depth of shade above!"

Go down to the low terrace-walk along the Bay. The Bay is in itself a
Lake, at all times cheerful with its scattered fleet, at anchor or under
weigh--its villas and cottages, each rejoicing in its garden or
orchard--its meadows mellowing to the reedy margin of the pellucid
water--its heath-covered boathouses--its own portion of the Isle called
Beautiful--and beyond that sylvan haunt, the sweet Furness Fells, with
gentle outline undulating in the sky, and among its spiral larches
showing, here and there, groves and copses of the old unviolated woods.
Yes, Bowness Bay is in itself a Lake; but how finely does it blend away,
through its screens of oak and sycamore trees, into a larger
Lake--another, yet the same--on whose blue bosom you see bearing down to
windward--for the morning breeze is born--many a tiny sail. It has the
appearance of a race. Yes--it is a race; and the Liverpoolian, as of
yore, is eating them all out of the wind, and without another tack will
make her anchorage. But hark--Music! 'Tis the Bowness Band playing "See
the conquering Hero comes!"--and our old friend has carried away the
gold cup from all competitors.

Now turn your faces up the hill above the village school. That green
mount is what is called a--Station. The villagers are admiring a grove
of parasols, while you--the party--are admiring the village--with its
irregular roofs--white, blue, grey, green, brown, and black
walls--fruit-laden trees so yellow--its central church-tower--and
environing groves variously burnished by autumn. Saw ye ever banks and
braes and knolls so beautifully bedropt with human dwellings? There is
no solitude about Windermere. Shame on human nature were Paradise
uninhabited! Here, in amicable neighbourhood, are halls and huts--here
rises through groves the dome of the rich man's mansion--and there the
low roof of the poor man's cottage beneath its one single sycamore! Here
are hundreds of small properties hereditary in the same families for
hundreds of years--and never, never, O Westmoreland! may thy race of
_statesmen_ be extinct--nor the virtues that ennoble their humble
households! See, suddenly brought forth by sunshine from among the old
woods--and then sinking away into her usual unobtrusive serenity--the
lake-loving Rayrig, almost level, so it seems, with the water, yet
smiling over her own quiet bay from the grove-shelter of her pastoral
mound. Within her walls may peace ever dwell wit