ments, give little scope for ornament. But the Helmsley folk have
realized the importance of white paint, and the window-frames, and even
the strips of lead that hold the glass together, are picked out in this
cheerful fashion. In the broad market-square the houses are large, but
their gray respectability is broken by creepers and some pleasant spots
of colour. The corner nearest to the church is particularly noticeable
on account of a most picturesque gabled house, with a timber-framed
upper floor--a style of construction exceedingly rare in these parts of
Yorkshire. The old stone cross, raised above its worn steps, stands in
the open space close to the modern market hall, and humbly allows the
central position to be occupied by a Gothic cross recently erected to
the memory of the late Lord Feversham, of Duncombe Park.

A narrow turning by the market-house shows the torn and dishevelled
fragment of the keep of Helmsley Castle towering above the thatched
roofs in the foreground. The ruin is surrounded by tall elms, and from
this point of view, when backed by a cloudy sunset, makes a wonderful
picture. Like Scarborough, this stronghold was held for the King during
the Civil War. After the Battle of Marston Moor and the fall of York,
Fairfax came to Helmsley and invested the castle. He received a wound in
the shoulder during the siege; but the garrison having surrendered on
honourable terms, the Parliament ordered that the castle should be
dismantled, and the thoroughness with which the instructions were
carried out remind one of Knaresborough, for one side of the keep was
blown to pieces by a terrific explosion and nearly everything else was
destroyed.

All the beauty and charm of this lovely district is accentuated in
Ryedale, and when we have accomplished the three long uphill miles to
Rievaulx, and come out upon the broad grassy terrace above the abbey,
we seem to have entered a Land of Beulah. We see a peaceful valley
overlooked on all sides by lofty hills, whose steep sides are clothed
with luxuriant woods; we see the Rye flowing past broad green meadows;
and beneath the tree-covered precipice below our feet appear the
solemn, roofless remains of one of the first Cistercian monasteries
established in this country. There is nothing to disturb the peace that
broods here, for the village consists of a mere handful of old and
picturesque cottages, and we might stay on the terrace for hours, and,
beyond the distant shou