February 24.—­I fancy I had drunk a glass or two over much last night, for I have the heartburn this morning.  But a little magnesia salves that sore.  Meantime I have had an inspiration which shows me my good angel has not left me.  For these two or three days I have been at what the “Critic” calls a dead-lock[140]—­all my incidents and personages ran into a gordian knot of confusion, to which I could devise no possible extrication.  I had thought on the subject several days with something like the despair which seized the fair princess, commanded by her ugly step-mother to assort a whole garret full of tangled silk threads of every kind and colour, when in comes Prince Percinet with a wand, whisks it over the miscellaneous mass, and lo! all the threads are as nicely arranged as in a seamstress’ housewife.  It has often happened to me that when I went to bed with my head as ignorant as my shoulders what I was to do next, I have waked in the morning with a distinct and accurate conception of the mode, good or bad, in which the plot might be extricated.  It seems to me that the action of the intellect, on such occasions, is rather accelerated by the little fever which an extra glass of wine produces on the system.  Of course excess is out of the question.  Now this may seem strange, but it is quite true; and it is no less so that I have generally written to the middle of one of these novels, without having the least idea how it was to end, in short in the hab nab at a venture style of composition.  So now, this hitch being over, I fold my paper, lock up my journal, and proceed to labour with good hope.

February 25.—­This being Monday, I carried on my work according to the new model.  Dined at home and in quiet.  But I may notice that yesterday Mr. Williams, the learned Rector of our new Academy, who now leaves us, took his dinner here.  We had a long philological tete-a-tete.  He is opinionative, as he has some title to be, but very learned, and with a juster view of his subject than is commonly entertained, for he traces words to the same source—­not from sound but sense.  He casts backwards thus to the root, while many compare the ends of the twigs without going further.

This night I went to the funeral of Mr. Henderson, late of Eildon Hall, a kind-hearted man, who rose to great wealth by honest means, and will be missed and regretted.

In the evening I went to the promenade in the Exhibition of Pictures, which was splendidly lighted up and filled with fashionable company.  I think there was a want of beauty,—­or perhaps the gas-lights were unfavourable to the ladies’ looks.

February 26.—­Business filled up the day till one, when I sat to Mr. Smith.  Tedious work, even though Will Clerk chaperoned me.  We dined at Archie Swinton’s.  Met Lord Lothian, Lord Cringletie, etc.  This day I have wrought almost nothing, but I am nearly half a volume before the press.  Lord Morton,[141] married to a daughter of my friend Sir George Rose, is come to Edinburgh.  He seems a very gentlemanlike man, and she pleasing and willing to be pleased.  I had the pleasure to be of some little use to him in his election as one of the Scottish Peers.  I owe Sir George Rose much for his attention to Walter at Berlin.