You may ramble at will; cross the long row of stepping-stones to the opposite bank, and scramble through the wood to the top of the cliff; or roam over the meadows up and down the river, or lounge in idle enjoyment on the seats fixed under some of the trees. After strolling hither and thither, I concealed myself under the branches overhanging the stream, and sat there as in a bower, with my feet in the shallow water, the lively flashing current broad before me, and read,
“From Bolton’s old monastic tower
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharfe,
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!”
And while I read, the bell was ringing, and the people were gathering together, and anon the priest
“all tranquilly
Recites the holy liturgy,”
but no White Doe of Rylstone came gliding down to pace timidly among the tombs, and make her couch on a solitary grave.
And reading there on the scene itself, I found a new charm in the pages—a vivid life in the old events and old names:
“Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
And through the chink in the fractured floor
Look down, and see a grisly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if you dare;
Oft does the White Doe loiter there.”
And here, as at Skipton, we are reminded of the Cliffords, and of the Shepherd Lord, to whom appeared at times the gracious fairy,
“And taught him signs, and showed him sights,
In Craven’s dens, on Cumbrian heights;
When under a cloud of fear he lay,
A shepherd clad in homely gray.”
I left my mossy seat and returned to the bank, thoroughly cooled, on coming to the end of the poem, and started for a travel up the dale. The road skirts the edge of Bolton Park; but the pleasantest way is through the park itself, for there you have grand wooded slopes on each side, and there the river rushing along its limestone bed encounters the far-famed Strid. A rustic, however, told me that no one was allowed to cross the park on Sunday; but having come to see a sight, I did not like to be disappointed, and thought it best to test the question myself. I kept on, therefore, passing from the open grounds to delightful paths under the woods, bending hither and thither, and with many a rise and fall among rocks and trees. Presently, guided by the roar, I struck through the wood for the stony margin of the river. Here all is rock: great hummocks, ledges and tables of rock, wherein are deep basins, gullies, bays, and shallow pools; and the water makes a loud noise as it struggles past. Here and there a rugged cliff appears, its base buried in underwood, its front hung with ivy; and there are marks on the trees, and portentous signs on the drifted boulders, which reveal the swollen height of floods. There are times when all these Yorkshire rivers become impetuous torrents, roaring along in resistless might and majesty.