Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly
proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of
his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's
Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. “One day,” he resumed, “we will start off early and come down into
Kandersteg and up these zigzags and here and here, and so past this Daubensee
to a tiny inn—it won’t be busy yet, though; we may get it all to ourselves—on
the brim of the steepest zigzag you can imagine, thousands of feet of zigzag; and
you will sit and eat lunch with me and look out across the Rhone Valley and over
blue distances beyond blue distances to the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa and a
long regiment of sunny, snowy mountains. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.
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