worst.  The scenery improved as we journeyed towards Keswick, the “City of the Lakes,” but not the weather, which continued dull and rainy, until by the time we reached the British stronghold known as Peel Wyke it was nearly dark.  Here we reached Bassenthwaite Lake, four miles long and one mile broad, and had it not been for the rain and the darkness we might have had a good view across the lake of Skiddaw Mountain, 3,054 feet above sea-level and towards the right, and of Helvellyn, a still higher mountain, rising above Derwent Water, immediately in front of us.  We had seen both of these peaks in the distance, but as the rain came on their summits became enveloped in the clouds.  We walked about three miles along the edge of Bassenthwaite Lake, passing the villages of Thornthwaite and Braithwaite, where lead and zinc were mined.  On arriving at Portinscale we crossed the bridge over the River Derwent which connects that lake (Derwent Water) with Bassenthwaite Lake through which it flows, and thence, past Cockermouth, to the sea at Workington.  Soon after leaving Portinscale we arrived at Keswick, where we were comfortably housed until Monday morning at the Skiddaw Hotel, formerly a licensed house, but since converted into a first-class temperance house by Miss Lawson, the sister of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Bart., M.P.

(Distance walked twenty-eight miles.)

Sunday, October 15th.

Rain had fallen heavily during the night, but the weather cleared up a little as we wended our way to morning service at Crosthwaite Church, dedicated to St. Kentigern, a Bishop of Glasgow, in the sixth century, and doing duty, we supposed, as the parish church of Keswick.  The font there dated from the year 1390, and bore the arms of Edward III, with inscriptions on each of its eight sides which we could not decipher.  In the chancel stood an alabaster tomb and effigy of Sir John Radcliffe and his wife, ancestors of the Earl of Derwentwater.  The church also contained a monument to Southey the poet, erected at a cost of L1,100, and bearing the following epitaph written by the poet Wordsworth: 

  The vales and hills whose beauty hither drew
  The poet’s steps, and fixed him here, on you
  His eyes have closed!  And ye, lov’d books, no more
  Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
  To works that ne’er shall forfeit their renown. 
  Adding immortal labours of his own—­
  Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal
  For the State’s guidance, and the Church’s weal
  Or fancy, disciplined by studious art,
  Inform’d his pen, or wisdom of the heart. 
  Or judgements sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
  By reverence for the rights of all mankind. 
  Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
  Could private feelings meet for holier rest. 
  His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
  From Skiddaw’s top; but he to heaven was vowed. 
  Through his industrious life, and Christian faith
  Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death.