Dove Cottage is situated just off the main road, a few yards from the Prince of Wales Hotel, the name of which reminds one that Royalty has visited Grasmere. As quite a boy, our late King Edward VII. stayed at this magnificent and beautifully-situated hotel, and during his stay was rowed across to the Island. He wandered away from his attendants and happened upon some sheep grazing. Boylike, he collared one of them and treated himself to a ride, whereupon the old woman tending the sheep appeared round a corner, quickly collared His Royal Highness and gave him what she considered he richly deserved. Just then the attendants hove in sight and rescued the prince, explaining to the old woman the enormity of such an offence as thrashing the future King of England. With true rustic independence, she attached little importance to the exalted rank of her annoyer, and exclaimed, “King or nea King, he’s a badly browt up brat an’ if ah hed his mudder here ah’d tell her t’ seam!” Such is the incident as I had it the other day from one who knew well the old woman herself. If we keep along past Dove Cottage and climb the hill between it and Rydal Water, we soon come to a gate in the wall on our right. This is Wordsworth’s “Wishing Gate” and from it Grasmere and Silverhow look their best. We must not linger here, however, but keep along the road until Rydal Water lies at our feet, with Nab Scar sweeping down to it on the left. This is the smallest of the lakes and at the same time one of the prettiest. “We admire great things, but love small ones”: this is one of the latter. Whether seen through the trees from the main road near Wordsworth’s Rock, or from its margin, the reedy foreshore and pretty islands, with gentle background of hills, give Rydal a place apart in Lakeland’s scheme of beauty. On the road [Illustration: Rydal Water And Nab Scar, with Nab Cottage, Coleridge’s home, across the lake.] side near the Grasmere end of the lake is Nab Cottage, for many years the home of Hartley Coleridge--“Lile Hartley” of genial memory, loved by the dales-folk, a rare hand at a tale, and a “poet every inch o’ im,” as one of his local contemporaries voiced it to me the other day.