But it shows
nearly the whole extent of the lake, all the way from Lowwood, beyond
Newby Bridge, and I think there can hardly be anything more beautiful in
the world. The water was like a strip and gleam of sky, fitly set among
lovely slopes of earth. It was no broader than many a river, and yet you
saw at once that it could be no river, its outline being so different
from that of a running stream, not straight nor winding, but stretching
to one side or the other, as the shores made room for it.
This morning it is raining, and we are not very comfortable nor
contented, being all confined to our little parlor, which has a broken
window, against which I have pinned The Times to keep out the chill damp
air. U---- has been ill, in consequence of having been overheated at
Newby Bridge. We have no books, except guide-books, no means of
amusement, nothing to do. There are no newspapers, and I shall remember
Lowwood not very agreeably. As far as we are concerned, it is a
scrambling, ill-ordered hotel, with insufficient attendance, wretched
sleeping-accommodations, a pretty fair table, but German-silver forks
and spoons; our food does not taste very good, and yet there is really no
definite fault to be found with it.
Since writing the above, I have found the first volume of Sir Charles
Grandison, and two of G. P. R. James's works, in the coffee-room. The
days pass heavily here, and leave behind them a sense of having answered
no very good purpose.
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