Morning at the Office. Not very usefully occupied. I must again resume my old habits
which my late way of life has had an injurious influence upon. Dropped in at Hilliard’s
and purchased an annual for Abby. This day completes the two years since I offered
myself to her acceptance. And by a singular because unintentional coincidence, the
book was called the Anniversary. My feelings have changed with the times. I was then
careless, luxurious and independent. I am now cautious, frugal and not my own master.
I love Abby but like all lovers pass as much of my time in unhappiness as in pleasure,
and above all have still more awful ideas of the future than ever. Mine is a mind
fertile in expedients for self torment. And under a strong influence of depression
I this evening laid down my soul in Prayer. Dined at Chardon Brooks’ with Abby which
unfitted me for study in the afternoon, and returned in the evening. I am sure I feel
exceedingly well disposed to every one, but I cannot relish evenings of this kind.
And they grind my spirit. I cannot account for their influence. They all feel kindly
to me, I believe, and I certainly feel no ill will to them, far from it, but there
is a want of something which presses upon me with a rod of iron. Returned home in
a snow storm which gives us token of more winter.