A fine clear day, but from some unknown cause to me, I awoke with that feeling in my head which betokens a day of pain. This is so rare with me of late that I feel more impatient under it than I did when I had them often. Office. Nothing remarkable. Made an attempt to get some Tickets at the Theatre but without success. There must be some system of favoritism there. From thence to see Mr. Sayer, a Cabinet Maker to give him some directions, but not finding him, a short walk and return home.

Read Homer. I make some progress since giving up the Grammar. I never could get through with a grammar in my life. This is a defect in patience. My head would not allow me to do much today. Afternoon reading Burnet whom I continue rather because I have no more profitable book than from any other cause. Remitted to my father a draft of the amount received yesterday.1 Mr. Brooks took tea here and spent the evening, but I felt so unwell I went to bed early.