Publisher's Synopsis
The pretty little town of Golden Friars-standing by the margin of the lake, hemmed round by an amphitheatre of purple mountain, rich in tint and furrowed by ravines, high in air, when the tall gables and narrow windows of its ancient graystone houses, and the tower of the old church, from which every evening the curfew still rings, show like silver in the moonbeams, and the black elms that stand round throw moveless shadows upon the short level grass-is one of the most singular and beautiful sights I have ever seen.There it rises, as from the stroke of the enchanter's wand, ''Lord Byron, Childe Harold, canto 4, stanza 1.looking so light and filmy, that you could scarcely believe it more than a picture reflected on the thin mist of night.On such a still summer night the moon shone splendidly upon the front of the George and Dragon, the comfortable graystone inn of Golden Friars, with the grandest specimen of the old inn-sign, perhaps, left in England. It looks right across the lake; the road that skirts its margin running by the steps of the hall-door, opposite to which, at the other side of the road, between two great posts, and framed in a fanciful wrought-iron border splendid with gilding, swings the famous sign of St. George and the Dragon, gorgeous with colour and gold
