principally given, never came till it was over. Pleasant
creature!...

The day seemed beautifully fine, and my father and mother took, a
drive, while Henry and I rode, that my father might see the horse I
had bought for him; but it was bitterly cold, and I could not make
my mare trot, so she cantered and I froze. Mr. Power was there, on
that lovely horse of his. I think the Park will become bad company,
it is so full of the player folk. Frederick Byng called, and I like
him, so I went and sat with him and my father and mother in the
library till time to dress for dinner. After dinner wrote "The Star
of Seville." I have got into conceit with it again, and so poor,
dear, unfortunate Dall coming in while I was working at it, I
seized hold of her, like the Ancient Mariner of the miserable
"Wedding Guest," and compelled her, in spite of her outcries, to
sit down, and then, though she very wisely went fast asleep, I read
it to her till tea-time.

My mother wished to sit up and see the New Year in, and so we
played quadrille till they sat down to supper, which had been
ordered for the vigil, and I went fast asleep. At twelve o'clock
kisses and good wishes went round, and we were all very merry, in
spite of which I once or twice felt a sudden rush of hot tears into
my eyes. All the hours of last year are gone, standing at the bar
of Heaven, our witnesses or accusers: the evil done, the good left
undone, the opportunities vouchsafed and neglected, the warnings
given and unheeded, the talents lent and unworthily or not
employed, they are gone from us for ever! forever! and we make
merry over the flight of Time! O Time! our dearest friend! how is
it that we part so carelessly from you, who never can return to
us?... A New Year....

A NEW YEAR, 1832.

_January 1st, Sunday._--When I came down my father wished me a
happy New Year, and I am sure we were both thinking of the same
thing, and neither of us felt happy.

_Thursday 5th._-- ... Wrote all the afternoon. Mr. Byng dined with
us and stayed till one o'clock, having reduced my mother to
silence, and my father to sleep, John to snuff, and Henry and I to
playing (_sotto voce_) "What's my thought like?" to keep ourselves
from tumbling off the perch.

_Monday, 9t