ched--and a tinge of poetry, as from a rainbow,
overspreads that cluster of islands that seems to woo you to their still
retreats. And now

"Wooded Winandermere, the river-lake,"

with all its bays and promontories, lies in the morning light serene as
a Sabbath, and cheerful as a Holiday; and you feel that there is
loveliness on this earth more exquisite and perfect than ever visited
your slumbers even in the glimpses of a dream. The first sight of such a
scene will be unforgotten to your dying day--for such passive
impressions are deeper than we can explain--our whole spiritual being is
suddenly awakened to receive them--and associations, swift as light, are
gathered into one Emotion of Beauty which shall be imperishable, and
which, often as memory recalls that moment, grows into genius, and vents
itself in appropriate expressions, each in itself a picture. Thus may
one moment minister to years; and the life-wearied heart of old age by
one delightful remembrance be restored to primal joy--the glory of the
past brought beamingly upon the faded present--and the world that is
obscurely passing away from our eyes re-illumined with the visions of
its early morn. The shows of nature are indeed evanescent, but their
spiritual influences are immortal; and from that grove now glowing in
the sunlight may your heart derive a delight that shall utterly perish
but in the grave.

But now you are in the White Lion, and our advice to you--perhaps
unnecessary--is immediately to order breakfast. There are many
parlours--some with a charming prospect, and some without any prospect
at all; but remember that there are other people in the world besides
yourselves--and therefore, into whatever parlour you may be shown by a
pretty maid, be contented, and lose no time in addressing yourselves to
your repast. That over, be in no hurry to get on the Lake. Perhaps all
the boats are engaged--and Billy Balmer is at the Waterhead. So stroll
into the churchyard, and take a glance over the graves. Close to the
oriel-window of the church is one tomb over which one might meditate
half an autumnal day. Enter the church, and you will feel the beauty of
these fine lines in "The Excursion"--

"Not raised in nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy; for duration built;
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately cross'd
Like leafless underboughs, 'mid some thick grove,
All wither'd by the