Everywhere, softness and austerity side by side--the "cheerful silence of the fells," the high exhilarating air, dark tortured crags and ghylls--then a soft and laughing scene, gentle woods, blue water, lovely outlines, and flower-carpeted fields.
'The exquisite _colour_ of Westmoreland in May! The red of the autumn still on the hills,--while the bluebells are rushing over the copses.' The little cottage of Robin Ghyll, where the first chapters were written, stands, sheltered by its sycamore, high on the fell-side, above the road that leads to the foot of the Langdale Pikes.

But--in the dream-days when the Fenwicks lived there!--it was the _old_ cottage, as it was up to ten or fifteen years ago;--a deep-walled, low-ceiled labourer's cottage of the sixteenth century, and before any of the refinements and extensions of to-day were added.
The book was continued at Stocks, during a quiet summer.

Then with late September came fatigue and discouragement.

It was imperative to find some stimulus, some complete change of scene both for the tale and its writer.

Was it much browsing in Saint-Simon that suggested to me Versailles?
I cannot remember.