blew for several days after the travellers left me,—inclement weather for them; but would I had been with them!
Each day I go to the post-office, and look over the huge packet of English letters; but there are none for me. I did not even ask P to write to me; for on any day I may get the expected letter, and at once leave Milan. This excessive uncertainty is the worst part of my troubles. To a rich person, such an accident were scarcely felt; and, indeed, with me, though if protracted it may entail on me a good deal of embarrassment, still it is only annoyance—while I, most unreasonably, feel it as a misfortune. I am miserable. Returning each day from the post-office I cannot rally my spirits; my imagination conjures up a thousand evils; yet, in truth, none as consequent on this accident, sufficient to justify the dismay that invades me. Feeling this, my fancy dreams of other ills—of which this shadow over my mind may be the forerunner; for often, as you know, “in to-day already walks to-morrow;” and yet the evil that comes is not the evil we fear—for, as another poet truly sings—
“Fears! what are they? voices airy
Whispering harm, where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary,
Till the fatal bolt be shot.”[1]
- ↑ Wordsworth.
