onditions remained to the
writer, is the picture they contribute to; nor would it be complete
without the addition, that fond as he was, in the intervals of his work,
of this abundance and variety of enjoyments, to no man were so essential
also those quieter hours of thought, and talk, not obtainable when
"oppressed by numbers."

My visit was due at the opening of September, but a few days earlier
came the full revelation of which only a passing shadow had reached in
two or three previous letters. "Before I think of beginning my next
number, I perhaps cannot do better than give you an imperfect
description of the results of the climate of Bonchurch after a few
weeks' residence. The first salubrious effect of which the Patient
becomes conscious is an almost continual feeling of sickness,
accompanied with great prostration of strength, so that his legs tremble
under him, and his arms quiver when he wants to take hold of any object.
An extraordinary disposition to sleep (except at night, when his rest,
in the event of his having any, is broken by incessant dreams) is always
present at the same time; and, if he have anything to do requiring
thought and attention, this overpowers him to such a degree that he can
only do it in snatches: lying down on beds in the fitful intervals.
Extreme depression of mind, and a disposition to shed tears from morning
to night, developes itself at the same period. If the Patient happen to
have been a good walker, he finds ten miles an insupportable distance;
in the achievement of which his legs are so unsteady, that he goes from
side to side of the road, like a drunken man. If he happen to have ever
possessed any energy of any kind, he finds it quenched in a dull, stupid
languor. He has no purpose, power, or object in existence whatever. When
he brushes his hair in the morning, he is so weak that he is obliged to
sit upon a chair to do it. He is incapable of reading, at all times. And
his bilious system is so utterly overthrown, that a ball of boiling fat
appears to be always behind the top of the bridge of his nose, simmering
between his haggard eyes. If he should have caught a cold, he will find
it impossible to get rid of it, as his system is wholly incapable of
making any effort. His cough will be deep, monotonous, and constant.
'The faithful watch-dog's honest bark' will be nothing to it. He will
abandon all present idea of overcoming it, and will content himself with
keeping an eye upon