rdled along all its shores.
The elm-grove that overshadows the Parsonage is especially
conspicuous--stately and solemn in a green old age--and though now
silent, in spring and early summer clamorous with rooks in love or
alarm, an ancient family, and not to be expelled from their hereditary
seats. Following the line of shore to the right, and turning your eyes
unwillingly away from the bright and breezy Belfield, they fall on the
elegant architecture of Storr's Hall, gleaming from a glade in the thick
woods, and still looking southward they see a serene series of the same
forest scenery, along the heights of Gillhead and Gummer's-How, till
Windermere is lost, apparently narrowed into a river, beyond Townhead
and Fellfoot, where the prospect is closed by a beaconed eminence
clothed with shadowy trees to the very base of the Tower. The points and
promontories jutting into the lake from these and the opposite
shores--which are of a humbler, though not tame character--are all
placed most felicitously; and as the lights and shadows keep shifting on
the water, assume endless varieties of relative position to the eye, so
that often during one short hour you might think you had been gazing on
Windermere with a kaleidoscopical eye, that had seemed to create the
beauty which in good truth is floating there for ever on the bosom of
nature.

That description, perhaps, is not so very much amiss; but should you
think otherwise, be so good as give us a better: meanwhile let us
descend from The Station--and its stained windows--stained into setting
sunlight--frost and snow--the purpling autumn--and the first faint
vernal green--and re-embark at the Ferry-House pier. Berkshire Island is
fair--but we have always looked at it with an evil eye since unable to
weather it in our old schooner, one day when the Victory, on the same
tack, shot by us to windward like a salmon. But now we are half-way
between Storr's Point and Rawlinson's Nab--so, my dear Garnet, down with
the helm and let us put about (who is that catching crabs?) for a fine
front view of the Grecian edifice. It does honour to the genius of
Gandy--and say what people choose of a classic clime, the light of a
Westmoreland sky falls beautifully on that marble-like stone, which,
whether the heavens be in gloom or glory, "shines well where it stands,"
and flings across the lake a majestic shadow. Methought there passed
along the lawn the image of one now in his tomb! The memory of t