28 M^H on 'y/Wimrititxvxtxz. 



the Railway Terminus at Lake Side. The stranger will 

 have to come here again perhaps, when making the circuit 

 of the lake by land. If he has time, he should climb to the 

 summit of the Beacon, for the sake of the sea-views on the 

 one hand, and of the lake on the other ; and then he is off 

 again up the lake.* After the Ferry and Bowness, several 

 islands are passed, and, on the eastern bank, we have the 

 charming dwellings of Fallbarrow, Rayrigg, Highfield, the 

 Priory, and then Calgarth, a yellow-looking mansion, standing 

 finely in its broad meadows. Ecclerigg is next, with its 

 over-shadowing trees and pretty pier : then we round the 

 corner and call at Lowwood Hotel, where there are sure to 

 be passengers landing or embarking. This inn offers many 

 inducements to the traveller to remain, and is one of the 

 most favourite resting-places in the district. Just above 

 Lowwood, high up on the wooded side of Wansfell, will he 

 seen Dovenest, some time the abode of Mrs. Hemans, when 

 its appearance was more primitive and less pretty, than it is 

 now. Next comes Wansfell Holme : this is another choice 



* * Now we are in the lovely straits between that Island and the main- 

 land of Furness Fells. The village has disappeared, but not melted 

 away ; for hark ! the Church-tower tolls ten — and see the sun is high 

 in heaven. High, but not hot — for the first September frosts chilled 

 the rosy fingers of the morn, as she bathed them in her dews, and the air 

 is cool as a cucumber. Cool but bland — and as clear and transparent 

 as a fine eye lighted up by a good conscience. There were breezes in 

 Bowness Bay — but here there are none — or, if there be, they but 

 whisper aloft in the tree-tops, and ruffle not the water, which is calm as 

 Louisa's breast. The small isles here are but few in number — yet the 

 best arithmetician of the party cannot count them — in confusion so rich 

 and rare do they blend their shadows with those of the groves on the 

 Isle called Beautiful, aiid on the Furness Fells. A tide imperceptible 

 to the eye drifts us on among and above those beautiful reflections — 

 that downward world of hanging dreams ! and ever and anon we beckon 

 unto Billy gently to dip his oar, that we may see a world destroyed and 

 recreated in one moment of time. Yes, Billy ! thou art a poet — and 

 canst work more wonders with thine oar, than could he with his pen, who 

 painted * heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,' wandering by herself 

 in Fairyland. ' — Professor Wilson. 



