are in. The change in the character of the prospect is most striking; the sylvan scenery of Grasmere and Rydal is replaced by a loneliness and sombre beauty that might belong to another part of the world. And still we are less than four miles from Grasmere! The bare flank of Helvellyn on our right and the stony slopes of Steel Fell opposite have a charm of their own, as also have the interspersed rock and wood of Fisher and Raven Crags ahead, with the cone of Skiddaw peeping over them to the North. Ere long we pass the end of a road leading off to the left. This trends along the western side of Thirlmere and was built by the Manchester people after they decided to use the lake as their reservoir. It was feared that the necessary damming and flooding of the mere, together with other engineering work, would mar its beauty, and for a short time ugly scars were certainly left. But the hand of time has now almost hidden these, and the “new road” on the western side of the lake is an ample recompense for any temporary spoliation. Moreover, it has opened up some beautiful scenery. Now-a-days, the tourist can gaze across at Helvellyn and obtain an adequate idea of its beautiful curves and outline--an impossibility from the “old road,” for it runs along the mountain’s breast too closely. At the south end of Thirlmere we come upon the little township of Wythburn--a few houses and farmsteads, tended by one of the many “smallest churches in England.” It is locally know as “the Cathedral.” Our coach stops by the church-yard wall and we, at least some of us, stroll inside the sacred edifice. Others stroll inside an edifice of a different kind which is on the opposite side of the road! We are of the church party, however, and are well repaid by following the “narrow path.” Not because of the appointments of the church itself, although they are seemly enough, but because of the topical verses by various poets which are framed at the entrance. They savour somewhat of a poet’s competition, from which perhaps Hartley Coleridge emerges at the top with the following terse, but beautifully human, description of the church itself:-- “Humble it is and meek and very low, And speaks its purpose with a single bell; But God Himself, and He alone, doth know If spiry temples please him half so well.” The main road continues towards Keswick level and straight for some distance. The view across the lake is almost unchanged until we top Park Brow and gaze down the beautiful Vale of St. John, with the carven front of Blencathra hemming it in at the far end. The jutting crag on its right is the famous Castle Rock, the scene of Sir Walter Scott’s “Bridal of Triermain.” He describes a knight approaching it at twilight and “reining in his steed,” alarmed because he saw “airy turrets and a mighty keep and tower” in front. The resemblance to a castle is difficult to trace; perhaps Sir Walter’s knight had called at the Inn at Threlkeld before he set out!