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BOLTON ABBEY. 21

the world. But here we are identified in a manner with the scene around us; every peasant that we meet is a countryman and a kind of brother.”’

In conversation such as this we reached the abbey. It is now enclosed with a high park-wall, on opening a door in which the ruins in all their grandeur burst upon our view. Although the remaining vestiges but faintly shew what it was in the days of its former magnificence, in point of situation it can hardly be equalled. Close to the venerable pile, the Wharfe rolls peacefully along, overhung by rocks of a thousand various tints, from the deep rich purple to the more sober saffron; the tops of these cliffs are crowned with overhanging brushwood; from several of their apertures fall cascades, sending their white foam high into the air, and swelling the stream be- low with their tributary waters. Crossing the river, by means of large stones placed at equal distances from each other, we sauntered along the foot of the rocks, which served as a protection from the powerful rays of the sun, until the river, narrowing at every step, rushes with impetuous fury (forming a kind of whirlpool) between two rocks, known by the name of “ The Stride.” It was the fatal spot where “ the Boy of Egremond,” the last of his race, was dashed to pieces, as he attempted to leap the pass. The place is still shunned by the peasantry: oft in the silence of the night as the wind moans heavily by it, they