Third.—­I feel myself decidedly weaker in point of health, and am now confirmed I have had a paralytic touch.  I speak and read with embarrassment, and even my handwriting seems to stammer.  This general failure

    “With mortal crisis doth portend,
    My days to appropinque an end."[410]

I am not solicitous about this, only if I were worthy I would pray God for a sudden death, and no interregnum between I cease to exercise reason and I cease to exist.

The Scotts of Harden, Pringles of Stitchill, and Russells of Ashestiel, are all here; I am scarce fit for company though.

January 2.—­Held a great palaver with the Scotts, etc.

I find my language apt to fail me; but this is very like to be fancy, and I must be cautious of giving way to it.  This cautions me against public exertion much more than Cadell’s prognostications, which my blood rises against, and which are ill calculated to keep me in restraint.  We dozed through a gloomy day, being the dullest of all possible thaws.

January 3.—­I had a letter from the Lord Chief Commissioner, mentioning the King’s intention to take care of Charles’s interests and promotion in the Foreign Office, an additional reason why I should not plunge rashly into politics, yet not one which I can understand as putting a padlock on my lips neither.  I may write to L.C.C. that I may be called on to express an opinion on the impending changes, that I have an opinion, and a strong one, and that I hope this fresh favour [may not be regarded] as padlocking my lips at a time when it would otherwise be proper to me to speak or write.  I am shocked to find that I have not the faculty of delivering myself with facility—­an embarrassment which may be fanciful, but is altogether as annoying as if real.

January 4.—­A base, gloomy day, and dispiriting in proportion.  I walked out with Swanston[411] for about an hour:  everything gloomy as the back of the chimney when there is no fire in it.  My walk was a melancholy one, feeling myself weaker at every step and not very able to speak.  This surely cannot be fancy, yet it looks something like it.  If I knew but the extent at which my inability was like to stop, but every day is worse than another.  I have trifled much time, too much; I must try to get afloat to-morrow, perhaps getting an amanuensis might spur me on, for one-half is nerves.  It is a sad business though.

January 5.—­Very indifferent, with more awkward feelings than I can well bear up against.  My voice sunk and my head strangely confused.  When I begin to form my ideas for conversation expressions fail me, even in private conversation, yet in solitude they are sufficiently arranged.  I incline to hold that these ugly symptoms are the work of imagination; but, as Dr. Adam Ferguson,[412] a firm man if ever there was one in the world, said on such an occasion, What is worse than imagination?  As Anne was vexed and frightened, I allowed her to send for young Clarkson.  Of course he could tell but little, save what I knew before.