bushes being loaded with rain; but
exercise is very necessary to me, and I have no mind to die of my
arm-chair. A letter from Skene, acquainting me that the Censors of the
French press have prohibited the insertion of my answer to the man
Gourgaud. This is their freedom of the press! The fact is there is an
awkward "composition" between the Government and the people of France,
that the latter will endure the former so long as they will allow them
to lull themselves asleep with recollections of their past glory, and
neither the one nor the other sees that truth and honesty and freedom of
discussion are the best policy. He knows, though, there _is_ an answer;
and that is all I care about.

_October_ 22.--Another vile damp drizzling day. I do not know any
morning in my life so fit for work, on which I nevertheless, while
desirous of employing it to purpose, make less progress. A hang-dog
drowsy feeling wrought against me, and I was obliged to lay down the pen
and indulge myself in a drumly sleep.

The Haigs of Bemerside, Captain Hamilton, Mr. Bainbridge and daughter,
with young Nicol Milne and the Fergusons, dined here. Miss Haig sings
Italian music better than any person I ever heard out of the
Opera-house. But I am neither a judge nor admirer of the science. I do
not know exactly what is aimed at, and therefore cannot tell what is
attained. Had a letter from Colin Mackenzie, who has proposed himself
for the little situation in the Register House. I have written, him,
begging him to use the best interest in his own behalf, and never mind
me.

_October_ 23.--Another sullen rainy day. "Hazy weather, Mr. Noah," as
Punch says in the puppet-show.[61] I worked slow, however, and
untowardly, and fell one leaf short of my task.

Went to Selkirk, and dined with the forest Club, for the first time I
have been there this season. It was the collar-day, but being extremely
rainy, I did not go to see them course. _N.B._--Of all things, the
greatest bore is to hear a dull and bashful man sing a facetious song.

_October_ 24.--Vilely low in spirits. I have written a page and a half,
and doubt whether I can write more to-day. A thick throbbing at my
heart, and fancies thronging on me. A disposition to sleep, or to think
on things melancholy and horrible while I wake. Strange that one's
nerves should thus master them, for nervous the case is, as I know too
well. I am beginning to tire of my Journal, and no wonder, faith, if I
have on