Here the weather
was like July in England--or what one likes to imagine July should be in
England--dumb, dreaming, hot, lazy, luxurious weather, in which one
should do as he pleases, and be pleased with what he does. As I toiled
along, my useless limb causing me each day more trouble, I felt I should
like to lie down on the grass, with stones 'twixt head and shoulders for
my pillow, and repose, as Nature was reposing, in sovereign strength.
But I was getting weaker! I saw, as I passed, gardens of purple and gold
and white splendor; the sky was at its bluest, the clouds were full,
snowy, mountainous.
Then on again to varying scenes.
Inns were not frequent, and were poor and wretched. The country was all
red sandstone, and devoid of all timber, till, descending into a lovely
valley, the path crossed an obstructing ridge, and then led out into a
beautiful park all green and sweet. The country was full of color. It
put a good taste in one's mouth, it impressed one as a heaven-sent means
of keeping one cheerful in sad dilemma. The gardens, the fields, the
skies, the mountains, the sunset, the light itself--all were full of
color, and earth and heaven seemed of one opinion in the harmony of the
reds, the purples, the drabs, the blacks, the browns, the bright blues,
and the yellows.
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