“Postboy’s horse, am glad to miss
    The lumber of the wheels."[251]

February 15.—­I wrought to-day, but not much—­rather dawdled, and took to reading Chambers’s Beauties of Scotland,[252] which would be admirable if they were more accurate.  He is a clever young fellow, but hurts himself by too much haste.  I am not making too much myself I know, and I know, too, it is time I were making it.  Unhappily there is such a thing as more haste and less speed.  I can very seldom think to purpose by lying perfectly idle, but when I take an idle book, or a walk, my mind strays back to its task out of contradiction as it were; the things I read become mingled with those I have been writing, and something is concocted.  I cannot compare this process of the mind to anything save that of a woman to whom the mechanical operation of spinning serves as a running bass to the songs she sings, or the course of ideas she pursues.  The phrase Hoc age, often quoted by my father, does not jump with my humour.  I cannot nail my mind to one subject of contemplation, and it is by nourishing two trains of ideas that I can bring one into order.

Colin Mackenzie came in to see me, poor fellow.  He looks well in his retirement.  Partly I envy him—­partly I am better pleased as it is.

February 16.—­Stayed at home and laboured all the forenoon.  Young Invernahyle called to bid me interest myself about getting a lad of the house of Scott a commission—­how is this possible?  The last I tried for, there was about 3000 on the list—­and they say the boy is too old, being twenty-four.  I scribbled three or four pages, forbore smoking and whisky and water, and went to the Royal Society.  There Sir William Hamilton read an essay, the result of some anatomical investigations, which contained a masked battery against the phrenologists.

February 17.—­In the morning I sent off copy and proof.  I received the melancholy news that James Ballantyne has lost his wife.  With his domestic habits the blow is irretrievable.  What can he do, poor fellow, at the head of such a family of children!  I should not be surprised if he were to give way to despair.

I was at the Court, where there was little to do, but it diddled away my time till two.  I went to the library, but not a book could I get to look at.  It is, I think, a wrong system the lending books to private houses at all, and leads to immense annual losses.  I called on Skene, and borrowed a volume of his Journal, to get some information about Burgundy and Provence.  Something may be made out of King Rene, but I wish I had thought of him sooner.[253] Dined alone with the girls.

February 18.—­This being Teind Wednesday I had a holiday.  Worked the whole day, interrupted by calls from Dr. Ross, Sir Hugh Palliser, Sir David Hunter Blair, and Colonel Blair.  I made out about six pages before dinner, and go to Lord Gillies’s to dine with a good conscience.  Hay Drummond came in, and discharged a volley at me which Mons Meg could hardly have equalled.  I will go to work with Skene’s Journal.  My head aches violently, and has done so several days.  It is cold, I think.