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[JULY 13, 1883. time of it in the sheltered and comfortable retreat. The here; in any case, therefore, the photographer must not leave the spot until a sketch of the home of the great Earl of Warwick has been secured. Further on, about three miles from Middleham, is Jervaux Abbey, another ruin, not so complete as the castle, but with its fragmentary walls looped with ivy, more picturesque, and with more greenery about it. The date of the Abbey is about the same as that of Middleham, and one can well understand how the monks had a good refectory and kitchen form the larger part of the ruin, and speak eloquently of fast times and jolly living. The last abbot, however—for there was a last abbot here, as at Middleham there was a last of the barons—whether he lived too jolly, or what he did, came to an untimely end, for he was executed at Tyburn, for some good and suffici ent reason, let us hope. Wensley village, on its carpet of green turf, is a model English hamlet, within half-an-hour’s walk of Leyburn, and here, too, the photographer may set up his camera with advantage. What a pity he cannot transfer the soft green slopes to his sensitive plate ! But, at any rate, the church with its square tower will make a pleasing photo graph, and so will some of the trim cottages on the hill side. We now make a start out of Leyburn towards Askrigg, passing on our way Aysgarth Force, where we bring the camera to bear once more. There is not much water flow ing, but the character of the Force, if such a gently flow ing cascade can be termed a Force, is quite unique. The water flows over a broad stone bed, gliding from ledge to ledge, for the fall is but a few inches at a time. Doubt less, in the rainy season, there would be more fuss and foam ; still the translucent water, moving past the spec tator in broad sheets, has a charm that is both striking and novel. A bend in the road just b fore we enter Askrigg is so tempting—the river on one side, and overhanging trees oi. the other—that we stop a waggoner with his team, and entreat him to tarry a few minutes while we get a photo graph. He is only too delighted to assist at a picture, and takes care that every detail in his harness is adjusted with nicety, quite oblivious of the fact that his waggon effectually screens from view the greater part of the steeds themselves. Our next halting place is Hawes. It is a little town with a very good inn, and early in the morning, after a draught of fresh milk, and before breakfast, we set out to photograph Hardraw Force. It is but a quarter of an hour’s walk from the inn, but it is difficult to find, for all that, The fact is, we get on the plain above the fall, and for a time search in vain across the landscape for a stream of water that makes a clear leap of a hundred feet, as we have been told. Curiously enough, we cross and re-cross the stream itself, but it is some time befoie we come to the spot where this precipi tates itself into a deep semi-circular hollow. It is a graceful stream of water—not very big—and deserves to be visited, if only for its mighty leap. But it makes a poor photograph. Two friends who are with us station themselves under the fall, or rather behind it, and we photograph their forms veiled by the descending water. The size of their figures demonstrates very well the height of the fall, but the fault of our picture is that the sheet of water descends in such a mathematically straight line, it might have been ruled with a ruler. Moreover, the operation of photographing damps the ardour of our friends in respect to further work ; they get rather wet while we are busy with the focussing, and afterwards explain, in very clear and concise language, that they don’t mean to stand any more photography under the same circumstances. We strike off now “ oe’r moss and fell” towards Ingle- borough—at Ingleton, good accommodation can be had— one of the principal hills in Yorkshire. It is a capital climb to the top, and we are in hopes of securing some photo graphs of an ancient British camp, of which guide-books say there are some very striking remains. There are indications of a lot of ancient huts, we are informed, but to our un trained sight nothing sufficiently like a dwelling could be found to photograph. Nevertheless, we secure a picture of a very strange sight that greets us half-way up the moun tain. At a certain point we pass over a big area of flat rock, not unlike a huge glacier in appearance, and of this a plate is taken before proceeding on our way. There is a huge cave in the vicinity of Ingleborough, containing some very fine stalactites, together with many caverns, said to have been the abode of ancient Britons; but, unfortunately, we were without any special means of illumination, and so did not venture to pay an “ at home " visit at the abode of our elderly relatives. To visit Teesdale and the extreme north of the county, we take rail from Clapham, at the foot of Hillborougb, through the Eden Valley, to Kirby Thore, coming down into the valley, over a curious pass termed High Cup Nick, to get a view of High Force. It is rugged walking enough, climbing over these steep Yorkshire fells; Mickel Fell, the biggest mountain in Yorkshire is on your left, and other heather-clad eminences stretch away before you for miles. So primitive and secluded is it, when you get among the hills here, that you might be in Norway, for all the signs of civilisation to be met with. During a twenty mile march you may scarcely see a habitation or meet a single soul on the wastes of moorland, in the rocky defiles, and beside the foaming torrent by which your way passes. In fact, there is frequently no path, and it is a question of guiding yourself by ordnance map and compass. High Cup Nick is a niche in a mountain through which you pass into Teesdale. The scenery here is wild and weird to a degree, and the only indication the traveller has to guide him into the valley is the tiny stream that now begins to descend beside him. A five-mile march through a region of desolation brings you to Caldron Snout, a pictu resque waterfall, opposite which is a big bare precipice, that goes by the quaint name of Cronkley Scar. The descent from this wild and cold region into the garden luxuriance of Teesdale really reminds one of passing from Switzerland into Italy, say by the St. Gotthardt or Simplon, so marked is the change between rugged moorland and the green cultivated country. There is a comfortable inn at High Force where you may rest for the night, marching the last few miles of the way through a pine forest. High Force itself, a fine mass of white water tumbling into a rocky basin surrounded by black firs, is a really grand sight, and, naturally enough, we get picture a of it; nay, more, we climb upon the rock over which the water pours, and setting up the camera upon them, take a view down the valley—the sparkling stream fringed with dark foliage—that is no less pleasing. Down the valley we now tramp to Bowes. Our party is gallantly marching abreast, knapsack on back, and at a picturesque spot in the road, where the spreading branches of the trees meet overhead, the word “ halt ” is given ; the photographer of the party recedes some twenty feet, and setting up his camera, focusses his brethren in front, as they have been suddenly halted on their way. The smallest atop is employed to make the exposure a long one, and then whipping off the cap, the photographer rusher to the front, and takes up his post motionless on the flank. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight he counts ; and then, dashing back quickly, caps the lens. A record of the walking party to Yorkshire at an interesting moment of their travels is thus secured. Bowes is rather a cold little town : but still it has its attractions. Our first plate is expended in Bowes Church yard, on the monument of “ Edwin and Emma," the lovers who died on the same day, and whose sad story Mallet has told in touching verse. The youth’s friends forbidding the match, he pined and died, and—so records the gravestone—“ upon tolling of his passing bell she cried 1 1 1 1 1 1 i 1 1 i