February 17.—­A day of hard work, being I think eight pages[131] before dinner.  I cannot, I am sure, tell if it is worth marking down, that yesterday at dinner-time I was strangely haunted by what I would call the sense of pre-existence,—­videlicet, a confused idea that nothing that passed was said for the first time, that the same topics had been discussed, and the same persons had stated the same opinions on the same subjects.  It is true there might have been some ground for recollections, considering that three at least of the company were old friends, and kept much company together:  that is, Justice-Clerk,[132] [Lord] Abercromby, and I. But the sensation was so strong as to resemble what is called a mirage in the desert, or a calenture on board ship, when lakes are seen in the desert, and silvan landscapes in the sea.  It was very distressing yesterday, and brought to my mind the fancies of Bishop Berkeley about an ideal world.  There was a vile sense of want of reality in all I did and said.  It made me gloomy and out of spirits, though I flatter myself it was not observed.  The bodily feeling which most resembles this unpleasing hallucination is the giddy state which follows profuse bleeding, when one feels as if walking on feather-beds and could not find a secure footing.  I think the stomach has something to do with it.  I drank several glasses of wine, but these only augmented the disorder.  I did not find the in vino veritas of the philosophers.  Something of this insane feeling remains to-day, but a trifle only.

February 18.—­I had other work to do this day.  In the morning corrected proofs.  After breakfast, made a visit or two, and met Sandie Buchanan, whom it joys me to see.  Then despatched all my sheriff processes, save one, which hitches for want of some papers.  Lastly, here I am, before dinner, with my journal.  I sent all the county money to Andrew Lang.  Wrote to Mr. Reynolds too; methinks I will let them have the Tales which Jem Ballantyne and Cadell quarrelled with.[133] I have asked L500 for them—­pretty well that.  I suppose they will be fools enough to give it me.  In troth she’ll no pe cheaper.

February 19.—­A day of hard and continued work, the result being eight pages.  But then I hardly ever quitted the table save at meal-time.  So eight pages of my manuscript may be accounted the maximum of my literary labour.  It is equal to forty printed pages of the novels.  I had the whole of this day at my own disposal, by the voluntary kindness of Sir Robert Dundas interfering to take up my duty at the Court.  The proofs of my Sermons are arrived, but I have had no time, saving to blot out some flummery, which poor Gordon had put into the preface.[134]

February 20.—­Another day of labour; but not so hard.  I worked from eight till three with little intermission, but only accomplished four pages.  Then I went out and made a visit or two, and looked in on Cadell.  If I get two pages in the evening I will be satisfied, for volume II. may be concluded with the week, or run over to Sunday at most.  Will it tell, this work?  I doubt it, but there is no standing still.