as nar deead as maks nea matter. When she so us she was warr flay’t than we,—she brast out a crying, an’ _we_ grat, an’ my fadder grat an’ o', an’ they duddent flyte nor sed nowt tull us for running away.” [Sidenote: FORCE, FARMS, AND BIRCHES.] You soon arrive at Colwith, where you may stop to inspect the force. It is, in my opinion, one of the finest forces in the country, possessing by far the largest body of water, with a fall, or rather a succession of falls, of 152 feet, very much broken and frothed up by jutting interruptions of rock. Its immediate environs are prettily wooded, and it is seen to most advantage from below. When you cross Colwith Bridge, you are again in Lancashire, and in rather a dreary portion of that important county. You have no houses for miles, except the two farms of Arnside, which stand _unseen_ in “dual loneliness” upon the wild moor to the left, and those of Oxenfell over the heights on your right. As you descend towards Yewdale by the alder-fringed brook, you may notice a large enclosure of birches, which fully justify Mr Wordsworth’s preference; for it is difficult to name a deciduous tree that is prettier in all seasons than the birch, with its tremulous foliage in summer, and its flea-coloured twigs and its grey-coloured stem in winter. One cannot help regretting that the twigs of such a handsome tree should come to such base uses at last! [Sidenote: A “FLASH” AND ADIEU!] As you approach the head of Yewdale, the scenery gradually assumes an aspect of the most varied loveliness. When you enter the vale of Yewdale, take the steep road to the left over Tarn Hows; but Mr De Quincey is here a much better cicerone than I, and he says,—“Taking the left-hand road, so as to make for Monk Conistone, and not for Church Conistone, you ascend a pretty steep hill, from which, at a certain point of the little gorge, or _hawse_ (i. e. _hals_, neck or throat, viz., the dip in any hill through which the road is led), the whole lake, of six miles in length, and the beautiful foregrounds, all rush upon the eye with the effect of a pantomimic surprize—not by a graduated revelation, but by an instantaneous flash.” You descend by the road winding through Mr Marshall's beautiful grounds, until you reach the road from Ambleside. You are now very near your excellent head quarters, and my ravings and your ramblings are equally near a happy conclusion; so trusting you will drink your first bumper after dinner to our next merry meeting, I bid you, most affectionately, adieu. FINIS. GEORGE LEE, PRINTER, KENDAL. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Man; or, Ravings and Ramblings round Conistone, by Alexander Craig Gibson