sheep should eat the suckers and scions, protected as they there shoot, at the price of the concealment of the picturesque and the poetical from beauty-searching eyes. That is a long lane, it is said, which has never a turning; so this must be a short one, which has a hundred. You have turned your back on Windermere--and our advice to you is, to keep your face to the mountains. Troutbeck is a jewel--a diamond of a stream--but Bobbin Mills have exhausted some of the most lustrous pools, changing them into shallows, where the minnows rove. Deep dells are his delight--and he loves the rugged scaurs that intrench his wooded banks--and the fantastic rocks that tower-like hang at intervals over his winding course, and seem sometimes to block it up; but the miner works his way out beneath galleries and arches in the living stone--sometimes silent--sometimes singing--and sometimes roaring like thunder--till subsiding into a placid spirit, ere he reaches the wooden bridge in the bonny holms of Calgarth, he glides graceful as the swan that sometimes sees his image in his breast, and through alder and willow banks murmurs away his life in the Lake. Yes--that is Troutbeck Chapel--one of the smallest--and to our eyes the very simplest--of all the chapels among the hills. Yet will it be remembered when more pretending edifices are forgotten--just like some mild, sensible, but perhaps somewhat too silent person, whose acquaintanceship--nay, friendship--we feel a wish to cultivate we scarce know why, except that he is mild, sensible, and silent; whereas we would not be civil to the _brusque_, upsetting, and loquacious puppy at his elbow, whose information is as various as it is profound, were one word or look of courtesy to save him from the flames. For Heaven's sake, Louisa, don't sketch Troutbeck Chapel. There is nothing but a square tower--a horizontal roof--and some perpendicular walls. The outlines of the mountains here have no specific character. That bridge is but a poor feature--and the stream here very commonplace. Put them not on paper. Yet alive--is not the secluded scene felt to be most beautiful? It has a soul. The pure spirit of the pastoral age is breathing here--in this utter noiselessness there is the oblivion of all turmoil; and as the bleating of flocks comes on the ear, along the fine air, from the green pastures of the Kentmere range of soft undulating hills, the stilled heart whispers to itself, "this is peace!"