LETTER VIII.
Time speeds on; yet every hour being occupied, it appears to move slowly. How often do a few weeks—such as we have spent here—seem a mere shred of life, hardly counted in the passage of a year! But these weeks “drag a slow length along,” day succeeding day, each gifted with the calmest yet most living enjoyment. Calm; for no event disturbs us: instinct with glowing life, inspired by the beauty of the scenery and the delicious influence of the climate.
We hear from the boatmen on the lake snatches of the “Lucia”—the Bell’ Alma innamorata, especially. The Opera-house at Como is open; and, now and then, to vary their day, my companions have visited it, going by the steamer at four in the afternoon, and returning the next morning. I have been tempted thither once. The steamer, the Lario (a better is promised for next year), is a very
