flammable but beautiful thatch. The tiles all
through the Wolds are of the curved pattern, and though cheerful in the
brilliance of their colour, and unspeakably preferable to thin blue
slates, they do not seem to weather or gather moss and rich colouring
in the same manner as the usual flat tile of the southern counties.

We turn aside to look at the rudely carved Norman tympanum over the
church door at Wold Newton, and then go up to Thwing, on the rising
ground to the south, where we may see what Mr. Joseph Morris claims to
be the only other Norman tympanum in the East Riding. A cottage is
pointed out as the birthplace of Archbishop Lamplugh, who held the See
of York from 1688 to 1691. He was of humble parentage and it is said
that he would often pause in conversation to slap his legs and say,
"Just fancy me being Archbishop of York!" The name of the village is
derived from the Norse word _Thing_, meaning an assembly.

Keeping on towards the sea, we climb up out of the valley, and passing
Argam Dike and Grindale, come out upon a vast gently undulating plateau
with scarcely a tree to be seen in any direction. A few farms are
dotted here and there over the landscape, and towards Filey we can see
a windmill; but beyond these it seems as though the fierce winds that
assail the promontory of Flamborough had blown away everything that was
raised more than a few feet above the furrows.

The village of Bempton has, however, contrived to maintain itself in
its bleak situation, although it is less than two miles from the huge
perpendicular cliffs where the Wolds drop into the sea. The cottages
have a snug and eminently cheerful look, with their much-weathered
tiles and white and ochre coloured walls. From their midst rises the
low square tower of the church, and if it ever had a spire or pinnacles
in the past, it has none now; for either the north-easterly gales blew
them into the sea long ago, or else the people were wise enough never
to put such obstructions in the way of the winter blasts.

Turning southwards, we get a great view over the low shore of
Holderness, curving away into the haze hanging over the ocean, with
Bridlington down below, raising to the sky the pair of towers at the
west end of its priory--one short and plain, and the other tall and
richly ornamented with pinnacles. Going through the streets of sober
red houses of the old town, we come at length into a shallow green
valley, where the curious Gypsy Race