After Strines, from near which place there is another way to Cobden Edge, next, if travelling by train, we get to New Mills, and before long to Chapel-en-le-Frith, once again a point for new beginning, since it is here that we start for Castleton. This is a jaunt purely for pedestrians, and for vehicles not unwilling to linger on the way, being one long climb, from which even steam, that, like Lord Chatham, "tramples upon impossibilities," for the present seems to shrink. England furnishes few such walks as this one from Chapel to Castleton, the concluding part in particular, by the ancient bridle-path, through the Windgates, or "Winnats,"--crags rising upon each side to a height so vast that at times we seem absolutely shut in. The hugeness and the loneliness of this wonderful chasm, the bare grey slopes and bluffs of projecting rock relieved only by the presence of a few sheep, powerfully recall the great passes amid the mountains of the distant north. Once, however, it must have been comparatively well trodden, the Winnats, up to about eighty years ago, having been the sole thoroughfare from Chapel into Hope Dale. The high-road now curls round by the foot of Mam Tor, or the "Shivering Mountain," so called because of the continual dribbling away upon one side of the loose material of which this singular pile chiefly consists. The apex of Mam Tor is one thousand three hundred and fifty feet above the sea, yet so great is the elevation of all the surrounding country that it seems quite inconsiderable. Everywhere hereabouts, in fact throughout the journey, after leaving Chapel, a remarkable negative feature of the scenery is the absence of water. Plenty of the little recesses are here that remind us of those afar where moisture drips and sparkles on green moss. But we look in vain for the slightest trickling movement. There are none of the little springs which ordinarily upon the mountain-side seem longing for the time when they shall become cascades. In Lancashire a pass like the Winnats would have had a splashing and plentiful stream, or at all events would remind us of a Palestine wady. It is further remarkable that upon these hills there is no heather, nor is there a single plant of either whortleberry or bracken. The great attraction at Castleton consists in the caverns. The Blue-john mine should be visited in order to learn what stalactite drapery means; but the best part of the "Peak-cavern" is the vestibule, open to the daylight. Pushing into the interior, the vast altitude of one small portion, revealed for a moment by means of fireworks, no doubt has a kind of sublimity. Still there is nothing to please, unless it be pleasure to stand in a dark inferno that seems no part of our own world, and which can scarcely be entered without a feeling of dismay. The ruins of Peveril Castle, and the fine old Norman arch in Castleton church are both very interesting to the archæologist. The position of