That description, perhaps, is not so very much amiss; but should you think otherwise, be so good as give us a better: meanwhile let us descend from The Station--and its stained windows--stained into setting sunlight--frost and snow--the purpling autumn--and the first faint vernal green--and re-embark at the Ferry-House pier. Berkshire Island is fair--but we have always looked at it with an evil eye since unable to weather it in our old schooner, one day when the Victory, on the same tack, shot by us to windward like a salmon. But now we are half-way between Storr's Point and Rawlinson's Nab--so, my dear Garnet, down with the helm and let us put about (who is that catching crabs?) for a fine front view of the Grecian edifice. It does honour to the genius of Gandy--and say what people choose of a classic clime, the light of a Westmoreland sky falls beautifully on that marble-like stone, which, whether the heavens be in gloom or glory, "shines well where it stands," and flings across the lake a majestic shadow. Methought there passed along the lawn the image of one now in his tomb! The memory of that bright day returns, when Windermere glittered with all her sails in honour of the great Northern Minstrel, and of him the Eloquent, whose lips are now mute in the dust. Methinks we see his smile benign--that we hear his voice silver-sweet! "But away with melancholy, Nor doleful changes ring"-- as such thoughts came like shadows, like shadows let them depart--and spite of that which happeneth to all men--"this one day we give to merriment." Pull, Billy, pull--or we will turn you round--and in that case there is no refreshment nearer than Newby-bridge. The Naiad feels the invigorated impulse--and her cut-water murmurs to the tune of six knots through the tiny cataract foaming round her bows. The woods are all running down the lake,--and at that rate, by two _post meridiem_ will be in the sea.