After emerging from the forest-fringed road through the park, you soon pass the pleasant residence called High Ground, and the picturesque homestead of Little Arrow, and leaving the beautiful farm of Hawthwaite considerably to the left, you shortly enter the ancient and primitive chapelry of Torver, where—
“Provided you've got a strong taste for rusticity,
And Wordsworth has not made you sick of simplicity”—
you may have your taste gratified, for there are few places now in England, where old-fashioned and unsophisticated habits and manners prevail more decidedly than in Torver. There is no account of any family of rank ever being resident in Torver, and nearly all the land is still possessed by the descendants of the men whom Sir Walter Scott apostrophizes as
“——Those gallant yeomen,
England’s peculiar and appropriate sons,
Known in no other land. Each boasts his hearth
And field as free as the best lord his barony,
Owing subjection to no human vassalage,
Save to their King and law. Hence are they resolute,