Thursday, 31 December 1863

Very dark, cold, & foggy. Ill ― & could not go out all day[.]

One payment. Wrote several letters: & arranged drawings ― papered them up &c. &c.

Lunched at 1 ― intending to try to go out ― but could not.

Lo! just as I was going to send Mrs. Willis’s book back, she called: & sent up “could I come down?” ― to which I responded No. But I let her have her book ― as it ain’t tanto[1] to quarrel.

Dined at home: reading Speke, ― wh. I don’t much delight in: dry ― & not always pleasant ― even apart from Drouth. ―

The year is dying. Let him die.
Old year! You shall not die!
You’ve lived with us so merrily![2]

Hum. Not so very merrily: but on the whole ― very happily.

 


[1] So much (value?).

[2] Tennyson, “The Death of the Old Year,” whose first stanza, however, reads:

Old year, you must not die:
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.


[Transcribed by Marco Graziosi from Houghton Library, Harvard University, MS Eng. 797.3. Image.]

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