are still more or less upright. A quarter of a mile west of this relic of British history, and near an antique farmhouse, called "Sunbreak," there is a lonely burial-ground, looking out towards the sea. This is the oldest graveyard of the Society of Friends. It is surrounded by a high stone wall, and carefully kept in order. The door is generally locked, but I found it simply fastened with a staple and chain, and a wooden peg. The interior contains no visible commemoration of the dead; but a thick swathe of the greenest grass covers the whole area, save on the higher side, where picturesque fragments of limestone rock, rising above the rich herbage, are so beautifully bemossed here and there, that it seems as if nature, in her quiet lovely way, had taken in hand to keep the memories of these nameless tenants of the dust for ever green. There was something more touchingly beautiful, more suggestive of repose, in the recordless silence of this lone graveyard of the persecuted puritan, than in any cemeteries adorned with grand effects of monumental art,which so oft intrude upon the solemnity of death things sullied by the vanities of the living. The sacred simplicity of the spot made one feel more deeply how sound they slept below, in that unassailable shelter from the hurtful world. The very sea-breeze seemed to pause there, and pass over this place of unawaking dreamers in a kind of requiem-hush. Gleaston Castle is about six miles from Ulverstone. direct road to it lies through the old village of Urswick. At the end of this village there is a fine tarn close by the highway. The people of Urswick Vale have a legend that the ruins of an ancient town lie beneath the waters of this tarn. Near Urswick there is a small monastic ruin of Bolton

The

Chapel, standing in a farm-yard, by the road, and now used as a cow-house. Leaving this village, we pass Redmond Hall, the seat of a family once known in English history. About a mile from Gleaston Castle, in a hollow of the fields, on the left hand side of the road, there is a pretty little sheet of water, called Mere Tarn, swarming with pike. The ruins of Gleaston Castle are of considerable extent. The castle

originally consisted of four square towers, connected by strong curtain walls, defending an enclosure, the length of which seemed to me about one hundred yards. One of these towers has disappeared, and the other three are more or less ruinous; but the summits of two may yet be easily

ascended by the stone steps which wind up in the thickness of the massive walls. In its palmy days this castle must have looked imposing in the heart of the little vale, where it seems to have been placed more for shelter and seclusion than for anything commanding in position. It was built by the Flemings, lords of the ancient manor of Much Land. The possessions of Michael le Fleming were the only lands in all Furness exempted from the grant made by Stephen, Earl of Bologne and Moreton, to Furness Abbey. The name of this Michael, which the natives pronounce "Mickle," still clings to old associations in this neighbour

hood, as in the case of "Mickle Well," not meaning great well, but "Michael's Well." I remember how, on that

breezy day, when, with two friends, I visited the ruins of this castle, as we were casting about Gleaston, in hungry search of a dinner, we found this old well in a mossy corner at the entrance of the village. The stones about it were worn by the footing of many generations, and the water was so clear that I could have seen a single thread of a lady's hair at the bottom of it. I remember, too, that when we were beginning to despair of finding anything like substantial refreshment, we met with it at the very last house at the western edge of the village, a clean little hostelry, where we got an excellent dinner of eggs and bacon, cheese, ale, pickles, salad, fresh from the garden behind the house, and three quarts of butter milk; in addition to which, I had my shoe mended; and we were treated with more than common civility, all for the low charge of three and sixpence,-which was received with satisfaction. The way of the shoe business was this,-I had burst the seam of it, and it was getting squashy with wet, for we had had a delightful rough tramp o'er moss and fell, and through miry bye-roads, that day. The good wife. at the alehouse offered to get it mended for me whilst dinner was cooking. The old man lent me a shoe of his own to put on meanwhile. It was as hard as an iron pot; in fact, it had a considerable weight of iron work about it, and for any rough work, I felt as if that shoe was worth at least four pairs such as mine. With one foot handicapped in this clog of iron and leather, I amused myself with walking about the clean floor, listening to the difference of

sound in my footsteps, which went "fuzz, clang,-fuzz, clang," reminding me of the three bells of a little country church that I have heard of, one of which was sound, the next cracked, and the third mended with leather,-their united music amounting to a kind of "ding, dang, puff." The shoe came back mended before dinner was over, and a thrill of returning comfort went through my frame when I got it on, for I had felt as if walking with a wet dish-cloth round my foot a while before. As we returned through the village, one of my friends proposed that we should just look in upon a relation of his, an old shoemaker, and a quaint man, well versed in the folk lore of the district. He then led us up to one of the most comfortable-looking cottages I ever saw. The floor was as clean as a plate just laid down for dinner, the place smelt as sweet as an herb stall, and all the polishable metal things shone like pools of water in moonlight. The cheerful old wife, whose ruddy face was bedded in a snowy old-fashioned cap, and whose eyes, in spite of age and spectacles, looked as bright as the stars on a frosty night, rose from her arm-chair, and hobbled about with her crutch, smiling and talking, and talking and smiling, as if she didn't know exactly what to do to show that she was very fain. At last, opening the door of an inner room, where the hearty old fellow and his son sat at work, she said, "What, dinnet ye see wha's here?" Dropping his hammer, and brushing the dirt from his leather apron, the old man rose above six feet into the air, pushed up his spectacles, and shouted, "Why, it never is, sewer! It cannot be reightly, can it? It's nowt i' th' warld else, aw declare! Well, this is a capper, hooivver! What, ye're

Whatever quarter's th'

Well, cum, cum; sit

"But," said he,

right good stuff for sore e'en, mon! wind in, at ye're blawn this gate on? ye daan and let's mak use o' ye while ye are here." "Ye hevn't hed ye're teea, aw warnd," said the good wife. But we were already primely filled with good things, and no other feast could have been so delightful as the genial welcome which the old couple gave us. The day, too, was waning, with an uncertain sky, and we had several miles to go. As we sat talking with the old man, a fine pair of new doublesoled shooting boots stood at my elbow. I took them up, and asked what such a pair would cost. He said they couldn't be done like them under a pound. "ye sud ha' sin a shoe that I stitched abaat an haar sin', for some poor tramp. I nivver see a warse made shoe i' my life, I think. An' he couldn't hev hed 'em lang nawther,—'t leather wur so fresh." As he went on talking, I slowly lifted my foot till it came fairly into his sight. "Hello!" said he, with a confused gaze, "What, wor it yaar shoe?" It was. It was. "Well, then," replied he, "all I can say is, at yer wit's a deeal better nor yer understandin'!" We had a good deal of gleeful talk with the old folk; after which six miles' walk in a high wind through the vale of Urswick brought us to Ulverstone, at the edge of dark, well pleased with our day's ramble.

Conishead Priory is rather more than a mile south of Ulverstone. There is a good road through the finest part of Conishead Park to the pretty village of Bardsea, which village is about three miles from Ulverstone. The road goes near the princely mansion, the seat of H. W. Askew, Esq., which stands upon the site of the ancient