The islands on the coast, the monument to Sir John 'Barrow, the road from Ulverston to Newby-bridge, the Moorland road to Kirkby, and thence to Coniston, all present objects of interest and scenes of wildness or beauty, but here our sketch must end, and we trust the reader will, if he has not already seen them, soon take an opportunity to explore scenes so rich in historical interest and natural beauty, and if he has seen them, we hope, in the winter hours, this paper will recall pleasantly the scenes of many a delightsome day.

CONISTON OLD MAN.

But even

DID you ever eat Duddon flukes? Perhaps not. as you buy them in the market, they are by no means despisable food. But just watch sunset, as we did, over Duddon Estuary, and then ramble by Duddon side, and get lost by the sands as the darkness comes on-climb over the fence to the railway because you are afraid of getting into the mud of a stream through the sands, as you once did on Walney Isle -walk your best, and only just have light enough when you get to Kirkby to know that the yew tree at the corner is a yew tree-get to the station too late for the last train-be refused admittance at one inn, and at last find yourself in a snug little parlour at Stables' Inn, with some splendid coffee (with cream) before you, and a dish of flukes fresh from Duddon, and fried exquisitely-and if you don't enjoy them, why we pity you that's all. We guess you wouldn't refuse them at breakfast next morning. Neither did we. We acknowledge to having eaten five at supper. How many more we won't say, nor at breakfast either. After breakfast, we strolled slowly towards the station, Black Combe standing out in all its bold height, and purple in the morning sun, the estuary bright, and the sea all calm; the valley northwards beautiful to behold, and that bank of clouds there we know is the nightcap of Coniston Old Man.

The train comes up from the Abbey, and in less than an hour we have had our journey up Duddon Vale, we have seen

the lake, and jumped out at Coniston station.

In the village

We

we find a respectable inn, where we engage our room. don't need breakfast, for we had flukes at Kirkby Ireleth, but we lay in our satchel sundry parcels of that "appetiteprovoking and satisfying mixture," ycleped ham sandwich, and borrowing a heavy hammer from "mine host," we sally forth on geological thoughts intent.

We

We have heard of a formation called Coniston limestone, but we have neglected to provide ourselves with a map, so we have to search for it. We will try the fells there. There has been rain in the night, and every gully has its brawling torrent, and there come spouting out in two or three places tiny waterfalls. We make a circuit and try a quarry above the waterhead, but without result, the rocks are unfossiliferous. We cross a stream and the high road, and begin the ascent of the fells. We try a fragment of stone-useless; another-no good; no sign at all of the ancient life. chip portions of the native rock with the same result. We try again and again, though the appearances are such as we have elsewhere seen, and know to be without organic remains. At length we give up, lay down. hammer and bag, and look around. What a sight. The clouds on the hills opposite have been dispersed by the sun, and the lake is sparkling in his beams. Its whole length of near six miles is visible, and its eastern shore fringed with trees, and the grounds of the Waterhead Hotel are clearly seen; here and there a boat upon the water; northward, glimpses of lofty mountains, and here, close to us, the front of the fells we essay to climb. Yes, we will reach that point. This steep ascent resembles much that in Ireland we

ascended last year, which, with an outline like the profile of Napoleon, overhangs Belfast Lough. We toil upwards. Every time we turn about there is a change in the landscape. Eastward, northward, more hills, and the valley and the lake more distinct and lovely.

Up. These raspberries are good. We drink at the brawling torrent. Now for it by shrub and rock. A tough, tough climb. The hammer in the satchel does not add to the comfort of the journey upwards. We turn into a crevice, find a warm sheltered seat, and feast our eyes on the landscape below hill. Having recovered breath, we again address ourselves to the ascent. It is now all climbing, no even slope at all. By the help of a root we pull up to a rock, and by the aid of our staff we pass over loose stones. But it is done. Up that gully, and here we stand on the highest point of the fell front; but yonder, stretching away before us, is an enormous mass of mountain rising far above where we are. It is Weatherlamb, and here, to the left, beyond a deep gulf, without his nightcap, up in clear ether, is Coniston Old Man.

We turn about. The lake and its valley beneath us spread out like a map. The church seems close under our feet. The hills opposite are dwindled down to mere rising ground, over which we look, and beyond—yes, it must be Windermere, yes, there it is, the river lake. All glad-hearted we look, for Windermere has from childhood been a famous name. Like Aladdin and Sinbad, it has been a name for fairy-land, but as years have come upon us we have joyed the more in Windermere, because, though lovely, it is real. Even as we write now, we see it as we saw it that day from the

to us.

front of Weatherlamb, as we saw it from the Old Man, and as we have seen it since from its own sweet shore. We, as we sit, can conjure up the scene when Mr. Bolton was the host of famous guests and Christopher North was the admiral of a fleet of fifty boats on Windermere, lovely Windermere. We turn away. That heavy hammer is a sore perplexity We would fain return to the inn, and start again, but the height we have gained would be lost. We struggle over the rugged plateau we have reached, and stand on the edge of the gulf that separates us from the Man, a deep deep vale, almost circular in form; a road winding along it. At the upper end the wall of a tarn over which is pouring a silver flood. Below the tarn, a tramway, a water-wheel, and other signs of human industry-the copper works, the property of a reverend baronet. We look with some regret. To reach the Man we must descend, and we feel that the sun has begun his descent, and our strength is far spent. We will take the higher ridge there by the copper works; perhaps a few specimens of ore may be obtained that will repay us for the loss of fossils, and remove the regret that we have not ascended to the Man.

Down we go.

The men at the works seem astonished at being approached from that side. We turn along the diverted torrent and its made channel, to where it flings itself in full force upon the water-wheel below. We descend. We question the workmen engaged upon a larger water-wheel as to its dimensions, and find that the new one is five and forty feet in diameter. We descend no more-we climb to that other torrent's course that has been diverted, and winds round the ridge towards the Man. We find now