A Few Days On The Yorkshire Moors.

of Devonshire is close by . Conning a few of the ancient gravestones we take a last lingering look and go onward . The landscape is perfectly sylvan , and we are enchanted with it . Coming to the entrance to the woods , Ave are informed we cannot go through them on Sunday , ancl have to retrace our steps to regain the high road . In doing so we again come in sight of the Abbey where " Graceful and rich the creeping ivy crawls

Around each bust , high on the Abbey borne ; Kindly it clasps the old cemented walls , ' Grown grey with age and with the weather worn . " A few herds of pretty coloured cattle enliven the way , and somewhat tired Ave reach Barden Towers . Here we partake of some exquisite milk , almost like cream , and proceed to investigate the ruins of Avhat was once the home of Hemy Cliffordthe " Shepherd Lord . " There is nothing remarkable

, very about it except its plainness , ancl its reputation simply rests on history . We climb the topmost brick , and are informed it is against the rules , Avhen we descend . " Where ignorance is bliss , etc . " The house we stop at is part and parcel of the old church , which is peculiarly built almost beneath it . The curiosities of the place are some ancient oak drawers , etc . The landlady is very talkative , and soon relates the history of the house . Eating

a hearty supper , we retire once more to bed after an enjoyable day . Four other young men in the house are on a fishing excursion . Dp at five , we go to bathe in the river through the dewy grass , after which enjoyable exercise we walk on to the " Strid . " " lordly Wharfe is there pent in With rocks on either side . The striding place is called the " Strid , " A name which it took of yore : A thousand years hath it borne the name , And shall ' a thousand TTIOTR . "

This is a very narrow part of the river , bounded by rocks so near to each other that it can be jumped with ease in several places , the only clanger being , however , the treacherous slipperiness of the stone . It was here that the unfortunate young . Romille , commonly called the " Boy of Egremond , " lost his life in attempting to cross it . The Abbey is supposed to have been erected by his mother in memory of the sad accident .

A pious structure , fair to see , Hose up—this stately priory !" Just below the " Strid , " the swollen river roars and boils in fearful tumult , pent up between the rocks . Here many accidents have occurred to those venturesome mortals who , attempting the leap , have jumped once too often . An eccentric old gentlemen used to visit this place every ancl perform the

year feat , and , notwithstanding the danger , many persons come annuall y for the same object . We could not leave this romantic spot without taking a sketch , vague enough , but sufficient to remind us of the place . The beautifull y shaded paths in the wood abound with ferns of many species , and form charming " lovers' walks , " and no doubt many a lover ' s vows have been whispered under the old secret-keeping oaks in this

Sweet glen of beauty , tamed m song and story , For all that poets love and painters dream . " On our return , breakfast is ready for us and we for it , which finished , we pay our bill and start for Pateley Bridge , and leave the place " Where moorlands rear their crags on high , Like solemn sentries o ' er the Wharfe . " A long tiring Avalk Ave have over Pockstone and Appletreewick moors , scarcelv