What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
“The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.”
January 1.
I, Louise Montgomery, twenty-five years of age, and in full possession of all my faculties, do hereby affirm that I will herein chronicle all the noteworthy happenings of my life for the period of one year.
Little diary, I am surprised that I, having reached the mature age of twenty-five, should become so sentimental as to wish to keep a diary. What has prompted me I cannot say. Time may reveal it.
The old year has just passed into eternity and the New Year has but commenced his reign as I write. Yes, a new year with all its possibilities. I hope at the end of this year I may look back upon it as the one bright year of my life. I have not made a thousand good resolutions, as I have done hitherto, but mean to meet the trials and temptations of each day as bravely as possible.