With the exception of this pencil of light, our hollow is filled with a cool, clare-obscure tint, like sunshine robbed of its glare—or like sunshine and moonlight mingled together—or, on the whole, like the rich harvest moonlight, with a dash of green in it. It is exquisitely soft, soothing, and beautiful. It seems like a light reproduced by the forests after they have all day been drinking the day-beams. The jest—the story—the lively sally—the quick repartee, pass gayly around the circle. The destruction amongst the good things of the table becomes momentarily less, and finally ceases altogether. The solitary sunbeam melts away, but the clouds overhead are becoming richer and rosier; and the lake—it is a perfect Eden of beauty. Pure as innocence, and smooth as the brow of childhood, it stretches away, decked in the most glorious colors that eye ever beheld. Long lines of imperial purple—the tenderest azure—broad spaces of gleaming gold, and bars of richest crimson—all, all are blended upon the beautiful sheet, like the tints that tremble upon “shot” silk, or those that chase each other along the neck of the sheldrake. The sight fills the heart brim full of loveliness, so as even to surcharge the eye with tears. The most delicious emotions struggle for utterance, but the majesty of the beauty represses all sound—it awes the soul to silence. Old memories throng upon the heart—memories of early, happy days, and of the loved and lost. The lost—ah, too soon did some die in their young beauty, whilst others dropped, like ripe fruit, into the tomb. But they all went home, receiving “the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” Happy in their lot, ay, truly happy. And the youthful hopes and aspirations, they have all, too, vanished. The indefinite brightness resting upon the future—the soaring ambition—the romantic day-dream—the generous feeling—the warm trustfulness and confidence in the goodness of our race—all, all vanished. Now right across that streak of crimson the loon pursues her way. Her track seems made of diamonds and rubies, and the plumage of her wings is touched with the magic brilliance that fills the breathless air. And now she glides within yon purple shadow, and is seen no more. The tints grow richlier, and then begin to fade; sweet rural sounds come softly over the water; the low of cattle; the tinkling sheep-bell; the echoing bark of the dog; and the ploughman’s shout to his homeward oxen. And the twilight deepens. One by one the stars break out from the sky, and on the earth the outlines of objects begin to intermingle. The trees on the banks around us are blending, and the spaces beneath their branches are becoming black. The farther waters glimmer dim and dusky; and the tavern on the opposite shore is half shaded into the misty back-ground.