larger and larger grows the watery expanse, until, at length, the mighty
element rolls unobstructed on, and earth, decked in her verdant leaves,
her flowers and gems, is on the shore to greet her.

The entrance to the village is by a swift, precipitous descent. On
either side are piled rude stones, placed there by a subtle hand, and
with a poet's aim, to touch the fancy, and to soothe the traveller with
thoughts of other times--of ruined castles, and of old terrace walks.
Already have the stones fulfilled their purpose, and the ivy, the brier,
and the saxifrage have found a home amongst them. At the foot of the
declivity, standing like a watchful mother, is the church--the small,
the unpretending, the venerable and lovely village church. You do not
see a house till she is passed. Before a house was built about her, she
was an aged church, and her favoured graves were rich in heavenly clay.
The churchyard gate; and then at once, the limited and quiet village,
nestling in a valley and shut out from the world: beautiful and
self-sufficient. Hill upon hill behind, each greener than the last--hill
upon hill before, all exclusion, and nothing but her own surpassing
loveliness to console and cheer her solitude. And is it not enough? What
if she know little of the sea beyond its voice, and nothing of external
life--her crystal stream, her myrtle-covered cottages, her garden plots,
her variegated flowers and massive foliage, her shady dells and scented
lanes are joys enough for her small commonwealth. Thin curling smoke
that rises like a spirit from the hidden bosom of one green hillock,
proclaims the single house that has its seat upon the eminence. It is
the parsonage--my future home.

With a trembling heart I left the little inn, and took my silent way to
the incumbent's house. There was no eye to follow me, the leafy street
was tenantless, and seemed made over to the restless sun and dissolute