The morning was cloudy and dull which ushered in the New Year. At this time it is not improper to seize a moment for reflection. The passage of the last [year]
has been rapid and has brought with it much more certainty in regard to our prospects than the preceding ones. My father is about to retire at last. And a new scene of life is to open to us, which does not contain us as the principal actors. We have all borrowed distinction from his lustre, and with his eclipse comes also our darkness. For this I am not sorry. My own course is distinctly developing itself and it consists in quiet and perseverance in a laborious profession. My own fate is still in suspense, and another year commences upon me without any comfort but hope. My spirits are not high, I am not sanguine. And were it not for my unwavering confidence in a supreme direction, I should be pitiable indeed. I care less about raising the veil of the future. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I sent Abby a little present of a copy of Shakespeare and a note full of affection.1
She sent for me and we made it up. I don’t wish to think upon the subject. It is not worth considering.
My lot is cast, and the probabilties of happiness are as great as fall to the lot of any man. Why should I crave any more?
Afternoon, reading Burke’s Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs. The day was very unpleasant, and it rained in the evening, so that I did not go out, but staid at home and read aloud to Mrs. Tarbell and Miss Thaxter some parts of a book composed of scraps from the New Monthly Magazine.