april 10th.—at skipton. my wife, j——-, and i left southport to-day for a short tour to york and its neighborhood. the weather has been exceedingly disagreeable for weeks past, but yesterday and to-day have been pleasant, and we take advantage of the first glimpses of spring-like weather. we came by preston, along a road that grew rather more interesting as we proceeded to this place, which is about sixty miles from southport, and where we arrived between five and six o'clock. first of all, we got some tea; and then, as it was a pleasant sunset, we set forth from our old-fashioned inn to take a walk.

skipton is an ancient town, and has an ancient though well-repaired aspect, the houses being built of gray stone, but in no picturesque shapes; the streets well paved; the site irregular and rising gradually towards skipton castle, which overlooks the town, as an old lordly castle ought to overlook the feudal village which it protects. the castle was built shortly after the conquest by robert de romeli, and was afterwards the property and residence of the famous cliffords. we met an honest man, as we approached the gateway, who kindly encouraged us to apply for admittance, notwithstanding it was good friday; telling us how to find the housekeeper, who would probably show us over the castle. so we passed through the gate, between two embattled towers; and in the castle court we met a flock of young damsels, who had been rambling about the precincts. they likewise directed us in our search for the housekeeper, and s——-, being bolder than i in such assaults on feudal castles, led the way down a dark archway, and up an exterior stairway, and, knocking at a door, immediately brought the housekeeper to a parley.

she proved to be a nowise awful personage, but a homely, neat, kindly, intelligent, and middle-aged body. she seemed to be all alone in this great old castle, and at once consented to show us about,—being, no doubt, glad to see any christian visitors. the castle is now the property of sir r. tufton; but the present family do not make it their permanent residence, and have only occasionally visited it. indeed, it could not well be made an eligible or comfortable residence, according to modern ideas; the rooms occupying the several stories of large round towers, and looking gloomy and sombre, if not dreary,—not the less so for what has been done to modernize them; for instance, modern paper-hangings, and, in some of the rooms, marble fireplaces. they need a great deal more light and higher ceilings; and i rather imagine that the warm, rich effect of glowing tapestry is essential to keep one's spirit cheerful in these ancient rooms. modern paper-hangings are too superficial and wishy-washy for the purpose. tapestry, it is true, there is now, completely covering the walls of several of the rooms, but all faded into ghastliness; nor could some of it have been otherwise than ghastly, even in its newness, for it represented persons suffering various kinds of torture, with crowds of monks and nuns looking on. in another room there was the story of solomon and the queen of sheba, and other subjects not to be readily distinguished in the twilight that was gathering in these antique chambers. we saw, too, some very old portraits of the cliffords and the thanets, in black frames, and the pictures themselves sadly faded and neglected. the famous countess anne of pembroke, dorset, and montgomery was represented on one of the leaves of a pair of folding doors, and one of her husbands, i believe, on the other leaf. there was the picture of a little idiot lordling, who had choked himself to death; and a portrait of oliver cromwell, who battered this old castle, together with almost every other english or welsh castle that i ever saw or heard of. the housekeeper pointed out the grove of trees where his cannon were planted during the siege. there was but little furniture in the rooms; amongst other articles, an antique chair, in which mary, queen of scots, is said to have rested.

the housekeeper next took us into the part of the castle which has never been modernized since it was repaired, after the siege of cromwell. this is a dismal series of cellars above ground, with immensely thick walls, letting in but scanty light, and dim staircases of stone; and a large hall, with a vast fireplace, where every particle of heat must needs have gone up chimney,—a chill and heart-breaking place enough. quite in the midst of this part of the castle is the court-yard,—a space of some thirty or forty feet in length and breadth, open to the sky, but shut completely in on every side by the buildings of the castle, and paved over with flat stones. out of this pavement, however, grows a yew-tree, ascending to the tops of the towers, and completely filling, with its branches and foliage, the whole open space between them. some small birds—quite a flock of them—were twittering and fluttering among the upper branches. we went upward, through two or three stories of dismal rooms,—among others, through the ancient guard-room,—till we came out on the roof of one of the towers, and had a very fine view of an amphitheatre of ridgy hills which shut in and seclude the castle and the town. the upper foliage was within our reach, close to the parapet of the tower; so we gathered a few twigs as memorials. the housekeeper told us that the yew-tree is supposed to be eight hundred years old, and, comparing it with other yews that i have seen, i should judge that it must measure its antiquity by centuries, at all events. it still seems to be in its prime.

along the base of the castle, on the opposite side to the entrance, flows a stream, sending up a pleasant murmur from among the trees. the housekeeper said it was not a stream, but only a "wash," whatever that may be; and i conjecture that it creates the motive-power of some factory-looking edifices, which we saw on our first arrival at skipton.

we now took our leave of the housekeeper, and came homeward to our inn, where i have written the foregoing pages by a bright fire; but i think i write better descriptions after letting the subject lie in my mind a day or two. it is too new to be properly dealt with immediately after coming from the scene.

the castle is not at all crumbly, but in excellent repair, though so venerable. there are rooks cawing about the shapeless patches of their nests, in the tops of the trees. in the castle wall, as well as in the round towers of the gateway, there seem to be little tenements, perhaps inhabited by the servants and dependants of the family. they looked in very good order, with tokens of present domesticity about them. the whole of this old castle, indeed, was as neat as a new, small dwelling, in spite of an inevitable musty odor of antiquity.

april 11th.—this morning we took a carriage and two horses, and set out for

bolton priory,

a distance of about six miles. the morning was cool, with breezy clouds, intermingled with sunshine, and, on the whole, as good as are nine tenths of english mornings. j——- sat beside the driver, and s——- and i in the carriage, all closed but one window. as we drove through skipton, the little town had a livelier aspect than yesterday when it wore its good friday's solemnity; but now its market-place was thronged, principally with butchers, displaying their meat under little movable pent-houses, and their customers. the english people really like to think and talk of butcher's meat, and gaze at it with delight; and they crowd through the avenues of the market-houses and stand enraptured round a dead ox.

we passed along by the castle wall, and noticed the escutcheon of the cliffords or the thanets carved in stone over the portal, with the motto desormais, the application of which i do not well see; these ancestral devices usually referring more to the past, than to the future. there is a large old church, just at the extremity of the village, and just below the castle, on the slope of the hill. the gray wall of the castle extends along the road a considerable distance, in good repair, with here and there a buttress, and the semicircular bulge of a tower.

the scenery along the road was not particularly striking,—long slopes, descending from ridges; a generally hard outline of country, with not many trees, and those, as yet, destitute of foliage. it needs to be softened with a good deal of wood. there were stone farm-houses, looking ancient, and able to last till twice as old. instead of the hedges, so universal in other parts of england, there were stone fences of good height and painful construction, made of small stones, which i suppose have been picked up out of the fields through hundreds of years. they reminded me of old massachusetts, though very unlike our rude stone walls, which, nevertheless, last longer than anything else we build. another new england feature was the little brooks, which here and there flowed across our road, rippling over the pebbles, clear and bright. i fancied, too, an intelligence and keenness in some of the yorkshire physiognomies, akin to those characteristics in my countrymen's faces.

we passed an ancient, many-gabled inn, large, low, and comfortable, bearing the name of the devonshire house, as does our own hotel, for the duke of devonshire is a great proprietor in these parts. a mile or so beyond, we came to a gateway, broken through what, i believe, was an old wall of the priory grounds; and here we alighted, leaving our driver to take the carriage to the inn. passing through this hole in the wall, we saw the ruins of the priory at the bottom of the beautiful valley about a quarter of a mile off; and, well as the monks knew how to choose the sites of their establishments, i think they never chose a better site than this,—in the green lap of protecting hills, beside a stream, and with peace and fertility looking down upon it on every side. the view down the valley is very fine, and, for my part, i am glad that some peaceable and comfort-loving people possessed these precincts for many hundred years, when nobody else knew how to appreciate peace and comfort.

the old gateway tower, beneath which was formerly the arched entrance into the domain of the priory, is now the central part of a hunting-seat of the duke of devonshire, and the edifice is completed by a wing of recent date on each side. a few hundred yards from this hunting-box are the remains of the priory, consisting of the nave of the old church, which is still in good repair, and used as the worshipping-place of the neighborhood (being a perpetual curacy of the parish of skipton), and the old ruined choir, roofless, with broken arches, ivy-grown, but not so rich and rare a ruin as either melrose, netley, or furness. its situation makes its charm. it stands near the river wharfe,—a broad and rapid stream, which hurries along between high banks, with a sound which the monks must have found congenial to their slumberous moods. it is a good river for trout, too; and i saw two or three anglers, with their rods and baskets, passing through the ruins towards its shore. it was in this river wharfe that the boy of egremont was drowned, at the strid, a mile or two higher up the stream.

in the first place, we rambled round the exterior of the ruins; but, as i have said, they are rather bare and meagre in comparison with other abbeys, and i am not sure that the especial care and neatness with which they are preserved does not lessen their effect on the beholder. neglect, wildness, crumbling walls, the climbing and conquering ivy; masses of stone lying where they fell; trees of old date, growing where the pillars of the aisles used to stand,—these are the best points of ruined abbeys. but, everything here is kept with such trimness that it gives you the idea of a petrifaction. decay is no longer triumphant; the duke of devonshire has got the better of it. the grounds around the church and the ruins are still used for burial, and there are several flat tombstones and altar tombs, with crosiers engraved or carved upon them, which at first i took to be the memorials of bishops or abbots, and wondered that the sculpture should still be so distinct. on one, however, i read the date 1850 and the name of a layman; for the tombstones were all modern, the humid english atmosphere giving them their mossy look of antiquity, and the crosier had been assumed only as a pretty device.

close beside the ruins there is a large, old stone farm-house, which must have been built on the site of a part of the priory,—the cells, dormitories, refectory, and other portions pertaining to the monks' daily life, i suppose, and built, no doubt, with the sacred stones. i should imagine it would be a haunted house, swarming with cowled spectres. we wished to see the interior of the church, and procured a guide from this farm-house,—the sexton, probably,—a gray-haired, ruddy, cheery, and intelligent man, of familiar though respectful address. the entrance of the church was undergoing improvement, under the last of the abbots, when the reformation occurred; and it has ever remained in an unfinished state, till now it is mossy with age, and has a beautiful tuft of wall-flowers growing on a ledge over the gothic arch of the doorway. the body of the church is of much anterior date, though the oaken roof is supposed to have been renewed in henry viii's time. this, as i said before, was the nave of the old abbey church, and has a one-sided and unbalanced aspect, there being only a single aisle, with its row of sturdy pillars. the pavement is covered with pews of old oak, very homely and unornamental; on the side opposite the aisle there are two or three windows of modern stained glass, somewhat gaudy and impertinent; there are likewise some hatchments and escutcheons over the altar and elsewhere. on the whole, it is not an impressive interior; but, at any rate, it had the true musty odor which i never conceived of till i came to england,—the odor of dead men's decay, garnered up and shut in, and kept from generation to generation; not disgusting nor sickening, because it is so old, and of the past.

on one side of the altar there was a small square chapel,—or what had once been a chapel, separated from the chancel by a partition about a man's height, if i remember aright. our guide led us into it, and observed that some years ago the pavement had been taken up in this spot, for burial purposes; but it was found that it had already been used in that way, and that the corpses had been buried upright. inquiring further, i found that it was the clapham family, and another that was called morley, that were so buried; and then it occurred to me that this was the vault wordsworth refers to in one of his poems,—the burial-place of the claphams and mauleverers, whose skeletons, for aught i know, were even then standing upright under our feet. it is but a narrow place, perhaps a square of ten feet. we saw little or nothing else that was memorable, unless it were the signature of queen adelaide in a visitors' book.

on our way back to skipton it rained and hailed, but the sun again shone out before we arrived. we took the train for leeds at half past ten, and arrived there in the afternoon, passing the ruined abbey of kirkstall on our way. the ruins looked more interesting than those of bolton, though not so delightfully situated, and now in the close vicinity of manufactories, and only two or three miles from leeds. we took a dish of soup, and spent a miserable hour in and about the railway station of leeds; whence we departed at four, and reached

york

in an hour or two. we put up at the black swan, and before tea went out, on the cool bright edge of evening, to get a glimpse of the cathedral, which impressed me more grandly than when i first saw it, nearly a year ago. indeed, almost any object gains upon me at the second sight. i have spent the evening in writing up my journal,—an act of real virtue.

after walking round the cathedral, we went up a narrow and crooked street, very old and shabby, but with an antique house projecting as much as a yard over the pavement on one side,—a timber house it seemed to be, plastered over and stained yellow or buff. there was no external door, affording entrance into this edifice; but about midway of its front we came to a low, gothic, stone archway, passing right through the house; and as it looked much time-worn, and was sculptured with untraceable devices, we went through. there was an exceedingly antique, battered, and shattered pair of oaken leaves, which used doubtless to shut up the passage in former times, and keep it secure; but for the last centuries, probably, there has been free ingress and egress. indeed, the portal arch may never have been closed since the reformation. within, we found a quadrangle, of which the house upon the street formed one side, the others being composed of ancient houses, with gables in a row, all looking upon the paved quadrangle, through quaint windows of various fashion. an elderly, neat, pleasant-looking woman now came in beneath the arch, and as she had a look of being acquainted here, we asked her what the place was; and she told us, that in the old popish times the prebends of the cathedral used to live here, to keep them from doing mischief in the town. the establishment, she said, was now called "the college," and was let in rooms and small tenements to poor people. on consulting the york guide, i find that her account was pretty correct; the house having been founded in henry vi.'s time, and called st. william's college, the statue of the patron saint being sculptured over the arch. it was intended for the residence of the parsons and priests of the cathedral, who had formerly caused troubles and scandals by living in the town.

we returned to the front of the cathedral on our way homeward, and an old man stopped us, to inquire if we had ever seen the fiddler of york. we answered in the negative, and said that we had not time to see him now; but the old gentleman pointed up to the highest pinnacle of the southern front, where stood the fiddler of york, one of those gothic quaintnesses which blotch the grandeur and solemnity of this and other cathedrals.

april 12th.—this morning was bleak and most ungenial; a chilly sunshine, a piercing wind, a prevalence of watery cloud,—april weather, without the tenderness that ought to be half revealed in it. this is

easter sunday,

and service at the cathedral commenced at half past ten; so we set out betimes and found admittance into the vast nave, and thence into the choir. an attendant ushered s——- and j——- to a seat at a distance from me, and then gave me a place in one of the stalls where the monks used to sit or kneel while chanting the services. i think these stalls are now appropriated to the prebends. they are of carved oaken wood, much less elaborate and wonderfully wrought than those of chester cathedral, where all was done with head and heart, each a separate device, instead of cut, by machinery like this. the whole effect of this carved work, however, lining the choir with its light tracery and pinnacles, is very fine. the whole choir, from the roof downward, except the old stones of the outer walls, is of modern renovation, it being but a few years since this part of the cathedral was destroyed by fire. the arches and pillars and lofty roof, however, have been well restored; and there was a vast east window, full of painted glass, which, if it be modern, is wonderfully chaste and gothic-like. all the other windows have painted glass, which does not flare and glare as if newly painted. but the light, whitewashed aspect of the general interior of the choir has a cold and dreary effect. there is an enormous organ, all clad in rich oaken carving, of similar pattern to that of the stalls. it was communion day, and near the high altar, within a screen, i saw the glistening of the gold vessels wherewith the services were to be performed.

the choir was respectably filled with a pretty numerous congregation, among whom i saw some officers in full dress, with their swords by their sides, and one, old white-bearded warrior, who sat near me, seemed very devout at his religious exercises. in front of me and on the corresponding benches, on the other side of the choir, sat two rows of white-robed choristers, twenty in all, and these, with some women; performed the vocal part of the music. it is not good to see musicians, for they are sometimes coarse and vulgar people, and so the auditor loses faith in any fine and spiritual tones that they may breathe forth.

the services of easter sunday comprehend more than the ordinary quantity of singing and chanting; at all events, nearly an hour and a half were thus employed, with some intermixture of prayers and reading of scriptures; and, being almost congealed with cold, i thought it would never come to an end. the spirit of my puritan ancestors was mighty within me, and i did not wonder at their being out of patience with all this mummery, which seemed to me worse than papistry because it was a corruption of it. at last a canon gave out the text, and preached a sermon about twenty minutes long,—the coldest, driest, most superficial rubbish; for this gorgeous setting of the magnificent cathedral, the elaborate music, and the rich ceremonies seem inevitably to take the life out of the sermon, which, to be anything, must be all. the puritans showed their strength of mind and heart by preferring a sermon an hour and a half long, into which the preacher put his whole soul, and lopping away all these externals, into which religious life had first leafed and flowered, and then petrified.

after the service, while waiting for my wife in the nave, i was accosted by a young gentleman who seemed to be an american, and whom i have certainly seen before, but whose name i could not recollect. this, he said, was his first visit to york, and he was evidently inclined to join me in viewing the curiosities of the place, but, not knowing his name, i could not introduce him to my wife, and so made a parting salute.

after dinner, we set forth and took a promenade along the wall, and a ramble through some of the crooked streets, noting the old, jutting-storied houses, story above story, and the old churches, gnawed like a bone by the tooth of time, till we came suddenly to the black swan before we expected it. . . . i rather fancy that i must have observed most of the external peculiarities at my former visit, and therefore need not make another record of them in this journal.

in the course of our walk we saw a procession of about fifty charity-school boys, in flat caps, each with bands under his chin, and a green collar to his coat; all looking unjoyous, and as if they had no home nor parents' love. they turned into a gateway, which closed behind them; and as the adjoining edifice seemed to be a public institution,—at least, not private,—we asked what it was, and found it to be a hospital or residence for old maiden ladies, founded by a gentlewoman of york; i know not whether she herself is of the sisterhood. it must be a very singular institution, and worthy of intimate study, if it were possible to make one's way within the portal.

after writing the above, j——- and i went out for another ramble before tea; and, taking a new course, we came to a grated iron fence and gateway, through which we could see the ruins of st. mary's abbey. they are very extensive, and situated quite in the midst of the city, and the wall and then a tower of the abbey seem to border more than one of the streets. our walk was interesting, as it brought us unexpectedly upon several relics of antiquity,—a loop-holed and battlemented gateway; and at various points fragments of the old gothic stone-work, built in among more recent edifices, which themselves were old; grimness intermixed with quaintness and grotesqueness; old fragments of religious or warlike architecture mingled with queer domestic structures,—the general effect sombre, sordid, and grimy; but yet with a fascination that makes us fain to linger about such scenes, and come to them again.

we passed round the cathedral, and saw jackdaws fluttering round the pinnacles, while the bells chimed the quarters, and little children played on the steps under the grand arch of the entrance. it is very stately, very beautiful, this minster; and doubtless would be very satisfactory, could i only know it long and well enough,—so rich as its front is, even with almost all the niches empty of their statues; not stern in its effect, which i suppose must be owing to the elaborate detail with which its great surface is wrought all over, like the chasing of a lady's jewel-box, and yet so grand! there is a dwelling-house on one side, gray with antiquity, which has apparently grown out of it like an excrescence; and though a good-sized edifice, yet the cathedral is so large that its vastness is not in the least deformed by it. if it be a dwelling-house, i suppose it is inhabited by the person who takes care of the cathedral. this morning, while listening to the tedious chanting and lukewarm sermon, i depreciated the whole affair, cathedral and all; but now i do more justice, at least to the latter, and am only sorry that its noble echoes must follow at every syllable, and re-reverberate at the commas and semicolons, such poor discourses as the canon's. but, after all, it was the puritans who made the sermon of such importance in religious worship as we new-englanders now consider it; and we are absurd in considering this magnificent church and all those embroidered ceremonies only in reference to it.

before going back to the hotel, i went again up the narrow and twisted passage of college street, to take another glance at st. william's college. i underestimated the projection of the front over the street; it is considerably more than three feet, and is about eight or nine feet above the pavement. the little statue of st. william is an alto-relievo over the arched entrance, and has an escutcheon of arms on each side, all much defaced. in the interior of the quadrangle, the houses have not gables nor peaked fronts, but have peaked windows on the red-tiled roofs. the doorway, opposite the entrance-arch, is rather stately; and on one side is a large, projecting window, which is said to belong to the room where the printing-press of charles i. was established in the days of the parliament.