Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, July 27, 1858

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER LVIII.

[For Frederick Douglass' Paper.]

ILKLEY, (Eng.,) July 27th, 1858.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—My last communication broke off somewhat abruptly, in order to catch the American mail, which was on the eve going out; and now that your journal makes monthly visits to England, instead of weekly ones, there is an additional difficulty in taking up the broken thread of any narration.

Haworth, and my visit there, formed the chief part of the theme of my last letter.—The church bells of that hill-side village had ceased ringing for evening service, and the deep, solemn notes of the organ were pealing forth, as we passed out of the churchyard gates, and prepared to descend the steep hill of the village-street, and to bid adieu to the remote region that has been rendered famous by the genius of her "whom the nations praise far off," but whose "dull, cold car," "praise and blame now fall alike." I felt very sad, as I thought "of the two, sitting desolate and alone in the old grey house,: or traversing the church, and passing (between the pulpit and the communion-table) over the grave that contains all that is mortal of those so dear to them, who lie "under the church pavement;" and then I brought to mind the 15th chapter of Corinthians—the inscription on the tablet —and DEATH being swallowed up in Victory give us "through our Lord Jesus Christ."

The road between Haworth and Keighley was thronged with swarthy dressed men and women, going to and fro, some to chapel, others taking their weekly walk, only, by them attainable on the Sabbath evening. None of the tall chimneys were vomiting forth smoke, to dim the brightness of the clear blue sky—all looked clean and cheerful in the thriving town; Keighley had on its Sunday dress, and in such perfect summer weather, could not but looks its best, and thoroughly upset all our imaginings of a dark, dreary, dismal, damp place with a black sky above it, and dizzy rain all over it! Pilgrims to Keighley and Haworth should select a cheerless February day for their visit, if they don't wish to be agreeably disappointed.

The sun had already set, the twilight was gathering slowly, when we re-entered Wharfedale, and looked again upon Bearnsley Beacon and Rumbald's Moor.

August 2d.—For my health's sake, I spend so many hours daily on the moors, inhaling the

invigorating breezes, and taking lessons in the "doice far niente," that I have little time for writing anything but "pencillings by the way," with which my kind friends are so good as to put up with. Although the variety of beautiful walks drives is great, in this lovely region of country, where we ahve so much that is charming in wood, and park, and river, I desert all these for the "purple moors," with glories and beauties so peculiarly their own.—The Moors! the Moors! let those who will sit by the river side, in the valley, but be it mine to climb the heights of the moors, where, with the grey rocks for my seat, the blue sky for my canopy, I can "muse o'er flood and fell," and "slowly trace the forest's that shady scene," while every wind of heaven wafts freedom around me, and "the hum and din" of this noisy world, far below, are for the time forgotten. I sympathize entirely with that somewhat wayward Pilgrim, of whom our noblest poet says:

"Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends

"Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home;

* * * * * * "The desert, forest, cavern, breakers foam,

"Were unto him companionship."

The month of July came to me, and left me "basking in the golden sunshine" of the moors; and now August is opening upon us, bringing out, into full bloom, the purple heather. The "time of the singing of birds" is over; the air is no longer laden with the sweet scent of newly mown grass; instead of these, we have the humming of countless bees, preaching industry to us, as they busily gather a rich harvest of honey from fragrant scented blossoms of heather; while clear, sparkling rills, on all sides, lift up their glad voices in strains peculiarly their own, and join nature's universal concert.

The bilberries and whinberries are now ripe, and tens of thousands of them may be gathered on Rumbald's Moor. Pic-nics to places far and near, on the moors, and off the moors, are made from Ilkley. I have joined in several of these, and have much enjoyed them; the weather has been peculiarly favorable for all expeditions of this kind, and no suddenly descending shower, (when the cloth was just spread for the open air banquet,) has checked the hilarity , or marred the enjoyment of any party we have accompanied.

Saturday last, we devoted to Bolton, with its fine old Abbey, its majestic woods, its renowned Strid, and its lonely ruin of Barden Tower. The poety of Rogers, and Wordsworth, together with Landseer's famous painting of "Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time,"

combine to render this portion of Wharfedale classic ground. A pleasant drive of five miles from Ilkley brought us to Bolton Bridge.—The meandering river Wharfe was our companion all the way, anon disappearing from our sight for a few minutes, behind the dark woods, and then looking out upon us, as, with glad aspect, it danced merrily on, on, to keep its tryste with a neighboring stream, (the Washburn,) lower down the vale. After passing through the village of Addingham, the richly wooded scenery of Bolton soon opened upon us; before long, magnificent beech trees and ash trees were meeting over our heads, and then we were crossing Bolton Bridge, which bridge had for some time appeared in view, and presented a very picturesque aspect. We alighted at a spot, known to the frequenters of Bolton by the name of "the Hole in the Wall," whence, for the first time, I looked on what remains of the ancient Abbey of Bolton. It had been previously decided by the leaders of our party, that we were to reserve our nearer visit to the Abbey until the evening, so, we remounted, and were speedily en route for the Strid, a spot rendered alike melancholy and memorable by the sad fate of "the boy of Egremond"—vis: Young Romille—and by the stories told of him by the poets Rogers and Wordsworth. The latter tells us:

"This striding-place is called Strid,

A name which it took of yore;

A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across the Strid?

He sprang in glee—for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?

But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him with a leap.

The boy is in the arms of the Wharfe,

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen,

'Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,

And long, unspeaking sorrow;

Wharfe shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow."

This melancholy accident is supposed to have occurred in the twelfth century and the generally received version of the founding of Bolton Priory (or rather the removal of the Priory from Embsay to Bolton,) is that the illustrious, but mourning Lady Alice, so suddenly bereaved of her only son, cause the Abbey to be erected on the nearest eligible site to the place where her boy perished in the Wharfe. you will remember Rogers's

version of the story? yet I cannot resist my inclination to give it here:

"At Embsay rung the matin bell,

The stag was roused on Barden Fell,

The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,

And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;

When near the cabin in the wood,

In tartan clad, and forest green,

With hound in leash, a hawk in hood,

The boy of Egremond was seen.

Blithe was his song—a song of yore—

But where the rock is rent in two,

And the river rushes through,

His voice was heard no more.

'Twas but a step, the gulph he passed;

But that step—it was his last!

As through the mist he winged his way,

(A cloud that hovers night and day,)

The hound hung back, and back he drew

His master, and his merlin too!

That narrow place of noise and strife

Received their little all of life!"

A forester is said to have witnessed the fate of young Romille, and to have gone at once to his mother, preparing for her the sad news by putting the question—"What is good for a bootless bean?" (viz: What remains when prayer is unavailing?) Her heart at once told her the calamity that had overtaken her, and she replied "Endless sorrow!" The bereaved mother vowed that many a poor man's son should be her heir. She

——"Mourned

Her son, felt her despair

The pang of unavailing prayer;

Her son in Wharfe's abysses drowned,

The noble boy of Egremond.

From which affliction—when the grace

Of God hath in her heart found peace,

A pious structure, fair to see,

Rose up, this stately priory."

The fountain of the Abbey at Bolton, by the Lady Alice, is said to have been in the year. This lady was daughter and heiress of "William de Meschines and Cecily his wife, the heiress of Robert de Romille." She liberally endowed the monastery, (which was of the Augustinian order,) as did numerous other persons; but in due time it met the fate of all similar institutions, and in the priory and estate were purchased by Henry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, from whom they have descended to the Duke of Devonshire, the present possessor.

A drive of more than a mile through some of the grandest woods I ever traversed, bro't us to that peculiarly wild and rocky locality of the river Wharfe, known as the Strid.—The scene is a very striking one. I cannot adequately describe it. I had read a good deal about it, yet I found it totally different from what I had expected on both sides with solemn woods, that slope down to the margin of its rocky bed, interspersed with huge masses of grey rock, which, here and there, jut out, in picturesque

irregularity. A deep cleft in the blocks of rock that occupy the bed of the river, suddenly confines the course impetuous waters, and for some distance, the hurried flood dashes through this narrow channel, impatient of control—then the cleft becomes deeper and narrower, and seems almost to swallow up the angry flood. You hear the thundering roar of the waters, as they rush along beneath the rocks, but the Wharfe is almost hidden from sight, and as you stand on a shelving cliff on the right bank of the river, it does not appear to you either impossible, or alarming, to step over, or jump across to a large, flat stone, standing midway in the gulph, and only four feet distant. This spot is the Strid, an here, is attempting to cross the Wharfe, the "Boy of Egremond" perished. Soon the imprisoned river rushes forth, and, foaming and furious, it "cleaves the wave-worn precipice." Here the waters "howl, and hiss, and boil in endless torture," and "from rock to rock leap with delirious bound," leaving traces of their "fierce footsteps," in innumerable chasms in the flood which, without ceasing, "lifts up its voice." Both the sight and the sound are grand and sublime. I could have stayed here for hours, and wished but for one single hour's solitude, for the full enjoyment of the scene.—This, however, was not attainable, for both sides of the river were crowded with visitors, many of whom were encamped, (some on the rocks, others above them in the woods,) for the purpose of dining.

Picturesque groups might be seen, in all directions, perched here and there, gipyseying, and pic-nicing, with wood fires lighted, and kettles boiling over them, and fair ladies making tea! One large party on the oppositebank of the river were evidently singing in full chorus, but the angry waters scoffed at their feeble efforts, and no could was heard but the ceaseless roaring of the torrent.

A beautiful walk "through the emerald woods," brought us to Barden Tower, now a ruin, distant form the Strid about a mile and a half. We gathered a bountiful supply of wild strawberries, raspberries, and bilberries, en route—so, with the majestic forest trees meeting over our head, and the river laying at the foot of the wooded, winding and hilly path we trod, we made a somewhat steep ascent to the curious, old Tower of Barden, which said ruin look far more picturesque afar off, than on a near approach. In truth, often it is that "Distance lends enchantment to the view." Barden Tower (as well as on or two other thigns I have lately met with)