After noticing the many old, but comfortable and substantial dwellings with which the remarkably verdant fields of Torver (which flow with milk and honey) are “bedropt,” you must take the road which the guide-post tells you leads to Ulverston—if you can’t read, ask at the blacksmith’s shop—and when you reach the eminence on which stands the old farm-house called Hem, or Hen Hall, turn round and take a good look at the Old Man, who is certainly seen to the greatest advantage from this point of view. In looking at him on any other side, his connection with the chain of hills behind him detracts much from the dignity of his aspect; but from this side, and especially from this precise spot, he appears to stand forth, independent and self-reliant, the advanced guard of an army of Titans. At Hem Hall, you may leave the high road for about a hundred yards, taking a narrow steep lane straight before you, to look at Torver Mill,—and a splendid fall the “Blackbeck of Torver” makes a little above the mill,—returning to the highway at Beckstones, and descending rapidly till you cross the beck near to the exceedingly well-named farm of Sunny-bank, and the Bobbin Mill. By the bye, if you would like to see how very rapidly they can make bobbins or reels for holding cotton thread, and boxes for holding Professor Holloway’s pills and ointment, by the use of which you may escape the penalty entailed upon us all by old father Adam, you should ask leave to inspect the operations in this bobbin mill, and I have no doubt that my good friend, Mr Kendal, will be happy to do the honours to any pretty-behaved young gentleman like yourself. [Sidenote: THE LAKE-FOOT.] You pass Sunny-bank, its pretty farm, its bridge and bobbin mill, and return to the lake-side below the mouth of Torver beck, and opposite to “the Gridiron,” and ride on through the farm-yard of Oxness, past Brown How, near to which a very handsome mansion has just been built upon a singularly beautiful site by the lake side. The scenery here is very picturesque, consisting, as it does, of successive but irregular precipitous ranges of grey rock—in some parts bare, and in others clad with a heavy drapery of glittering ivy—separated by intervals of purple heather, or green brackens and greener pasturage. You are now near the water-foot, and just before you reach the hamlet of Water-yeat, stop on a little eminence and enjoy a view, one glimpse of which, I have been told, would be ample compensation for a journey from Timbuctoo. The whole length of the lake lies spread out before you, from the Copper sheds at Nibthwaite to the Inn at Waterhead, which last, though at six miles’ distance, is very distinctly seen—beautifully backed up by the slopes and woods of Mr Marshall’s noble park; these again over-topped by the distant, finely-outlined range of mountains beyond Rydal and Grasmere.