May 17.—­I never stirred from my seat all this day.  My reflections, as suggested by Walter’s illness, were highly uncomfortable; and to divert it I wrought the whole day, save when I was obliged to stop and lean my head on my hand.  Real affliction, however, has something in it by which it is sanctified.  It is a weight which, however oppressive, may like a bar of iron be conveniently disposed on the sufferer’s person.  But the insubstantiality of a hypochondriac affection is one of its greatest torments.  You have a huge featherbed on your shoulders, which rather encumbers and oppresses you than calls forth strength and exertion to bear it.  There is something like madness in that opinion, and yet it has a touch of reality.  Heaven help me!

May 18.—­I resolved to take exercise to-day, so only wrought till twelve.  I sent off some sheets and copy to Dr. Lardner.  I find my written page goes as better than one to two of his print, so a little more than one hundred and ninety of my writing will make up the sum wanted.  I sent him off as far as page sixty-two.  Went to Mr. Colvin Smith’s at one, and sat for my picture to three.  There must be an end of this sitting.  It devours my time.

I wrote in the evening to Walter, James MacCulloch, to Dr. Lardner, and others, and settled some other correspondence.

May 19.—­I went to the Court, and abode there till about one, and in the Library from one to two, when I was forced to attend a public meeting about the King’s statue.  I have no turn for these committees, and yet I get always jamm’d into them.  They take up a cruel deal of time in a way very unsatisfactory.  Dined at home, and wrought hard.  I shall be through the Bruce’s reign.  It is lengthy; but, hang it, it was our only halcyon period.  I shall be soon done with one-half of the thousand pound’s worth.

May 20.—­Mr. Cadell breakfasted with us, with a youngster for whom he wants a letter to the Commander or Governor of Bombay.  After breakfast C. and I had some talk of business.  His tidings, like those of ancient Pistol, are of Africa and golden joys.  He is sure of selling at the starting 8000 copies of the Magnum, at a profit of L70 per 1000—­that is, per month.  This seems certain.  But he thinks the sale will rise to 12,000, which will be L280 more, or L840 in all.  This will tell out a gross divisible profit of upwards of L25,000.  This is not unlikely, but after this comes a series of twenty volumes at least, which produce only half that quantity indeed; but then the whole profits, save commissions, are the author’s.  That will come to as much as the former, say L50,000 in all.  This supposes I carry on the works of fiction for two or three novels more.  But besides all this, Cadell entertains a plan of selling a cheaper edition by numbers and numbermen, on which he gives half the selling price.  One man, Mr. Ireland, offers to take 10,000 copies of the Magnum