Leaving Dalehead, you soon come to another farm-house, noticeable as presenting, in strong contrast to its dingy-looking, though prettily placed neighbours, a clean and cheerful, because whitewashed, exterior, a veracious index of the comfort, tidiness, and hospitality that characterise its interior. It is called Hinging House, and is the residence of another of the clan Tyson, the members of which are so numerous in this, and the sister vales Eskdale, Wastdale, The Langdales, &c., that in case of need, their chief, if they’d had one, might levy a regiment of his own name, as was done, if I remember aright, by one of the Highland Chieftains, and a regiment, too, that would be scarcely surpassable even by the Queen’s household troops as regards the strength, stature, figures and features of the rank and file. In this dale alone there are, zoologically speaking, some magnificent specimens, both male and female, of the genus _homo_ amongst the Tysons: and, indeed, the same may be said truly enough of the Walkers, Dawsons, Birketts, and the bearers of other Seathwaite surnames. [Illustration: BIRKS BRIDGE, RIVER DUDDON.] The great number of families bearing the name of Tyson renders it necessary for their neighbours and themselves to adopt the custom of distinguishing individuals by the names of their residences, as Daniel of Cockley Beck, George of Black Hall, Harry o’ t’ Hinging House, and so on _ad infinitum_. [Sidenote: TWO STORIES.] Not long ago, I had occasion to call at a house in Little Langdale, and the friend who accompanied me was joined, whilst waiting in the fold, by a fine ruddy and lively little fellow who had not then attained the dignity of his first breeches. He was, by way of starting a conversation, accosted with the question most common under such circumstances, “What is your name?” The answer was ready, “Jimmy o’ t’ Fell-foot!” “What other name have you?” “I have _nin_!” and neither his questioner nor his grown-up brother, who came up during the conversation, could prevail upon the youngster to assert his right to any other designation than “Jimmy o’ t’ Fell-foot.” Another anecdote illustrating the power of this custom and then we'll march on. Mr Tyson, the much respected incumbent of Seathwaite, had, and perhaps still has a son settled in London, and a worthy statesman, one of his parishioners, having business requiring his presence in town, was furnished with Mr Thomas Tyson’s address, which, with some difficulty, he contrived to make out, and greatly astonished the servant who opened the door to his knock by asking, in a dialect very distinctly not that of a Cockney, “If ye pleese, does Tom o’ t’ Priest’s leeve here?” [Sidenote: A SLIGHTED BEAUTY.]