shandy, a clergyman; and despite his
name, said to be a quiet one.
As You Like It, Act II. Sc. 4.
May 13.—The projected measure against the Scottish bank-notes has
been abandoned, the resistance being general. Malachi might clap his
wings upon this, but, alas! domestic anxiety has cut his comb.
I think very lightly in general of praise; it costs men nothing, and is
usually only lip-salve. They wish to please, and must suppose that
flattery is the ready road to the good will of every professor of
literature. Some praise, however, and from some people, does at once
delight and strengthen the mind, and I insert in this place the
quotation with which Ld. C. Baron Shepherd concluded a letter concerning
me to the Chief Commissioner: "Magna etiam illa laus et admirabilis
videri solet tulisse casus sapienter adversos, non fractum esse fortunâ,
retinuisse in rebus asperis dignitatem."  I record these words, not
as meriting the high praise they imply, but to remind me that such an
opinion being partially entertained of me by a man of a character so
eminent, it becomes me to make my conduct approach as much as possible
to the standard at which he rates it.
Cicero, de Orat. ii. p. 346.—J.G.L.
As I must pay back to Terry some cash in London, £170, together with
other matters here, I have borrowed from Mr. Alexander Ballantyne the
sum of £500, upon a promissory note for £512, 10s. payable 15th November
to him or his order. If God should call me before that time, I request
my son Walter will, in reverence to my memory, see that Mr. Alexander
Ballantyne does not suffer for having obliged me in a sort of
exigency—he cannot afford it, and God has given my son the means to
May 14.—A fair good-morrow to you, Mr. Sun, who are shining so
brightly on these dull walls. Methinks you look as if you were looking
as bright on the banks of the Tweed; but look where you will, Sir Sun,
you look upon sorrow and suffering. Hogg was here yesterday in danger,
from having obtained an accommodation of £100 from Mr. Ballantyne, which
he is now obliged to repay. I am unable to help the poor fellow, being
obliged to borrow myself. But I long ago remonstrated against the
transaction at all, and gave him £50 out of my pocket to avoid granting
the accommodation, but it did no good.
May 15.—Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at
[Abbotsford,] May 16.—She died at nine in the morning, after being
very ill for two days,—easy at last.
I arrived here late last night. Anne is worn out, and has had hysterics,
which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like those of a
child, the language, as well as the tones, broken, but in the most
gentle voice of submission. "Poor mamma—never return again—'gone for
ever—a better place." Then, when she came to herself, she spoke with
sense, freedom, and strength of mind, till her weakness returned. It
would have been inexpressibly moving to me as a stranger—what was it
then to the father and the husband? For myself, I scarce know how I
feel, sometimes as firm as the Bass Rock, sometimes as weak as the wave
that breaks on it.
I am as alert at thinking and deciding as I ever was in my life. Yet,
when I contrast what this place now is, with what it has been not long
since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of my
family—all but poor Anne, an impoverished and embarrassed man, I am
deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always
talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart
that must bear them alone. Even her foibles were of service to me, by
giving me things to think of beyond my weary self-reflections.
I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, and is not, my Charlotte—my
thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form, though
those limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic—but that
yellow masque, with pinched features, which seems to mock life rather
than emulate it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively
expression? I will not look on it again. Anne thinks her little changed,
because the latest idea she had formed of her mother is as she appeared
under circumstances of sickness and pain. Mine go back to a period of
comparative health. If I write long in this way, I shall write down my
resolution, which I should rather write up, if I could. I wonder how I
shall do with the large portion of thoughts which were hers for thirty
years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time at least. But I
will not blaze cambric and crape in the public eye like a disconsolate
widower, that most affected of all characters.
May 17.—-Last night Anne, after conversing with apparent ease,
dropped suddenly down as she rose from the supper-table, and lay six or
seven minutes as if dead. Clarkson, however, has no fear of these
May 18.—Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again
opens on us; the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves
glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural
enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her; cold earth
must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not the bride of
my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins
of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety and pastime. No,
no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions somewhere—somehow;
where we cannot tell; how we cannot tell; yet would I not at this
moment renounce the mysterious yet certain hope that I shall see her in
a better world, for all that this world can give me. The necessity of
this separation,—that necessity which rendered it even a relief,—that
and patience must be my comfort. I do not experience those paroxysms of
grief which others do on the same occasion. I can exert myself and speak
even cheerfully with the poor girls. But alone, or if anything touches
me—the choking sensation. I have been to her room: there was no voice
in it—no stirring; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed,
but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but
all was calm—calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her; she
raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said,
with a sort of smile, "You all have such melancholy faces." They were
the last words I ever heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did
not seem quite conscious of what she said. When I returned, immediately
[before] departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was
but seven days since.
They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the
apartment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better than
in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treading fast and thick.
For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall. Oh, my God!
May 19.—Anne, poor love, is ill with her exertions and
agitation—cannot walk—and is still hysterical, though less so. I
advised flesh-brush and tepid bath, which I think will bring her about.
We speak freely of her whom we have lost, and mix her name with our
ordinary conversation. This is the rule of nature. All primitive people
speak of their dead, and I think virtuously and wisely. The idea of
blotting the names of those who are gone out of the language and
familiar discourse of those to whom they were dearest is one of the
rules of ultra-civilisation which, in so many instances, strangle
natural feeling by way of avoiding a painful sensation. The Highlanders
speak of their dead children as freely as of their living, and mention
how poor Colin or Robert would have acted in such or such a situation.
It is a generous and manly tone of feeling; and, so far as it may be
adopted without affectation or contradicting the general habits of
society, I reckon on observing it.
May 20.—To-night, I trust, will bring Charles or Lockhart, or both;
at least I must hear from them. A letter from Violet [Lockhart] gave us
the painful intelligence that she had not mentioned to Sophia the
dangerous state in which her mother was. Most kindly meant, but
certainly not so well judged. I have always thought that truth, even
when painful, is a great duty on such occasions, and it is seldom that
concealment is justifiable.
Sophia's baby was christened on Sunday, 14th May, at Brighton, by the
name of Walter Scott.  May God give him life and health to wear it
with credit to himself and those belonging to him. Melancholy to think
that the next morning after this ceremony deprived him of so near a
relation. Sent Mr. Curle £11 to remit Mrs. Bohn, York Street, Covent
Garden, for books—I thought I had paid the poor woman before.
Walter Scott Lockhart, died at Versailles in 1853, and
was buried in the Cemetery of Notre-Dame there.
May 21.—Our sad preparations for to-morrow continue. A letter from
Lockhart; doubtful if Sophia's health or his own state of business will
let him be here. If things permit he comes to-night. From Charles not a
word; but I think I may expect him. I wish to-morrow were over; not that
I fear it, for my nerves are pretty good, but it will be a day of many
May 22.—Charles arrived last night, much affected of course. Anne had
a return of her fainting-fits on seeing him, and again upon seeing Mr.
Ramsay, the gentleman who performs the service.  I heard him do so
with the utmost propriety for my late friend, Lady Alvanley,  the
arrangement of whose funeral devolved upon me. How little I could guess
when, where, and with respect to whom I should next hear those solemn
words. Well, I am not apt to shrink from that which is my duty, merely
because it is painful; but I wish this day over. A kind of cloud of
stupidity hangs about me, as if all were unreal that men seem to be
doing and talking about.
The Rev. Edward Bannerman Ramsay, A.M., St. John's
College, Cambridge, incumbent St. John's, Edinburgh, afterwards Dean of
the Diocese in the Scots Episcopal Church, and still more widely known
as the much-loved "Dean Ramsay," author of Reminiscences of Scottish
Life and Character. This venerable Scottish gentleman was for many
years the delight of all who had the privilege of knowing him. He died
at the age of eighty-three in his house, 23 Ainslie Place, Edinburgh,
Dec. 27th, 1872.
May 23.—About an hour before the mournful ceremony of yesterday,
Walter arrived, having travelled express from Ireland on receiving the
news. He was much affected, poor fellow, and no wonder. Poor Charlotte
nursed him, and perhaps for that reason she was ever partial to him. The
whole scene floats as a sort of dream before me—the beautiful day, the
grey ruins covered and hidden among clouds of foliage and flourish,
where the grave, even in the lap of beauty, lay lurking and gaped for
its prey. Then the grave looks, the hasty important bustle of men with
spades and mattocks—the train of carriages—the coffin containing the
creature that was so long the dearest on earth to me, and whom I was to
consign to the very spot which in pleasure-parties we so frequently
visited. It seems still as if this could not be really so. But it is
so—and duty to God and to my children must teach me patience.
See Life, vol. iv. p. 2.
Poor Anne has had longer fits since our arrival from Dryburgh than
before, but yesterday was the crisis. She desired to hear prayers read
by Mr. Ramsay, who performed the duty in a most solemn manner. But her
strength could not carry it through. She fainted before the service was
Mr. Skene has preserved the following note written on
this day:—"I take the advantage of Mr. Ramsay's return to Edinburgh to
answer your kind letter. It would have done no good to have brought you
here when I could not have enjoyed your company, and there were enough
friends here to ensure everything being properly adjusted. Anne,
contrary to a natural weakness of temper, is quite quiet and resigned to
her distress, but has been visited by many fainting fits, the effect, I
am told, of weakness, over-exertion, and distress of mind. Her brothers
are both here—Walter having arrived from Ireland yesterday in time to
assist at the munus inane; their presence will do her much good, but I
cannot think of leaving her till Monday next, nor could I do my brethren
much good by coming to town, having still that stunned and giddy feeling
which great calamities necessarily produce. It will soon give way to my
usual state of mind, and my friends will not find me much different from
what I have usually been.
May 24.—Slept wretchedly, or rather waked wretchedly, all night, and
was very sick and bilious in consequence, and scarce able to hold up my
head with pain. A walk, however, with my sons did me a great deal of
good; indeed their society is the greatest support the world can afford
me. Their ideas of everything are so just and honourable, kind towards
their sisters, and affectionate to me, that I must be grateful to God
for sparing them to me, and continue to battle with the world for their
sakes, if not for my own.
"Mr. Ramsay, who I find is a friend of yours, appears an excellent young
man.—My kind love to Mrs. Skene, and am always, yours truly,
ABBOTSFORD, 23d May."
May 25.—I had sound sleep to-night, and waked with little or nothing
of the strange, dreamy feeling which made me for some days feel like one
bewildered in a country where mist or snow has disguised those features
of the landscape which are best known to him.
Walter leaves me to-day; he seems disposed to take interest in country
affairs, which will be an immense resource, supposing him to tire of the
army in a few years. Charles, he and I, went up to Ashestiel to call
upon the Misses Russell, who have kindly promised to see Anne on
Tuesday. This evening Walter left us, being anxious to return to his
wife as well as to his regiment. We expect he will be here early in
autumn, with his household.
May 26.—A rough morning, and makes me think of St. George's Channel,
which Walter must cross to-night or to-morrow to get to Athlone. The
wind is almost due east, however, and the channel at the narrowest point
between Port-Patrick and Donaghadee. His absence is a great blank in our
circle, especially, I think, to his sister Anne, to whom he shows
invariably much kindness. But indeed they do so without exception each
towards the other; and in weal or woe have shown themselves a family of
love. No persuasion could force on Walter any of his poor mother's
ornaments for his wife. He undid a reading-glass from the gold chain to
which it was suspended, and agreed to give the glass to Jane, but would
on no account retain the chain. I will go to town on Monday and resume
my labours. Being of a grave nature, they cannot go against the general
temper of my feelings, and in other respects the exertion, as far as I
am concerned, will do me good; besides, I must re-establish my fortune
for the sake of the children, and of my own character. I have not
leisure to indulge the disabling and discouraging thoughts that press on
me. Were an enemy coming upon my house, would I not do my best to fight,
although oppressed in spirits, and shall a similar despondency prevent
me from mental exertion? It shall not, by Heaven! This day and to-morrow
I give to the currency of the ideas which have of late occupied my mind,
and with Monday they shall be mingled at least with other thoughts and
cares. Last night Charles and I walked late on the terrace at Kaeside,
when the clouds seemed accumulating in the wildest masses both on the
Eildon Hills and other mountains in the distance. This rough morning
reads the riddle.
Dull, drooping, cheerless has the day been. I cared not to carry my own
gloom to the girls, and so sate in my own room, dawdling with old
papers, which awakened as many stings as if they had been the nest of
fifty scorpions. Then the solitude seemed so absolute—my poor Charlotte
would have been in the room half-a-score of times to see if the fire
burned, and to ask a hundred kind questions. Well, that is over—and if
it cannot be forgotten, must be remembered with patience.
May 27.—A sleepless night. It is time I should be up and be doing,
and a sleepless night sometimes furnishes good ideas. Alas! I have no
companion now with whom I can communicate to relieve the loneliness of
these watches of the night. But I must not fail myself and my
family—and the necessity of exertion becomes apparent. I must try a
hors d'oeuvre, something that can go on between the necessary
intervals of Nap. Mrs. M[urray] K[eith's] Tale of the Deserter, with
her interview with the lad's mother, may be made most affecting, but
will hardly endure much expansion.  The framework may be a Highland
tour, under the guardianship of the sort of postilion, whom Mrs. M.K.
described to me—a species of conductor who regulated the motions of his
company, made their halts, and was their cicerone.
The Highland Widow, Waverley Novels, vol. xli.
May 28.—I wrote a few pages yesterday, and then walked. I believe the
description of the old Scottish lady may do, but the change has been
unceasingly rung upon Scottish subjects of late, and it strikes me that
the introductory matter may be considered as an imitation of Washington
Irving. Yet not so neither. In short, I will go on, to-day make a dozen
of close pages ready, and take J.B.'s advice. I intend the work as an
olla podrida, into which any species of narrative or discussion may be
I wrote easily. I think the exertion has done me good. I slept sound
last night, and at waking, as is usual with me, I found I had some clear
views and thoughts upon the subject of this trifling work. I wonder if
others find so strongly as I do the truth of the Latin proverb, Aurora
musis amica. If I forget a thing over-night, I am sure to recollect it
as my eyes open in the morning. The same if I want an idea, or am
encumbered by some difficulty, the moment of waking always supplies the
deficiency, or gives me courage to endure the alternative. 
See February 10, 1826.
May 29.—To-day I leave for Edinburgh this house of sorrow. In the
midst of such distress, I have the great pleasure to see Anne regaining
her health, and showing both patience and steadiness of mind. God
continue this, for my own sake as well as hers. Much of my future
comfort must depend upon her.
[Edinburgh,] May 30.—Returned to town last night with Charles. This
morning resume ordinary habits of rising early, working in the morning,
and attending the Court. All will come easily round. But it is at first
as if men looked strange on me, and bit their lip when they wring my
hand, and indicated suppressed feelings. It is natural this should
be—undoubtedly it has been so with me. Yet it is strange to find
one's-self resemble a cloud which darkens gaiety wherever it interposes
its chilling shade. Will it be better when, left to my own feelings, I
see the whole world pipe and dance around me? I think it will. Thus
sympathy intrudes on my private affliction.
I finished correcting the proofs for the Quarterly; it is but a flimsy
article, but then the circumstances were most untoward.
This has been a melancholy day, most melancholy. I am afraid poor
Charles found me weeping. I do not know what other folks feel, but with
me the hysterical passion that impels tears is of terrible violence—a
sort of throttling sensation—then succeeded by a state of dreaming
stupidity, in which I ask if my poor Charlotte can actually be dead. I
think I feel my loss more than at the first blow.
Poor Charles wishes to come back to study here when his term ends at
Oxford. I can see the motive.
May 31.—The melancholy hours of yesterday must not return. To
encourage that dreamy state of incapacity is to resign all authority
over the mind, and I have been wont to say—
"My mind to me a kingdom is." 
This excellent philosophical song appears to have been
famous in the sixteenth century.—Percy's Reliques, vol. i.
I am rightful monarch; and, God to aid, I will not be dethroned by any
rebellious passion that may rear its standard against me. Such are
morning thoughts, strong as carle-hemp—says Burns—
"Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk of carle-hemp in man."
Charles went by the steam-boat this morning at six. We parted last night
mournfully on both sides. Poor boy, this is his first serious sorrow.
Wrote this morning a Memorial on the Claims which Constable's people
prefer as to the copyrights of Woodstock and Napoleon. 
See June 2.