I did think, that to-night as soon as I came up from supper—I would not take up a book, but seat my-self and devote at least an hour to my journal—but—as Fanny Fern would say—"Alas! that there must always be a “but”! I came up, and it was twilight how I love that time—“That brief season of sad sweet thoughts—the evening twilight—If the long Summer day has any period of happiness for my spirit—any moment of quiet joy to be treasured in the heart—every thing is so fraught with a subdued, and spiritual loveliness—Who does not love the evening twilight? But happy are they who can recall the events of the day and meet no act they now wish undone, no word that better remained—no thoughts or feelings indulged which it were wrong to cherish.” Poor me there is never a day, but I have to wish, I had more control over my words, and recall many things, I would like to “Blot from memory’s tablet.” I wish I was—any thing but what I am—I often say things from thoughtlessness, which in a few moments I would give so much to “say again” but I will never be “able to relate” the events of the past week, in fact little worth wishing has happened—and that little I don’t remember now—I forgot to say why I did not get to my pleasant task, sooner, well just as I had seated myself, for I could not give up a few moments of thought and

“Long to know the drops of sorrow—
Mingled with our draught of life,
What the unknown, untried future
Hath of care, and toil, and strife;
And the winged hours of pleasure
Which may cross the weary, way,
Ere our destined course we measure,
And return to kindred clay”—

Had just seated myself quietly, when Mr Tucker came up, spent about an hour—now I will try and go back a little—Dear me, I will have to give up again—it is quite time for bed—and just received a letter from Coz, I feel sleepy—I will try and finish to-morrow night—