the way.

and the guides at Keswick and Ambleside will talk loudly of the badness of the accommodation, the rudeness of the inhabitants, and the roughness of It can indeed only be explored on foot, and it must be confessed that there is neither an hotel nor a gentleman's house throughout: but though the way be somewhat rough and the people unpolished, the traveller who is willing to be pleased will find accommodation, civility, and plenty; and in these days it should be anything but an objection to a genuine lover of rural sights and sounds that the place and the people are so little changed by the march of modern refinement. We are quite sure, if any of our readers will try the course we point out, they will thank us for suggesting it.

We purpose to follow our stream from its source to its termination in the sea, taking Wordsworth's poem as our guide. The source of the Duddon is on the top, or nearly the top, of Wrynose Fell. The best way of approach to it is from Langdale : you ascend Wrynose at Fell-foot, by the old Whitehaven road, which is carried over nearly the highest part of Wrynose. When only pack-horses were used for the conveyance of goods in these parts, this was the main road from Kendal to Whitehaven, a fact the stranger who sees it finds some difficulty in crediting, so rough and acclivitous is it. When the top of Wrynose is gained, a small circle of stones, three of them somewhat larger than the others, will be seen on the right of the road; these are the 'Three-shire Stones,' marking the junction of the counties of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire. They are one of the local wonders, and will be readily pointed out to the visitor. Passing these, the traveller must almost directly

turn out of the road, leaving it on his left, and he will soon come upon the source of the Duddon. The water oozes up through a bed of moss, and unless care be taken, the real source may be overlooked and a wrong spot selected, there being several other moss beds a little lower down the Fell. Wordsworth says of it (Sonnet III.):

"How shall I paint thee?

Nature hath lent

To thy beginning nought that doth present
Peculiar ground for hope to build upon."

It is, however, no ordinary spot. On such a morning as that on which we visited it-cold, grey, and misty-the huge masses of crag which protrude from the ground, bare of everything but the grey lichen and a few straggling tufts of grass on their highest points; the dull russet clothing of the thin soil; the many mingled and brilliant colours of the wet mosses; the perfect quiet of the air, broken only for a moment by the motion of a sheep or two that have straggled here, hardly it should seem for pasture, produce together so deep an impression of desolate solitude, as not to be soon forgotten. From this spot a slender thread of water finds its way down a narrow channel; it is, however, soon joined by one and another little streamlet, and begins very quickly to toss along its stony bed in that seemingly joyous mood so characteristic of mountain-streams. Long before it reaches the bottom of the Fell it has acquired a tolerable volume of water, and formed two or three pretty little water-breaks. Its course down the Fell is very tortuous, but if you have some time to spare, by all means follow its "loosely scattered curves,' nor forget sometimes to look back. Wordsworth

has devoted a sonnet to these retrospective glances; and it is pleasing to observe how a simple and hitherto unnoticed object will start into beauty at the touch of a true poet, as in nature we often see when a sudden gleam of sunshine illumines some obscure feature of the landscape.

When it reaches the Fell-foot, the broad rocky channel tells that though ordinarily but a trifling stream, it must sometimes present a grand appearance. The mountains here form a sort of coomb, and in stormy wintry weather, or on the melting of the snow upon them, large quantities of water pour down on every side, bringing with them great masses of stone, which, as they are driven against the projecting crags on the mountain-sides, or against each other as they roll along the bed of the stream, make, we were told, a strange turmoil, and may often be heard at a considerable distance. Here our stream is joined by a small one that rises by Scawfell; and now it takes the name of Cockley Beck.* The traveller will here pause to admire the magnificent array of mountains on either hand; especially on the west, where they appear in their full majesty, the rugged outline of the Pikes of Scawfell forming a background of a grander kind than any other, perhaps, in the whole district. So grand is their appearance in this place, that the lover of nature will be tempted to leave our stream for awhile, and wander up the dale towards them; and he will do well. At almost every step some new feature of greatness will present itself, and as the vale winds they will be seen in many various and striking combinations. They who would as*Beck is the name for a mountain-stream throughout the Lorth of England.