This is one of those days which I am obliged to record as almost a blank in my existence. I awoke with the full feeling which precedes a 349head ach and went through the day with a regular and gradual increase of it until it forced me to bed at seven o’clock. This is a bad symptom for the commencement of the winter. I have never suffered so severely at its outset before. Nevertheless I passed an hour at the Office in writing upon the little notice of my Mother of which I am making the final sketch. And I occupied myself during the afternoon, but under these trials every thing is hard labour. The head is heavy, the hand unsteady and the whole frame feeble and languid.