nor dwindled even
by the great height of the hills.

It is pleasant to lose sight entirely of a beautiful scene, and to plod
along for a few hundred yards in almost objectless shadow. Our
conceptions and feelings are bright and strong from the nearness of
their objects, yet the dream is somewhat different from the reality. All
at once, at a turning of the road, the splendour reappears like an
unfurled banner, and the heart leaps in the joy of the senses. This sort
of enjoyment comes upon you before you reach the Village of Grassmere
from the point of vision above described, and a stranger sometimes is
apt to doubt if it be really the same Lake--that one island, and those
few promontories, shifting into such varied combinations with the
varying mountain-ridges and ranges, that show top over top in
bewildering succession, and give hints of other valleys beyond, and of
Tarns rarely visited, among the moorland wastes. A single long dim
shadow, falling across the water, alters the whole physiognomy of the
scene--nor less a single bright streak of sunshine, brightening up some
feature formerly hidden, and giving animation and expression to the
whole face of the Lake.

About a short mile from the Village Inn, you will pass by without seeing
it--unless warned not to do so--one of the most singularly beautiful
habitations in the world. It belongs to a gentleman of the name of
Barber, and, we believe, has been almost entirely built by him--the
original hut on which his taste has worked having been a mere shell. The
spirit of the place seems to us to be that of Shadowy Silence. Its
bounds are small; but it is an indivisible part of a hill-side so secret
and sylvan, that it might be the haunt of the roe. You hear the tinkle
of a rill, invisible among the hazels--a bird sings or flutters--a bee
hums his way through the bewildering wood--but no louder sound. Some
fine old forest-trees extend widely their cool and glimmering shade; and
a few stumps or armless trunks, whose bulk is increased by a load of ivy
that hides the hollow wherein the owls have their domicile, give an air
of antiquity to the spot, that, but for other accompaniments, would
almost be melancholy. As it is, the scene has a pensive character. As
yet you have seen no house, and wonder whither the gravel-walks are to
conduct you, winding fancifully and fantastically through the
smooth-shaven lawn, bestrewed by a few large leaves of the
horse-chestnut or sycamore. But