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Ferry house, under its canopy of tall sycamores, and with
its pebbly beach, is immediately opposite; and behind it
rises the wooded bank which is, in light or shadow, one of
the chief graces of the scene. If the sun shines upon it, it
is feathered with foliage to the very ridge, and the bay
beneath it is blue and lustrous. If the sun has gone down
behind it, the bay is black; and every dipping bird
sprinkles it with silver; and the wild duck that comes
sailing out with her brood, draws behind her a pencil of
white light. From this point, a view opens to the south. In
the expanse of waters lies another island; and further down,
on the eastern shore, a pier extends with a little tower at
the end. This is Storrs: and at that pier did the guests
embark when Scott went to meet Canning at Mr. Bolton's, and
the fine regatta took place, (under the direction of
Christopher North) which is celebrated in Lockhart's Life of
Scott. This was only two years before Canning's death, and
seven before that of Scott. Mr. and Mrs. Bolton are gone;
and Christopher North himself has followed. It is probable
that no stranger ever sees that pier at Storrs without
thinking of Professor Wilson; and, indeed, there is no spot
in the neighbourhood with which his memory, and the
gratitude of his readers, is not associated. Any where, such
a presence is rarely seen; and it was especially impressive
in the places he best loved to haunt. More than one person
has said that Wilson reminded them of the first man, Adam;
so full was his large frame of vitality, force and
sentience. His tread seemed to shake the ground, and his
glance to pierce through stone walls; and, as for his
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