h piety--and the light
of science long blend with the lustre of the domestic hearth! Thence to
Calgarth is all one forest--yet glade-broken, and enlivened by open
uplands; so that the roamer, while he expects a night of umbrage, often
finds himself in the open day, beneath the bright blue bow of heaven
haply without a cloud. The eye travels delighted over the multitudinous
tree-tops--often dense as one single tree--till it rests, in sublime
satisfaction, on the far-off mountains, that lose not a woody character
till the tree-sprinkled pastures roughen into rocks--and rocks tower
into precipices where the falcons breed. But the lake will not suffer
the eye long to wander among the distant glooms. She wins us wholly to
herself--and restlessly and passionately for a while, but calmly and
affectionately at last, the heart embraces all her beauty, and wishes
that the vision might endure for ever, and that here our tents were
pitched--to be struck no more during our earthly pilgrimage. Imagination
lapses into a thousand moods. O for a fairy pinnace to glide and float
for aye over those golden waves! A hermit-cell on sweet Lady-Holm! A
sylvan shieling on Loughrig side! A nest in that nameless dell, which
sees but one small slip of heaven, and longs at night for the
reascending visit of its few loving stars! A dwelling open to all the
skyey influence on the mountain-brow, the darling of the rising or the
setting sun, and often seen by eyes in the lower world glittering
through the rainbow!

All this seems a very imperfect picture indeed, or panorama of
Windermere, from the hill behind the school-house in the village of
Bowness. So, to put a stop to such nonsense, let us descend to the White
Lion--and inquire about Billy Balmer. Honest Billy has arrived from
Waterhead--seems tolerably steady--Mr Ullock's boats may be trusted--so
let us take a voyage of discovery on the lake. Let those who have reason
to think that they have been born to die a different death from
drowning, hoist a sail. We to-day shall feather an oar. Billy takes the
stroke--Mr William Garnet's at the helm--and "row, vassals, row, for the
pride of the Lowlands," is the choral song that accompanies the Naiad
out of the bay, and round the north end of the Isle called Beautiful,
under the wave-darkening umbrage of that ancient oak. And now we are in
the lovely straits between that Island and the mainland of Furness
Fells. The village has disappeared, but not melted