of the place nor catch the exact feeling which hangs about its woods and hills at a particular moment. Only those who have spent months at a time in exploring its beauties, and who have seen spring change to summer, summer to autumn, and autumn melt into winter, and winter round to spring amongst the hills which enclose it, can realise the intensity of its charm and the imperishable nature of its loveliness. To set eyes on Bolton Priory for the first time is an experience which must needs thrill the dullest soul, so perfect are all the features of the picture which presents itself to the eye. Southward of the ancient ruins lie wide stretches of luxuriant meadow-land from which the hills rise gently and gradually towards the summit of the watershed dividing Wharfedale from Airedale, sharply and boldly towards the frowning brow of Beamsley Beacon and the great moors which stretch beyond it. Through these meadows and beneath the ancient trees which line its banks runs the Wharfe, shallow but sparkling, keeping up a perpetual murmur as it swirls and eddies about the stones and rocks which form its bed. Where it sweeps to the north with a sudden curve stands the Priory, beautiful in its immediate situation above all other religious houses, fronted by a vast mass of rock covered with trees, and surrounded by oak and ash and elm rising from broad expanses of lawn and meadow. Northward, the river passes into such woods as no other corner of England can boast. Beneath their shade it winds and curves-through their midst come rivulets and miniature torrents from the hills and moors

VOL. II.

U

to meet it. The variety of the scenery in these woods is amazing-at one time the eye is charmed by the softness of their aspect and the placid flowing of the river beneath their undergrowth, at another it is fascinated by the savage desolation which they present, and by the roaring and foaming of the Wharfe as it forces its way through the mighty rocks which hem it in. Nor is the last stage of the journey in the immediate neighbourhood of the Priory behind the other stages in beauty, for when the woods are passed the traveller finds himself gazing on the romantic tower of Barden rising in grey loneliness above the tree-lined stream and on the purple fells which loom high above the narrowing valley.

The ideal approach to Bolton is without doubt from the hamlet of Beamsley, from whence a narrow lane leads into the highway between Skipton and Harrogate at the foot of the steep rise extending to Hazlewood. At a short distance from the meeting of lane and highway stands the old Red Lion Inn, a quaint, pleasant hostelry with a good deal of suggestiveness of other days about it. It bears distinct traces of antiquity in exterior and interior appearance, and there are worse ways of beginning an inspection of Bolton and its glories than by sitting down in one of its lowceilinged parlours to the consumption of well-fed beef and sound ale. Between it and the bridge there are several cottages of equally antique appearance, neat, clean, and gay with flowers. On a beam in one of them there was a few years ago the following inscription:

"Thou pat passes by pis way,

One Ave Maria here yow say."