Tuesday April 17th.

I always think on Tuesday—“there may be some letter, some decisive letter to Papa”. But none comes—nothing comes!--

Sent my letter to Mr. Boyd:[1] a short one, & free from any allusion to the first subject in my fears. Arabel enclosed a note to Annie. Bummy says nothing, will say nothing; & & I sink into bad spirits very very often every day. What will be the end of it. Nothing quite exhilarates me but prayer.

B had a letter form Selina[2] today, from which it is sufficiently apparent, that James does not mean to come here. At least they are expecting him at Bradly.[3] Not sorry for it, on one account. I scarcely slept all last night. What shall I do tonight? Read the two last Olympic odes today,—except a few lines of the last but one. The very last, to the Graces, is most harmonious & beautiful.[4] I recollect Mr. Boyd’s repeating it to me at Great Malvern in 1830, when I was paying him a long & happy visit. νυν δ̓ ολωλε!!—[5] Not the ode—which is deathless.

Bro fishing at Mathon,—and now at 8 oclock, he has not returned. We dine almost every day, at seven or near seven. What can Papa be doing, in the small portion of ground in which he can do anything, so long & late? Oh I do wish—what is vain.

1. For her letter, see BC, 3, 12–13.

2. Selina Graham, a distant cousin of Bummy.

3. Bradley, in Co. Durham, the temporary residence of Bummy’s youngest sister, Mrs. Jane Hedley (1796–1877).

4. No. 13, to Xenophon of Corinth, and no. 14, to Asopichus of Orchomenus. The reference to the Graces is in strophe 1 of no. 14.

5. “Now perished.”


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