Hurry, skurry.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race

On which it is bent,
It reaches the place

Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong,
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging,
As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among ;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and wringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around,
With endless rebound!
Smiling and fighting,
A sight to delight in,
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

*

*

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and crashing,

And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-` And this way the water comes down from Lodore.

The water falls through a chasm between two perpendicular rocks, Gowder Crag, on the east, and Shepherds' Crag on the west; oaks, ash trees and birch overhang the fall.

Four miles from Keswick is the valley of St. John, the scene of the enchantment that held asleep for a hundred years the lovely princess of fairy lore. The castle was supposed to change its appearance to a pile of rocks whenever mortal footstep approached it; and at the end of the valley is still to be seen a crag resembling a castle

on a hill, but really a rock on the top of many others symmetrically arranged.

Sir Walter Scott, in his "Bridal of Triermain," has thus described the vale when the destined knight came to break the spell.

"Paled in by many a lofty hill,

The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A wandering brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose with airy turrets crowned,
Buttress, and ramparts circling bound
And mighty keep and tower;
Seemed some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive walls had planned,
A ponderous bulwark to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power."

Under Saddleback is a farm-house, once called Threlkeld Hall, where its owner, Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, left his little sevenyear-old stepson, for shelter from the Yorkists' vengeance, excited by the Black Cliford's crime in killing Rutland. lived and grew the shepherd lord.

Here

Wastwater is a large and gloomy lake, 204 feet above the level of the sea; it is the deepest of the lakes, and the one that most impresses us with a feeling of solemnity akin to awe. On the south-east it has for a boundary a ridge or precipice named the Screes. This ridge has been called "a mountain in decay," and in fact, masses that have long ago fallen from its heights are. scattered all over the hill-sides, and pieces of rock still roll from it into the deep waters below, with a sound that can be heard more than a mile off. The shores of Wastwater are bare and treeless, and it has altogether a mournful aspect of desolation. The chief rivers that feed it are Overbeck and Nether Beck, both issuing from mountain tarns. The scenery at the head of this lake is wonderfully fine and grand; we have no other mountain scenery that can quite equal it in our island; here are Great Gable, a fine conical mountain, Kirkfell, Lingmell, and, towering over the last, Scafell.

This last is the grandest of the English mountains, and the central mass from which the Cumbrian ranges branch out. It is, at the part overlooking Burnmoor and Eskdale,

3,161 feet above the sea level. Its highest summit is the Pike; Great End, the most northerly point, rises above Sty Head, and Lingmell above Wasdale. A deep gorge, called Mickledore, divides the two heights; this gorge is easy to cross, but the ascent of the rocks on the Scafell side is difficult climbing, except to natives of the spot: there are two or three paths to choose from. The Chimney is a narrow gully below the ridge, not easy to get through; the "Broad Stand" route starts at a narrow vertical fissure below the ridge, and then three high steps of rock have to be ascended.

The third way is longer, but easy to climb; still the ascent of Scafell is more difficult to strangers than either Skiddaw or Helvellyn, and should not be undertaken, unless in remarkably clear and fine weather, without a guide. This third route descends on the Wasdale side of the ridge to a gully called Lord's Rake; when one has ascended this, the great ravine of Deep Gill, flanked on the north by the Scafell Pillar, rises on the left.

A pile of stones on the Pike marks the summit of the mountain ; it was placed there by the Ordnance Surveyors. The summit of Scafell not only commands a most glorious view, but it has singularly beautiful lichens and mosses of the most brilliant colours, growing on and amidst the huge blocks of stone lying on it. It is worth making the ascent to see these mossy gems, while one is also rewarded for the exertion by beholding all that is most grand and beautiful in the Lake District; lovely valleys as those of Borrowdale and the Duddon; the Ennerdale mountains, Helvellyn, Skiddaw, the Scotch mountains, sometimes even the sea.

Ullswater is more like the Swiss lakes than most of the others. It is a grand piece of water, though not so large as Windermere; it is seven and a half miles long, and varies in breadth, always, however, within a mile across, 210 feet is its greatest depth. It unites the beauties of all the other Waters, being as gaily beautiful as

405

Windermere, and as grand in its mountains as Wastwater.

From Hallin Fell there is one of the most perfect views of Ullswater, and here is a pillar erected in honour of Lord Brougham. Proceeding through Sandwick by a path just above the lake, and passing under Birk Fell and Place Fell, we reach Bleawick; but the path is narrow, and in places very steep, and requires great care in traversing it, lest we might make too close an acquaintance with the lake; and one has need to be the more careful, inasmuch as one is constantly tempted to gaze about one on the lovely scenery. The mountain glens round Ullswater are very romantic and beautiful, and there are lovely flowers here. The daffodils that waved their golden heads on the banks of the lake in spring suggested a poem to Wordsworth; in Patterdale the botanist will find Polypodium phegopteris and Anagallis tenella and other plants he will value.

Three miles from Patterdale is Lyulph's Tower, situated about 100 yards above the lake. It is fitted up as a hunting and shooting lodge. In the park some charming spots are to be found, beds of various ferns, hawthorns and hollies wreathed with honeysuckle and wild roses; trees and mossy banks, and all sorts of wild flowers in the thickets. There are fallow deer in the park also, and the lake is seen below, sparkling in the summer sunshine.

Another fine view of Ullswater is had from Gowbarrow Park, across which a path leads by a deep winding glen to Ara Force. one of the loveliest of the waterfalls. The water falls perpendicularly from a height of eighty feet, through a chasm of the rocks. At the top the stream is divided by a narrow ridge, but before the two streams have fallen far, they unite, and, forcing their way over a projecting rock, they expand into a great sheet of foaming water; a cloud of spray rises from it and drops into the chasm.

Ara Force is the scene of Wordsworth's poem "The Somnambulist."

Scafell, as we have said, is higher by ninety feet than Helvellyn, but the latter mountain has long taken its place in the public imagination as the chief English mountain, and it is in truth a noble one, though but a hill compared with the Swiss Alps. The most picturesque ascent is made by Grisedale, a valley that runs from Patterdale up to Helvellyn, and separates it from St. Sunday's Crag and Fairfield. There is a fine view of the mountain as we enter Grisedale Valley, and on reaching the foot we find a fairly good road up to the summit of a ridge that leads to the top of Helvellyn. This must be surmounted, and then the traveller may take one of two roads. The shortest is, however, to ordinary pedestrians a dangerous one, for it is by a path along Striding Edge; and though the pathway is wide enough for a firm footing, it requires a steady head and strong nerves to traverse it safely. Lives have been lost here. There is an iron cross erected to the memory of Robert Dixon, who was killed here while fox hunting in 1858; and Gough, the hero of Scott's touching poem, is supposed to have fallen over the precipice when crossing Striding Edge. He was found with his faithful dog watching beside him close by Red Tarn at the foot of the precipice.

The other road up the mountain is to descend a little way on the other side of the ridge and take the path by Swirrel Edge, which leaves Red Tarn, a tiny lake far above the level of the sea, on the left. A steep climb from this tarn lands us on

the top of the great hill; and we find a mossy plain that inclines slightly to the west, but with sheer precipices to the east.

If the day is fine, or the mist that may have marred the expedition should condescend to open, the view from Helvellyn is magnificent. The great hills Skiddaw, Saddleback and Scafell loom out of the mass of mountains in stately pride. Six lakes can be seen; nearly all Ullswater and great part of Windermere, Esthwaite, and Coniston. Derwentwater cannot be seen, Borrowdale Fells conceal it. The prospect extends over the grandest and wildest part of Cumberland and Westmoreland. The rivers Duddon, Esk, Kent, Leven, the Solway Firth, the Scotch mountains, and Yorkshire and Northumberland hills lie before our eyes, and it is said that on especially clear days the sea line of the ocean has been detected in the east.

The plants on Helvellyn will delight a botanist; some of them are very rare-all, when blooming, lovely.

There is a very cold and pure spring about three hundred yards from the summit, called Brownrigg Well; a stream flows from it down the side of the mountain.

The view, the flowers, the pure bracing air, will well repay the toil of ascending this great English hill, and the light and shade, the sunshine chasing the swiftly fleeting shadows of the clouds that pass over the turf at the summit, are all full of suggestions to thought. There is assuredly a feeling of being nearer Heaven on these heights than on the plains. We seem to have left the dull common places of the world below, and can think clearly and quietly in the eternal solitudes.

And what thoughts of Heaven must have been those that filled the mind of one of the mountain's last victims-the sworn servant of the Highest-when he traversed the heights on which he was to sleep his last still slumber? Holy they must have been, as his life was; and surely angels watched above him and received the spirit that passed from Helvellyn to God.

HELVELLYN. 1805.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striding-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountainheather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless

clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

407

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him

Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has vielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches
are gleaming;

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

SCOTT.

ENDAL may be considered the first town of Westmoreland, though it is not the county town. It is situated on the west side of the river Kent, beneath a lofty scar, and opposite to the ruins of the old castle. It has two principal streets, from which the others diverge. The houses are built of limestone from the quarries in the fells, and their whiteness is thrown out by being contrasted with the

number of poplars that grow about them by the gardens, and the sloping meadows on the east, where the Kent washes the skirts of the town, and is crossed by three good bridges.

Kendal was incorporated in the reign of Elizabeth, but it is no longer a borough. It gives, however, under the Act of 1885, a name to the south division of the county, which returns one member to Parliament.

The church is a fine and ancient one, restored in 1850.

It covers some acres, and is 140 feet by 103 feet-almost a square. The architecture is very mixed; the main arcades and