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chimney were in flame-a tumultuous cloud | ceptible change, any more than old trees; and pours aloft, straggling and broken, through the | after they have begun to feel the touch of debroad slate stones that defend the mouth of the cay, it is long before they look melancholy; for vomitory from every blast. The matron within while they continue to be used, they cannot is doubtless about to prepare breakfast, and help looking cheerful, and even dilapidation last year's rotten pea-sticks have soon heated is painful only when felt to be lifeless. The the capacious gridiron. Let the smoke-wreath house now in ruins, that we passed a few hunmelt away at its leisure, and do you admire, dred yards ago without you seeing it—we saw along with us, the infinite variety of all those it with a sigh-among some dark firs, just belittle shelving and sloping roofs. To feel the fore we began to ascend the hill, was many full force of the peculiar beauty of these antique years ago inhabited by Miles Mackareth, a tenements, you must understand their domes- man of some substance, and universally estic economy. If ignorant of that, you can have teemed for his honest and pious character. no conception of the meaning of any one thing His integrity, however, wanted the grace of you see-roofs, eaves, chimneys, beams, props, courteousness, and his religion was somewhat doors, hovels, and sheds, and hanging stair-gloomy and austere, while all the habits of his case, being all huddled together, as you think, in unintelligible confusion; whereas they are all precisely what and where they ought to be, and have had their colours painted, forms shaped, and places allotted by wind and weather, and the perpetually but pleasantly felt necessities of the natural condition of moun

taineers.

life were sad, secluded, and solitary. His fireside was always decent, but never cheerfulthere the passing traveller partook of an ungrudging, but a grave hospitality; and although neighbours dropping in unasked were always treated as neighbours, yet seldom were they invited to pass an evening below his roof, except upon the stated festivals of the seasons, Dear, dear is the thatch to the eyes of a son or some domestic event demanding socialty, of Caledonia, for he may remember the house according to the country custom. Year after in which he was born; but what thatch was year the gloom deepened on his strong-marked ever so beautiful as that slate from the quarry intellectual countenance; and his hair, once of the White-moss? Each one-no—not each | black as jet, became untimely gray. Indeed, one-but almost each one-of these little over- although little more than fifty years old when hanging roofs seems to have been slated, or you saw his head uncovered, you would have repaired at least, in its own separate season, taken him for a man approaching to threescore so various is the lustre of lichens that bathes and ten. His wife and only daughter, both the whole, as richly as ever rock was bathed naturally of a cheerful disposition, grew every fronting the sun on the mountain's brow. Here year more retired, till at last they shunned soand there is seen some small window, before ciety altogether, and were seldom seen but at unobserved, curtained perhaps-for the states-church. And now a vague rumour ran through man, and the statesman's wife, and the states- the hamlets of the neighbouring valleys, that man's daughters, have a taste-a taste in- he was scarcely in his right mind—that he had spired by domestic happiness, which, seeking been heard by shepherds on the hills talking to simply comfort, unconsciously creates beauty, himself wild words, and pacing up and down and whatever its homely hand touches, that it in a state of distraction. The family ceased adorns. There would seem to be many fire- to attend divine worship, and as for some time places in Braithwaite-fold, from such a num- the Sabbath had been the only day they were ber of chimney-pillars, each rising up to a dif-visible, few or none now knew how they fared, ferent altitude from a different base, round as the bole of a tree-and elegant, as if shaped by Vitruvius. To us, we confess, there is nothing offensive in the most glaring white rough-cast that ever changed a cottage into a patch of sunny snow. Yet here that grayish-tempered unobtrusive hue does certainly blend to perfection with roof, rock, and sky. Every instrument is in tune. Not even in silvan glade, nor among the mountain rocks, did wanderer's eyes ever behold a porch of meeting tree-stems, or reclining cliffs, more gracefully festooned, than the porch from which now issues one of the fairest of Westmeria's daughters. With What these sins were he never confessedone arm crossed before her eyes in a sudden nor, as far as man may judge of man, had he burst of sunshine, with the other Ellinor Inman ever committed any act that needed to lie waves to her little brother and sisters among heavy on his conscience. But his whole the bark-peelers in the Rydal woods. The being, he said, was one black sin-and a graceful signal is repeated till seen, and in a spirit had been sent to tell him, that his doom few minutes a boat steals twinkling from the was to be with the wicked through all the ages opposite side of the lake, each tug of the youth-of eternity. That spirit, without form or shaful rowers distinctly heard through the hollow dow-only a voice-seldom left his side day of the vale. A singing voice rises and ceases-or night, go where he would; but its most as if the singer were watching the echo-and dreadful haunt was under a steep rock called is not now the picture complete? Blakeriggscaur; and thither, in whatever di After a time old buildings undergo no per-rection he turned his face on leaving his own

and by many they were nearly forgotten. Meanwhile, during the whole summer, the miserable man haunted the loneliest places; and, to the terror of his wife and daughter, who had lost all power over him, and durst not speak, frequently passed whole days they knew not where, and came home, silent, haggard, and ghastly, about midnight. His widow afterwards told that he seldom slept, and never without dreadful dreams-that often would he sit up all night in his bed, with eyes fixed and staring on nothing, and uttering ejaculations for mercy for all his sins.

spired, and writing for immortality. He feels conscious that he ought to have been in bed; and hastens, on such occasions, to apologize for his intrusion on strangers availing themselves of the rights and privileges of the Dawn.

Leaving Ivy-cottage, then, and its yet unbreathing chimneys, turn in at the first gate to your right, (if it be not built up, in which case leap the wall,) and find your way the best you can through among old pollarded and ivyed ash-trees, intermingled with yews, and over knolly ground, brier-woven, and here and there whitened with the jagged thorn, till you reach, through a slate stile, a wide gravel walk, shaded by pine-trees, and open on the one side to an orchard. Proceed-and little more than a hundred steps will land you on the front of Rydalmount, the house of the great Poet of the Lakes. Mr. Wordsworth is not at home, but away to cloud land in his little boat so like the crescent moon. moon. But do not by too much eloquence awaken the family, or scare the silence, or frighten "the innocent brightness of the newborn day." We hate all sentimentalism; but we bid you, in his own words,

door, he was led by an irresistible impulse, | that hour, even the poet would grant them the even as a child is led by the hand. Tenderly privilege of the arbour where he sits when inand truly had he once loved his wife and daughter, nor less because that love had been of few words, and with a shade of sorrow. But now he looked on them almost as if they had been strangers-except at times, when he started up, kissed them, and wept. His whole | soul was possessed by horrid fantasies, of which it was itself object and victim; and it is probable, that had he seen them both lying dead, he would have left their corpses in the house, and taken his way to the mountains. At last one night passed away and he came not. His wife and daughter, who had not gone to bed, went to the nearest house and told their tale. In an hour a hundred feet were traversing all the loneliest places-till a hat was seen floating on Loughrigg-tarn, and then all knew that the search was near an end. Drags were soon got from the fishermen on Windermere, and a boat crossed and recrossed the tarn on its miserable quest, till in an hour, during which wife and daughter sat without speaking on a stone by the water-edge, the body came floating to the surface, with its long silver hair. One single shriek only, it is said, was heard, and from that shriek till three years afterwards, his widow knew not that her husband was with the dead. On the brink of that small sandy bay the body was laid down and cleansed of the muddy weeds-his daughter's own hands assisting in the rueful work—and she walked | among the mourners, the day before the Sabbath, when the funeral entered the little burialground of Langdale chapel, and the congregation sung a Christian psalm over the grave of the forgiven suicide.

We cannot patronize the practice of walking in large parties of ten or a score, ram-stam and helter-skelter, on to the front-green or gravelwalk of any private nobleman or gentleman's house, to enjoy, from a commanding station, an extensive or picturesque view of the circumjacent country. It is too much in the style of the Free and Easy. The family within, sitting perhaps at dinner with the windows open, or sewing and reading in a cool dishabille, cannot like to be stared in upon by so many curious and inquisitive pupils all a-hunt for prospects; nor were these rose-bushes planted there for public use, nor that cherrytree in vain netted against the blackbirds. Not but that a party may now and then excusably enough pretend to lose their way in a strange country; and looking around them in wellassumed bewilderment, bow hesitatingly and respectfully to maid or matron at door or window, and, with a thousand apologies, lingeringly offer to retire by the avenue gate, on the other side of the spacious lawn, that terrace| like hangs over vale, lake, and river. But to avoid all possible imputation of impertinence, follow our example, and make all such incursions by break of day. We hold that, for a couple of hours before and after sunrise, all the earth is common property. Nobody surely would think for a moment of looking black on any number of freebooting lakers coming full sail up the avenue, right against the front, at four o'clock in the morning? At

"With gentle hand

Touch, for there is a spirit in the leaves !"

From a quaint platform of evergreens you see a blue gleam of Windermere over the grovetops-close at hand are Rydal-hall and its ancient woods-right opposite the Loughriggfells, ferny, rocky, and silvan, but the chief breadth of breast pastoral-and to the right Rydal-mere, seen, and scarcely seen, through embowering trees, and mountain-masses bathed in the morning light, and the white-wreathed mists for a little while longer shrouding their summits. A lately erected private chapel lifts its little tower from below, surrounded by a green, on which there are yet no graves-nor do we know if it be intended for a place of burial. A few houses are sleeping beyond the chapel by the river side; and the people beginning to set them in order, here and there a pillar of smoke ascends into the air, giving cheerfulness and animation to the scene.

The Lake-Poets! ay, their day is come. The lakes are worthy of the poets, and the poets of the lakes. That poets should love and live among lakes, once seemed most absurd to critics whose domiciles were on the Nor-Loch, in which there was not sufficient water for a tolerable quagmire. Edinburgh Castle is a noble rock-so are the Salisbury Craigs noble craigs-and Arthur's Seat a noble lion couchant, who, were he to leap down on Auld Reekie, would break her back-bone and bury her in the Cowgate. But place them by Pavey-ark, or Red-scaur, or the glamour of Glaramara, and they would look about as magnificent as an upset pack of cards. Who, pray, are the Nor-Loch poets? Not the Minstrel-he holds by the tenure of the Tweed. Not Campbell-" he heard in dreams the music of the Clyde." Not Joanna Bailie-her inspiration was nursed on the Calder's silvan banks and the moors of Strathaven. Stream-loving Coila

nurtured Burns; and the Shepherd's grave is | their phraseology, and declares the sunset to close to the cot in which he was born-within be exceedingly handsome. The Laker, who hearing of the Ettrick's mournful voice on its sometimes has a soul, feels it rise within him way to meet the Yarrow. Skiddaw oversha- as the rim of the orb disappears in the glow dows, and Greta freshens the bower of him of softened fire. The artist compliments Nawho framed, ture, by likening her evening glories to a picture of Claud Lorraine-while the poet feels the sense sublime

"Of Thalaba, the wild and wond'rous song. Here the woods, mountains, and waters of Rydal imparadise the abode of the wisest of nature's bards, with whom poetry is religion. And where was he ever so happy as in that region, he who created "Christabelle," "beautiful exceedingly;" and sent the "Auncient Mariner" on the wildest of all voyagings, and brought him back with the ghastliest of all crews, and the strangest of all curses that ever haunted

crime?

"Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things."

Compare any one page, or any twenty pages,
with the character given of Wordsworth's
poetry in the obsolete criticism that sought to
send it to oblivion. The poet now sits on his
throne in the blue serene and no voice from
below dares deny his supremacy in his own
calm dominions. And was it of him, whom
devout imagination, dreaming of ages to come
now sees, placed in his immortality between
Milton and Spenser, that the whole land once
rang with ridicule, while her wise men wiped
their eyes
"of tears that sacred pity had en-
gendered," and then relieved their hearts by
joining in the laughter" of the universal, Bri-

Of all Poets that ever lived, Wordsworth has been at once the most truthful and the most idealizing; external nature from him has received a soul, and becomes our teacher; while he has so filled our minds with images from her, that every mood finds some fine affinities there, and thus we all hang for sustenance and delight on the bosom of our mighty Mother. We believe that there are many who have an eye for Nature, and even a sense of the beautiful, without any very profound feeling; and to them Wordsworth's finest descriptive passages seem often languid or diffuse, and not to the bard are now embodied in Seven Volumes present to their eyes any distinct picture. Per--the sense of the ridiculous still survives haps sometimes this objection may be just; but to paint to the eye is easier than to the imagination—and Wordsworth, taking it for granted that people can now see and hear, desires to make them feel and understand; of his pupil it must not be said,

"A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose is to him,
And it is nothing more ;"

tish nation?" All the ineffable absurdities of

among us-our men of wit and power are not all dead-we have yet our satirists, great and small-editors in thousands, and contributors in tens of thousands-yet not a whisper is heard to breathe detraction from the genius of the high-priest of nature; while the voice of the awakened and enlightened land declares it to be divine-using towards him not the language merely of admiration but of reverenceof love and gratitude, due to a benefactor of loftiest thoughts and noblest sentiments, stillhumanity, who has purified its passions by

the poet gives the something more till we start at the disclosure as at a lovely apparition-yet an apparition of beauty not foreign to the flower, but exhaling from its petals, which tilling their turbulence by the same processes that that moment seemed to us but an ordinary

bunch of leaves. In these lines is an humbler

example of how recondite may be the spirit of beauty in any most familiar thing belonging to the kingdom of nature; one higher far-but of the same kind—is couched in two immortal

verses

"To me the humblest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." In what would the poet differ from the worthy man of prose, if his imagination possessed not a beautifying and transmuting power over the objects of the inanimate world? Nay, even the naked truth itself is seen clearly but by poetic eyes; and were a sumph all at once to become a poet, he would all at once be starksaring mad. Yonder ass licking his lips at a tuistle, sees but water for him to drink in Windermere a-glow with the golden lights of setting suns. The ostler or the boots at Lowoodinn takes a somewhat higher flight, and for a moment, pausing with curry-comb or blacking-brush in his suspended hand, calls on Sally Chambermaid for gracious sake to look at Pull-wyke. The waiter who has cultivated his taste from conversation with Lakers, learns

soul, in ebb and flow, and when its tide is at magnify their power, and showing how the full, may be at once as strong and as serene as

the sea.

There are few pictures painted by him merely for the pleasure of the eye, or even the imagination, though all the pictures he ever painted are beautiful to both; they have all a moral meaning-many a meaning more than moral-and his poetry can be comprehended, in its full scope and spirit, but by those who feel the sublimity of these four lines in his "Ode to Duty"—

"Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong
And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh
and strong."

Is thy life disturbed by guilty or sinful pas-
sions? Have they gained a mastery of thee-
and art thou indeed their slave? Then the
poetry of Wordsworth must be to thee

"As is a picture to a blind man's eye;" or if thine eyes yet see the light in which it is enveloped, and thy heart yet feels the beauty it reveals, in spite of the clouds that overhang

and the storms that trouble them, that beauty | by those habits of reflection which its study will be unbearable, till regret become remorse, forms, when pursued under the influence of and remorse penitence, and penitence restore thoughtful peace. thee to those intuitions of the truth that illumine his sacred pages, and thou knowest and feelest once more that

"The primal duties that shine aloft-like stars," that life's best pleasures grow like flowers all around and beneath thy feet.

Why, if it were not for that everlastingwe beg pardon-immortal Wordsworth-the LAKES, and all that belong to them, would be our own-jure divino-for we are the heir-apparent to the

"Sole King of rocky Cumberland."

But Wordsworth never will-never can die; Nor are we not privileged to cherish a bet- and so we are in danger of being cheated out of ter feeling than pride in the belief, or rather our due dominion. We cannot think this fatherknowledge, that We have helped to diffusely treatment of such a son—and yet in our loftiWordsworth's poetry not only over this island, est moods of filial reverence we have heard ourbut the furthest dependencies of the British selves exclaming, while empire, and throughout the United States of America. Many thousands have owed to us their emancipation from the prejudices against it, under which they had wilfully remained ignorant of it during many years; and we have instructed as many more, whose hearts were free, how to look on it with those eyes of love which alone can discover the Beautiful. Com

munications have been made to us from across the Atlantic, and from the heart of India-from the Occident and the Orient-thanking us for having vindicated and extended the fame of the best of our living bards, till the name of Wordsworth has become a household word on the banks of the Mississippi and the Ganges. It would have been so had we never lived, but not so soon; and many a noble nature has worshipped his genius, as displayed in our pages, not in fragments but in perfect poems, accompanied with our comments, who had no means in those distant regions of possessing his volumes, whereas Maga flies on wings to the uttermost parts of the earth.

"The Cataract of Lodore Peal'd to our orisons,”

O King! live for ever!

Therefore, with the fear of the Excursion before our eyes, we took to prose-to numerous prose-ay, though we say it that should not say it, to prose as numerous as any verse—

and showed such scenes

"As savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew." Here an English lake-there a Scottish lochtill Turner grew jealous, and Thomson flung his brush at one of his own unfinished mountains-when lo! a miracle! Creative of grandeur in his very despair, he stood astonished at the cliff that came prerupt from his canvas, and christened itself" the Eagle's Eyrie," as it frowned serenely upon the sea, maddening in a foamy circle at its inaccessible feet.

Only in such prose as ours can the heart pour forth its effusions like a strong spring, discharging ever so many gallons in a minute, either into pipes that conduct it through some great Metropolitan city, or into a water-course that soon becomes a rivulet, then a stream, then a river, then a lake, and then a sea. Would Fancy luxuriate? Then let her expand wings of prose. In verse, however irregular, her flight is lime-twigged, and she soon takes to hopping on the ground. Would Imagination dive? Let the bell in which she sinks be constructed on the prose principle, and deeper than ever plummet sunk, it will startle monsters at the roots of the coral caves, yet be impervious to the strokes of the most tremendous of tails. Would she soar? In a prose balloon she seeks the stars. There is room and power of ascension for any quantity of ballast-fling it out and up she goes! Let some gas escape, and she descends far more gingerly than Mrs. Graham and his Serene Highness; the grapnel catches a stile, and she steps "like a dreadless angel unpursued" once more upon terra firma, and may then celebrate her aerial voyage, if she choose, in an Ode which will be sure near the end to rise-into prose.

As for our own dear Scotland-for whose sake, with all her faults, the light of day is sweet to our eyes-twenty years ago there were not twenty copies we question if there were ten of the Lyrical Ballads in all the land of the mountain and the flood. Now Wordsworth is studied all Scotland over-and Scotland is proud and happy to know, from his Memorials of the Tours he has made through her brown heaths and shaggy woods, that the Bard's heart overflows with kindness towards her children-that his songs have celebrated the simple and heroic character of her olden times, nor left unhonoured the virtues that yet survive in her national character. All her generous youth regard him now as a great Poet; and we have been more affected than we should choose to confess, by the grateful acknowledgment of many a gifted spirit, that to us it was owing that they had opened their eyes and their hearts to the ineffable beauty of that poetry in which they had, under our instructions, found not a vain visionary delight, but a strength and succour and consolation, breathed Prose, we believe, is destined to drive what as from a shrine in the silence and solitude of is called Poetry out of the world. Here is a nature, in which stood their father's hut, sanc- fair challenge. Let any Poet send us a poem tifying their humble birthplace with pious of five hundred lines-blanks or not-on any thoughts that made the very weekdays to them subject; and we shall write on that subject a like Sabbaths-nor on the evening of the Sab-passage of the same number of words in hath might they not blamelessly be blended with those breathed from the Bible, enlarging the souls to religion by those meditative moods which such pure poetry inspires, and

prose; and the Editors of the Quarterly, Edinburgh, and Westminister, shall decide which deserves the prize. Milton was wofully wrong in speaking of "prose or numerous verse.

plants of Paradise-This is our occupationand the happiness of witnessing them all grow ing in the light of admiration is our reward.

Finding our way back as we choose to Ivycottage, we cross the wooden bridge, and away along the western shore of Rydal-mere. Hence you see the mountains in magnificent composition, and craggy coppices with intervening green fields shelving down to the lake margin. It is a small lake, not much more than a mile round, and of a very peculiar character. One memorable cottage only, as far as we remember, peeps on its shore from a grove of sycamores, a statesman's pleasant dwelling; and there are the ruins of another on a slope near the upper end, the circle of the garden still visible. Every thing has a quiet but wildish pastoral and silvan look, and the bleating of sheep fills the hollow of the hills. The lake has a reedy inlet and outlet, and the angler thinks of pike when he looks upon such harbours. There is a single boat-house, where the Lady of the Hall has a padlocked and painted barge for pleasure parties; and the heronry on the high pine-trees of the only island connects the scene with the ancient park of Rydal, whose oak woods, though thinned and decayed, still preserve the majestic and venerable character of antiquity and baronial state.

Prose is a million times more numerous than verse. Then prose improves the more poetical it becomes; but verse, the moment it becomes prosaic, goes to the dogs. Then, the connecting links between two fine passages in verse, it is enjoined, shall be as little like verse as possible; nay, whole passages, critics say, should be of that sort; and why, pray, not prose at once? Why clip the King's English, or the Emperor's German, or the Sublime Porte's Turkish, into bits of dull jingle—pretending to be verses merely because of the proper number of syllables-some of them imprisoned perhaps in parentheses, where they sit helplessly protruding the bare soles of their feet, like folks that have got muzzy, in the stocks? Wordsworth says well, that the language of common people, when giving utterance to passionate emotions, is highly figurative; and hence he concludes not so well fit for a lyrical ballad. Their volubility is great, nor few their flowers of speech. But who ever heard them, but by the merest accident, spout verses? Rhyme do they never-the utmost they reach is occasional blanks. But their prose! Ye gods! how they do talk! The washerwoman absolutely froths like her own tub; and you never dream of asking her "how she is off for soap?" Paradise Lost! The Excursion! The Task indeed! No man of woman born, no woman by man begotten, ever yet in his or her Having taken a lingering farewell of Rydalsenses spoke like the authors of those poems. mere, and of the new Chapel-tower, that seems Hamlet, in his sublimest moods, speaks in among the groves already to be an antique, prose-Lady Macbeth talks prose in her sleep we may either sink down to the stream that and so it should be printed. "Out, damned flows out of Grassmere and connects the two spot!" are three words of prose; and who that lakes, crossing a wooden bridge, and then joinbeheld Siddons wringing her hands to washing the new road that sweeps along to the them of murder, did not feel that they were the most dreadful ever extorted by remorse from guilt?

partly open below the shadow of large single trees-and the Churchtower, almost always a fine feature in the scenery of the north of England, standing in stately simplicity among the clustering tenements, nor dwindled even by the great height of the hills.

Village, or we may keep up on the face of the hill, and by a terrace-path reach the Loughriggroad, a few hundred yards above Tail-end, a A green old age is the most loving season pretty cottage-ornée which you will observe of life, for almost all the other passions are crowning a wooded eminence, and looking then dead or dying—or the mind, no more at cheerfully abroad over all the vale. There is the mercy of a troubled heart, compares the one Mount in particular, whence we see to little pleasure their gratification can ever yield advantage the delightful panorama-encircling now with what it could at any time long ago, mountains-Grassmere Lake far down below and lets them rest. Envy is the worst dis- your feet, with its one green pastoral isle, silturber or embitterer of man's declining years; van shores, and emerald meadows-huts and but it does not deserve the name of a passion homes sprinkled up and down in all directions —and is a disease, not of the poor in spirit--the village partly embowered in groves, and for they are blessed-but of the mean, and then they indeed are cursed. For our own parts we know Envy but as we have studied it in others-and never felt it except towards the wise and good; and then 'twas a longing desire to be like them-painful only when we thought that might never be, and that all our loftiest aspirations might be in vain. Our envy of Genius is of a nature so noble, that it knows no happiness like that of guarding from mildew the laurels on the brows of the Muses' Sons. What a dear kind soul of a critic is old Christopher North! Watering the flowers of poetry, and removing the weeds that might choke them-letting in the sunshine upon them, and fencing them from the blast-proclaiming where the gardens grow, and leading boys and virgins into the pleasant alleys-teaching hearts to love and eyes to see their beauty, and classifying, by the attributes it has pleased nature to bestow on the various orders, the

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 combi