About this time, influenced by Amiel, whom I had come across in Mrs. Humphry Ward’s translation, I had begun to keep a diary, or journal, of my “sensations and ideas.” I unearthed it the other day, with the paper time-staled as the sensations, and the ink faded as the ideas. On reading it over I found it so unbalanced, so one-sided, that I can scarce quote a passage as really expressive of what I actually was. It expresses only what I was when I sat down to write my journal, and I never appear to have done this except when I was in a particularly unhealthy mood. Some of this journal is descriptive, some of it merely notes certain thoughts that came to me and that I evidently, the Lord knows why, imagined worthy of preservation. A single entry, the description of a dream, will, I fancy, give an idea of the whole. “Last night I went out and wandered about the streets for a while, and when I came home I went straight to bed. I did not go to sleep for a long time. I remember hearing the clock strike two, and when I awoke it was just four, but of course I cannot really tell how long my dream lasted. “I was in a room with some people I knew very well. My father was there, and Aunt Margaret and Uncle George. I was laughing at something, I cannot remember what, only that it had to do with a question of religion, when suddenly the figure of Christ appeared, in a long, purple, velvet robe――a slight figure, with narrow effeminate face, pointed beard, and a soft treacherous expression in the slanting eyes. Everybody in the room except myself fell on their knees in fear, but I stood still. He watched me and then came closer, holding out his pierced hands and making the sign of the cross. He did not speak, but I knew what he meant, and I detested him. He drew still nearer and still I would not kneel. My defiance filled me with a mingled fear and exultation, and, as he was about to touch me, I cried out, invoking Satan, offering myself to him. A horrible look of baffled rage and malice distorted the face of the Christ. Outside a storm was raging and the wide window was a black square. With a shrill scream the Christ vanished, and a man, naked, superb, the colour of dark, greenish bronze, shot through the window as though propelled by some invisible force. (From this on, an undertone of strange music floated through my dream, rising and falling with the rise and fall of my emotions.)