on the river-bank. Bolton
stands in a deep valley, and on the opposite side of the river rises the
steep rock of Simon's Seat, sixteen hundred feet high. The architecture
of the abbey is of various styles, the west front coming down to us from
the reign of Henry VIII., while its gateway is much older. There is no
south aisle to the abbey, and at present the nave and north aisle are
roofed in and serve as the parish church. The east end of this aisle is
divided from the rest by an ancient wooden screen so as to form a
chapel, and beneath this is the vault where the former owners of
Bolton--the Claphams and Mauleverers--were buried. Some years ago, when
the floor was being repaired, their coffins were found standing upright,
whereof the poet tells us:

"Through the chinks 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."

The ruins of the north transept are in fair preservation, and the choir
has a beautiful arcade, while through the openings beneath there is a
charming view of the green-bordered river and of the hills beyond.
Bolton Hall, which was the ancient gateway of the abbey, is opposite its
western front, and is one of the favorite homes in the shooting season
of the Duke of Devonshire, its owner.

[Illustration: THE STRID.]

A pleasant walk of two miles along the Wharfe brings us to the famous
Strid, where the river is hemmed in between ledges of rock, and the
scene of the rushing waters is very fine, especially after a rain.
Beautiful paths wind along the hillsides and through the woods, and
here, where the ruins of Bardon Tower rise high above the valley, is a
favorite resort of artists. At the most contracted part of the rocky
river-passage the water rushes through a narrow trench cut out for about
sixty yards length, within which distance it falls ten feet. The noise
here is almost deafening, and at the narrowest part the distance across
is barely five feet. It looks easy to jump over, but from the peculiar
position of the slippery rocks and the confusing noise of the rushing
water it is a dangerous leap.

"This striding-place is called 'the Strid.'
A name which it took of yore.
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more."

It was here that young Romilly, the "Boy of Egremont," was drowned
several centuries ago, the story of