Acton’s cottage was one of those doubtful domiciles, whose only recommendation it is, that they are picturesque in summer.  At present we behold a reeking rotting mass of black thatch in a cheerless swamp; but, as the year wears on, those time-stained walls, though still both damp and mouldy, will be luxuriantly overspread with creeping plants—­honeysuckle, woodbine, jessamine, and the everblowing monthly rose.  Many was the touring artist it had charmed, and Suffolk-street had seen it often:  spectators looked upon the scene as on an old familiar friend, whose face they knew full well, but whose name they had forgotten for the minute.  Many were the fair hands that had immortalized its beauties in their albums, and frequent the notes of admiration uttered by attending swains:  particularly if there chanced to be taken into the view a feathery elm that now creaked overhead, and dripped on the thatch like the dropping-well at Knaresborough, and (in the near distance) a large pond, or rather lake, upon whose sedgy banks, gay—­not now, but soon about to be—­with flowering reeds and bright green willows, the pretty cottage stood.  In truth, if man were but an hibernating animal, invisible as dormice in the winter, and only to be seen with summer swallows, Acton’s cottage at Hurstley might have been a cantle cut from the Elysian-fields.  But there are certain other seasons in the year, and human nature cannot long exist on the merely “picturesque in summer.”

Some fifty yards, or so, from the hither shore, we discern a roughly wooded ait, Pike Island to wit, a famous place for fish, and the grand rendezvous for woodcocks; which, among other useful and ornamental purposes, serves to screen out the labourer’s hovel, at this the narrowest part of the lake, from a view of that fine old mansion on the opposite shore, the seat of Sir John Vincent, a baronet just of age, and the great landlord of the neighbourhood.  Toward this mansion, scarcely yet revealed in the clear gray eye of morning, our humble hero, having made the long round of the lake, is now fast trudging; and it may merit a word or two of plain description, to fill up time and scene, till he gets nearer.

A smooth grassy eminence, richly studded with park-like clumps of trees, slopes up from the water’s very edge to—­Hurstley Hall; yonder goodly, if not grand, Elizabethan structure, full of mullioned windows, carved oak panels, stone-cut coats of arms, pinnacles, and traceries, and lozenges, and drops; and all this glory crowned by a many-gabled, high-peaked roof.  A grove of evergreens and American shrubs hides the lower windows from vulgarian gaze—­for, in the neighbourly feeling of our ancestors, a public way leads close along the front; while, behind the house, and inaccessible to eyes profane, are drawn terraced gardens, beautifully kept, and blooming with a perpetual succession of the choicest flowers.  The woods and shrubberies around, attempted some half a century back to be spoilt by the meddlesome bad taste of Capability Brown, have been somewhat too resolutely robbed of the formal avenues, clipped hedges, and other topiarian adjuncts which comport so well with the starch prudery of things Elizabethan; but they are still replete with grotto, fountain, labyrinth, and alcove—­a very paradise for the more court-bred rank of sylphs, and the gentler elves of Queen Titania.