Commend us--on a tour--to lunch and dinner in one. 'Tis a saving both of time and money--and of all the dinner-lunches that ever were set upon a sublunary table, the _facile principes_ are the dinner-lunches you may devour in the White Lion, Bowness. Take a walk--and a seat on the green that overlooks the village, almost on a level with the lead-roof of the venerable church--while Hebe is laying the cloth for a repast fit for Jove, Juno, and the other heathen gods and goddesses; and if you must have politics--why, call for the _Standard_ or _Sun_ (Heavens! there is that hawk already at the _Times_), and devote a few hurried and hungry minutes to the French Revolution. Why, the Green of all Greens--often traced by us of yore beneath the midnight moonlight, till a path was worn along the edge of the low wall, still called "North's Walk"--is absolutely converted into a reading-room, and our laking party into a political club. There is Louisa with the _Leeds Intelligencer_--and Matilda with the _Morning Herald_--and Harriet with that York paper worth them all put together--for it tells of Priam, and the Cardinal, and St Nicholas--but, hark! a soft footstep! And then a soft voice--no dialect or accent pleasanter than the Westmoreland--whispers that the dinner-lunch is on the table--and no leading article like a cold round of beef, or a veal pie. Let the Parisians settle their Constitution as they will--meanwhile let us strengthen ours; and after a single glass of Madeira--and a horn of home-brewed--let us off on foot--on horseback--in gig--car and chariot--to Troutbeck.