After emerging from the forest-fringed road through the park, you soon pass the pleasant residence called High Ground, and the picturesque homestead of Little Arrow, and leaving the beautiful farm of Hawthwaite considerably to the left, you shortly enter the ancient and primitive chapelry of Torver, where— “Provided you've got a strong taste for rusticity, And Wordsworth has not made you sick of simplicity”— you may have your taste gratified, for there are few places now in England, where old-fashioned and unsophisticated habits and manners prevail more decidedly than in Torver. There is no account of any family of rank ever being resident in Torver, and nearly all the land is still possessed by the descendants of the men whom Sir Walter Scott apostrophizes as [Sidenote: PEOPLE AND STEEPLE-(HOUSE.)] “——Those gallant yeomen, England’s peculiar and appropriate sons, Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth And field as free as the best lord his barony, Owing subjection to no human vassalage, Save to their King and law. Hence are they resolute, Leading the van on every day of battle, As men who know the blessings they defend. Hence are they frank and generous in peace, As men who have their portion in its plenty; No other kingdom shows such worth and happiness Veiled in such low estate.” A very neat and appropriate chapel has just been erected in Torver, after a design furnished gratuitously by Mr M. Thompson, an architect resident, I believe, in Kendal. The old chapel, removed in 1848, was an object of interest from the fact of its having been consecrated by Archbishop Cranmer, and said to have been the first church erected in England for the exercise of the Protestant form of worship. Close to the chapel stands the snug and tidy public-house, known pretty widely by the title of Torver Kirk-house, and if you happen to be a-thirst, I can honestly recommend Thomas Massicks’ home-brewed ale. In fulfilment of a trite rhyming proverb, these houses of entertainment, adjoining houses of prayer, are very abundant in our rural parishes, and are so extensively patronized both by wayfarers and neighbours, that Mr Wordsworth, when he says “The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim’s eye Is welcome as a star, that doth present Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky:” &c. &c., would have given us a truth of much more general application, had he said— Old Ulpha Kirk-house to the pilgrim’s eye Is welcome as the sun that doth present His blowzy visage through some hopeful rent In clouds, whose rain has left not one stitch dry. [Sidenote: HILL, MILL AND PILL-(BOXES.)]