It was a sultry, heavy day, and I walked without much enjoyment
of the air and exercise. We crossed a narrow and swift river, flowing
between deep banks. It must have been either the Mersey, still an infant
stream, and little dreaming of the thousand mighty ships that float on
its farther tide, or else the Irwell, which empties into the Mersey. We
passed through the village beyond this stream, and went to the railway
station, and then were brought back to Old Trafford, and deposited close
by the Exhibition.
It has showered this afternoon; and I beguiled my time for half an hour
by setting down the vehicles that went past; not that they were
particularly numerous, but for the sake of knowing the character of the
travel along the road.
July 26th.--Day before yesterday we went to the Arts' Exhibition, of
which I do not think that I have a great deal to say. The edifice, being
built more for convenience than show, appears better in the interior than
from without,--long vaulted vistas, lighted from above, extending far
away, all hung with pictures; and, on the floor below, statues, knights
in armor, cabinets, vases, and all manner of curious and beautiful
things, in a regular arrangement. Scatter five thousand people through
the scene, and I do not know how to make a better outline sketch. I was
unquiet, from a hopelessness of being able to enjoy it fully. Nothing is
more depressing to me than the sight of a great many pictures together;
it is like having innumerable books open before you at once, and being
able to read only a sentence or two in each.
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