inn, engrafted on the dalesman's farmhouse, is so welcome to tired pedestrians across the Black Sail Pass-warned him against the attempt when ice and snow were over all the ground. The traveller said he knew Switzerland thoroughly well, and so could venture on these mountains. You need not go to Switzerland to break your neck,' said honest John. So the traveller went up Great Gable (I think it was) and broke his neck, and was brought down on a ladder. They use ladders here in case of any accident, as almost the only thing that can be grasped at along the steep paths. But hardly a season passes without accidents. Almost the very night that I came up Ennerdale, then reduced to a morass by the rains, and came down the Black Sail in the dark, a poor guide was lost on Coniston Old Man. They saw by the track next morning that his ponies had gone round and round him all the night.

For the genuine tourist there are no hostels and neighbourhood more enjoyable than the head of Wastwater and the head of Ennerdale. The pretty little Angler's Inn at Ennerdale, with the water almost covering its steps, is a picture. You find in Wastwater holdings that have been held on from father to son ever since the times of the Tudors. It is the grandest bit of all the Lake scenery for the mountains, and you may obtain near here the Scottish view stretching to Ben Lomond, to be recognised by its

VOL. II.

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peculiar shoulder.

by here.

Of course there is a waterfall close Only a pretty cascade in ordinary weather, indeed, but in stormy times it has been known to bring down enough earth and of granite boulders to stop the outlet of the lake. Such is the nature of the waterfall, which makes it desirable to see the 'forces' in their own season. The ingenuous mind of Mr. E. A. Freeman would be delighted with the method of foxhunting on these fells. For, let it be said, to the equal horror of sportsmen, men go out after foxes with guns. For it is not a matter of sport, but of internecine warfare between farmers and foxes, who pillage his lambs and his poultry on an alarming scale. But even here-and it is an argument against Mr. Freeman-in spite of the guns, they cannot dispense with the fox's natural enemy, the dog. For the dog will kill him more surely, and pursue him on the fells where the sportsman cannot follow, even in his aim.

The waterfall that is more familiar to that vague entity the public mind is Lodore, made notorious by Southey's lines, which would require some qualification if applied to Niagara, and are simply ridiculous when applied to Lodore. There is a good deal of difficulty about the Lodore Falls, for a new and very good inn having been opened at Borrowdale, the Lodore Hotel people have put all who go there in an Index Expurgatorius' and will give no admittance to visitors

from the new hotel who wish to visit those lower falls of Lodore, which are best seen in the grounds of the old hotel. This argues a very morose and unhealthy state of mind somewhere. My own impression is, that the public, by long usance, has acquired a right of way, and that the law is on the side of baffled and ejected tourists. Having determined on operations, we took some sherry and soda at the latter inn, and went as a matter of course into the grounds. Here we were promptly confronted by a small and very imperious boy, who demanded whether we were staying at the Borrowdale Hotel. We explained to the youth that we had been through a process of ' restauration at his own hotel, and beyond that we declined to criminate ourselves, alleging that he had no right to put questions to an Englishman. The small boy considered our reply evasive and unsatisfactory, and avowed a dark suspicion that he had seen us at the large hotel. Having forthwith demolished the small boy, although a big lout with a pitchfork ran up to help him, we proceeded to scale the gorge. There was rather a difficult moraine, and we had to thread our way through a pathless plantation, which by the side of the stream had an almost tropic closeness of air and abundance of vegetation. Let the tourist, instead of entering on litigation or attempting the vi et armis plan, since even an appeal to the Times has failed, ascend the hill behind the inn,

which will soon bring him to the higher and better falls, for unless you have seen them you have not really seen Lodore. When you have climbed the gorge you emerge from the wood on a table-land, and not far off you come to that most secluded tarn from which the cascade is fed. The friend who scaled the

gorge

of the Lodore Fall with me was a poet, and I willingly transfer to my pages some lines that will give them a value not their own.

'Oh quiet tarn, uplifted on the hills,

Thy face is filled full of the light of heaven.

No factory soils thy ministering rills,
Nor restless traffic o'er thy waves is driven.

But bosomed gently 'mid the swelling fells,
Thou, in thine azure loveliness, dost rest
Like a great sapphire gem, that silent dwells
In glorious splendour on a woman's breast.

And silver-mailèd children of the deep,
Mute, in calm beauty, thy clear waters part ;
As in the tranquil hours of holy sleep,

Glide quiet thoughts through girlhood's purest heart.

And of heaven's light thou keepest still account,
So hast thou done while ages past thee trod;

As Moses' face on the calm desert mount

Shone from his lonely communing with God.

Ah! would like thine, my life were full of heaven,
But now, I fear me, it is all too late.

No second morning unto man is given;

I can admire thee, yet not imitate.'

But unquestionably the finest waterfall in the whole Lake district is Scale Force. You visit it from any

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of that group of sublime lakes, Buttermere, Crummock Water, Loweswater, which with Ennerdale and Wastwater makes up the secluded lakes, in contrast to those watery thoroughfares of Derwentwater, Windermere, Ulswater, and Coniston. The lakes, like the waterfalls, ought to be seen in stormy weather. The effect is truly remarkable. No boat could live on them for five minutes. The water is regularly torn up, ploughed, or rather churned, by the winds. You

might have imagined the scene wrapped in the smoke of a furious canonade, the spray, scattered by the winds, almost scaling the surrounding hills. To visit the waterfalls I took up my abode at the quaint little inn identified with the sad story of Mary of Buttermere. That story is often romantically exaggerated, but the real facts are stranger than the poetical story. The lover was no man of noble family, or in any degree deserving of compassion for his ultimate destiny at the hands of the hangman. The marriage with the pretty maid of the inn was a bigamous marriage; he was simply a vulgar cheat, swindler, liar, and impostor. The odd points about his career that render him a psychological study were these: he suffered in great measure through his insane vanity, forging franks while he represented himself to be an 'honourable' and M.P. had a passionate love of scenery, and wandered about the lakes and mountains in search of the sublime and

Secondly, he seems to have