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 thrown.

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.[275]

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—­