tail had just suggested itself, when a huge boot-heel descended upon my toe, dissipating all doubt, as the wheelers were suddenly drawn up upon their haunches at the Sun Hotel, Ulver

stone.

"But what have you dragged us over the Lancaster Sands for?" says the reader; " and whither are you leading us?" Because, good friend, I am for a day or two in the Lake country, and have a theory about the best way to it. Let those who love the rail go on to Bowness, and enter Windermere by its drawing-room window; I prefer its natural porch, the sparkling Leven-the gladdest, brightest river in all the world. Besides, there is an æsthetic reason for taking the route by the sands, which should not be overlooked. A gourmand in scenery adopts a system of contrasts in his landscapes, just as the winetaster does with his palate: a rough cheese prepares the way for a delicate appreciation of the fruity port: a morning's journey on a landscape as flat as your hand, gives the eye a relish for mountain scenery and a sparkling lake.

We will not linger on the way between Ulverstone and Newby Bridge-not even to dwell upon its rich scenery, nor to delight in the bright river, which, ere it is lost in the sandy gorge of the sea, is seen through its verdant fringe of trees, leaping beside the road up which the traveller slowly toils.

If there is a model inn in the world for the tired and dusty pedestrian, it is the Swan at Newby Bridge. Thirsty and footsore, he crosses the old gray arch, and mine host, napkin in hand, smiles upon him from the capacious doorway of the hostel. Throwing aside his knapsack, he strolls down a few yards to the grassy margin of the river whilst dinner is preparing. Around, on every side, a graceful verdure walls in a scene of perfect peace. Swiftly, and with the sparkle of innumerable brilliants, the stream flows over its shallow bed, scarce deep enough to float the light skiff, in whose shadow the great trout, with ceaseless fin, poises himself against the crystal flood. As you watch him with the eye of an angler, dinner is announced, and

you pass at once to the contemplation of his fellow in a napkin, with the appreciation of a gastronome.

A trout and a cutlet in the quiet, domestic little coffee-room, with the window draped with emerald leaves, give no bad foretaste of the way things are done in the Lake country-at least in that portion of it which is not made the head-quarters of the upstart rich, who are fast vulgarizing all before them; white"chokered" waiters, and all their concomitants, taking the place of the wholesome simplicity that reigned of yore.

My regret at leaving this perfect little inn was not lessened by the glimpse I caught of a bright-haired young beauty alighting from her mountain pony at the moment of departure, and what spell there is in the very neighbourhood of gentle womanhood we leave to our reader's own heart; but to go I was obliged. The last bell of the steamer was ringing; the white smoke was giving its final blow; and the little Lady of the Lake, a hundred yards up the stream, was ready to take her pathway up the enchanted lake.

Light as she is, there is scarcely water enough to float herscarcely breadth enough to clear the water-lilies that pave the crystal floor on either side. Not a glimpse of the Queen of the Lakes is to be seen-not a mountain rears its blue summit in the distance. We pick our way down a mere brooklet running between hill sides, the graceful little steamer turning and twisting like an eel. The tourist is all anticipation-a turn, and we sweep into the lake.

Nay, good tourist, get rid of that depreciating look; say not that your ideal is destroyed, and that Windermere is "a sell," as some fast young gentlemen declare on their first introduction. When you have lived upon it fifty years, as Christopher North says, you might have something to say about it. Wait until the swift paddles have run you up the narrow reach of the lake -until you thread your way between the mimic isles—until Bowness is passed, and then ask yourself if a more lovely corner of the world is to be found than the nook where stands the bold

brotherhood of mountains upon its northern shore. How gently the sweeping hills fold across each other, like the kerchief on a maternal breast; and how the soft lake repeats the image in her own liquid bosom !

I hope I am not writing in the spirit of a guide-book, but the last few lines smack of it most forcibly, I must confess. There is nothing I detest more than dosing a reader with effete descriptions of scenery, and of such scenery as this above all things; for how vain are words to attempt a realization to the mind of the blue atmosphere of the mountain gorge, the tender gradations of its light, or of the weird-like forms of the cloud shadows, as with strange contortions they chase each other up the craggy steeps!

There, now, yawn no more, good reader; I promise, though in the very midst of mountains, never to say as many words about them again throughout the paper.

Whilst Belle Isle and its stately mansion still hides from us the northern sky line, jagged with towering peaks, I land upon a green promontory, such as Undine might have sported upon with the old fisherman, leaving the steamer to pursue her way through the wooded isles on her upward passage.

A charming little nest is the Ferry Inn, and no jollier landlord is there than Arnold-no kinder, more motherly creature, than my landlady. The inn looks directly upon the glassy lake through a fringe of noble trees, just as a beauty peers at herself in the mirror through her luxuriant tresses. The pleasure skiffs grind and fret their cutwaters against the pebbles, within biscuit toss of the breakfast-parlour windows, and those who are romantically inclined can drip silver from their oars in the moonlit lake, ere the warm glow of the coffee-room has departed from their cheek. This is as it should be, but it is quite an exception to the general rule, which is to plant the inns at a mile's distance from the water. Such is the case at Ambleside, at Patterdale, and Keswick-a most unnatural divorce, and worthy of all condemnation. The delight is to take the water like a duck, at any

E

moment and in any dress, and not to pay it a formal visit as you would a frigid acquaintance.

The moon was slowly rising over Orrest Head, and her reflection, like a silver shallop, was noiselessly ferrying from shore to shore of the unruffled mere, as I rose from the substantial viands of my worthy host. To ship a pair of sculls and pull out into the lake was an instinctive act. It was as natural to be attracted by the soft swells of music which came over from Bowness-Bowness, the pleasure village of the Lake conntry, where yachtsmen flourish and fair maids flirt, where in the summer evenings lights quiver so long in the dark water, winking ever and anon as the gauze-clad angels swim by in the dreamy waltz. "On such a night as this" I found myself amid a crowd of promenaders, which the band had congregated in the grounds of the Royal Hotel. Every window was open and full of life. Silks rustled upon the balconies, and young bright faces came in and out of the deep shadows made by the clustering clematis. The scene realized one's preconceived idea of the gaiety reigning upon the river lake. I still bear in my memory the form of one gentle fair leaning alone from one of the upper casements, her graceful outline distinctly traced against the brilliant light of the room. Her hair had fallen loosely about her shoulders (I am not romancing an inch), and she was gazing fixedly upon the lake-thinking, perchance, of some far-distant Romeo.

The moon was hidden by a dark band of cloud as I sought for my boat amid those grouped at the landing place. Some one in my absence had drawn its nose upon the pier. I thought this strange at the moment, but pushed off into the dark. The graceful silhouette of the unknown Juliet was still visible from the window of the hotel as I pulled right out into the lake, now black and still as death. Far away on the opposite shore, the lights of the Ferry Inn glistened like glow-worms set upon the water's edge. I might have been midway in the passage, and my thoughts were far away, wondering whether a fair lady