is shown in the cathedral, covered with blank escutcheons; for arms were not suffered to be placed upon the tomb of one who had died for high treason. Scrope's Hill was formerly surrounded by forest, and the lofty lantern tower of All Saints' Church was formerly lighted up by night for the guidance of wanderers through this forest.

To the south of the city lies Bishopthorpe, the birthplace of Guy Fawkes, and the residence of the Archbishops. Eastward is Stamford Bridge, where Harold, the last of the AngloSaxon Kings, defeated his faithless brother Tostig and his ally, Harold Hardrada, the Norwegian King. "The spoil in gold ornaments," we are told, "was so great that twelve young men could hardly bear it upon their shoulders." The victor, Harold, turned back from this battle-victor no more, for nineteen days afterwards he lost life and crown on the bloody field of Senlac, or Hastings.

Far away to the south, nine miles as the crow flies, lies Towton Field, where the hopes of the house of Lancaster were laid in the dust, on Palm Sunday, 1461; and four miles to the west of us lies Marston Moor, where Prince Rupert was terribly defeated by Oliver Cromwell, July 2, 1644.

From wandering afar over the broad vale, the eye returns to the city itself, and looks upon the comfortable houses, the snug gardens, and plots of green turf, all covering ground on which the Romans built their camp, and where they erected a temple for the worship of heathen deities.

Only a few streets from the Minster the eye rests upon a beautiful ruin: "a picturesque object" the guide-books call it, but surely it may well be called a sad object too—the desecrated, ruined Abbey of St. Mary. Enough remains to show that it must have been a church of rare beauty. In the same grounds is an octagonal tower, undoubtedly of Roman construction, strong and solid after these nineteen. centuries; and hard by is one of the finest museums of Roman and British antiquities in the country.

F

The walls of the city are venerable and even strong in appearance; but they would be of no use whatever against siege artillery. The interest they inspire lies in the past. The gates through them into the country have barbican and portcullis, and battlements, all relics of the days that are gone. On the southern one-Micklegate, it is called-many a rebel's head was fastened age after age.

The most beautiful and most interesting building in York is that on which we have supposed ourselves standing-the Minster. The interior of the nave is somewhat cold in appearance; but the fair proportions of the cathedral, and its exquisite carvings, make it, in the opinion of some judges, the most beautiful cathedral in England. Its early history is connected with St. Paulinus, the Apostle of the North, who in 627 baptized good King Edwin, the King of Northumberland, as all the country north of the Humber was then called. Edwin was a great king as well as a good Christian, for he extended his kingdom as far north as the River Forth, and founded the city which was called, after him, Edwinsburgh, and we still call Edinburgh.

When the Danes ravaged Yorkshire, in the 9th and 10th centuries, they brought the kingdom of Northumberland to such ruin, that the people moved northwards into the country now called by that name, bearing the name with them.

CHAPTER XI.
DURHAM.

THERE are few cities in our noble island which are qualified to command a deeper interest in the English heart than Durham. It is at once striking to the eye and to the mind. It is boldly and beautifully situated. A cloud of historical associations hovers over it like a perpetual canopy; legend, ballad-song,

A twilight of

Time, indeed,

and faithful story of mighty events surround it. antiquity, as it were, seems to linger there. has passed on with its incidents, but does not seem to have removed so far off as from most of our busy and growing towns. The taste and the fashion of the past still lie fresh on the senses; the memory and everything which keeps alive the memory, of other times, are still there. There is this characteristic of most of our cathedral towns, that they have changed less in their outward aspect than others; and you would imagine that Durham had not changed at all. Like Winchester, it has grown, not in bulk, but in a grey and venerable dignity.

The ancient cathedral, the ancient castle, the ancient houses-all are there. Nobody has presumed to alter the narrow and winding streets; no one has ventured to level the up-hill and the down-hill; the very bridges, built by Flambard and Pudsey, upwards of six and seven hundred years ago, are still there. A stillness, full of the past, reigns around; and while I write this in my inn, the solemn tones of the organ from the ancient minster-choir on its distant hill remind me that the daily worship of many ages is still going on there, and that the waves of stately music find in the city no bustle and thunder of a mighty multitude to obstruct them, but flow audibly, and as with a deep murmur of many long-enduring thoughts, over the whole.

Whichever way you approach Durham, you are first struck with the great central tower of the cathedral peeping over the hills that environ the city. It looks colossal, massy, and silent. Anon you lose sight of it; but again you mark it solemnly breasting the green heights, like some giant watcher, and it well prepares the mind for the view of the whole great pile which presently opens upon you. Every traveller must be sensibly impressed with the bold beauty of Durham in the first view. As he emerges from some defile in those hills which, farther off, hid from him all but that one great tower,

he sees before him a wide open valley, in the centre of which a fine mount stands crowned with the ancient clustered houses of Durham, the turrets and battlements of its old and nowrestored castle rising above them; and again, above all, soaring high into the air, the noble towers and pinnacles of its Norman minster. Around recede in manifold forms the higher hills, as if intended by nature to give at once beauty and retirement to this splendid seat of ancient religion.

From various points of these hills the city looks quite magnificent; the old town, with its red roofs, runs along the ridges of the lower hills, and these higher ones are thrown into knolls and dells, with green crofts and wooded clumps. and lines of trees; the whole surrounding scenery, in fact, is beautiful. My visit there was in the middle of May. The grass had a delicious freshness to the eye; the foliage of the trees was of spring's most delicate green; and the bluebells and primroses, which the hot weather in April had entirely, a month before, withered up in the south, were there in abundance in all their dewy and fragrant beauty. Through all the finer seasons of the year, however, the environs of Durham are delightful.

I have passed through it when the haymakers were busy in those hilly crofts; and fragrant cocks of new hay (green turf becoming every moment visible beneath the rakes and forks of merry people), the sun at the same time shining brightly over the old buildings of the city, and the tall trees with their green leaves quivering in many a fair slope, made me think that I had rarely witnessed a more charming scene. What adds greatly to the pleasantness of these environs is that they are so accessible. Unlike the condition of many a beautiful neighbourhood in other parts of England, where a peep into paradise may, as it were, be obtained though the looker-on may not enter, here almost wherever the allurements of the scene draw the traveller he may follow; footpaths in all imaginable directions strike across these lovely crofts.

The beholder may climb hills, descend into woody dells, follow the course of a little stream as its bright waters and flowery banks attract him, and never find himself astray. In all directions, like lines radiating from a centre, deep old lanes stretch off from the city, along which he may wander hidden from view of everything but the high bosky banks and overhanging trees and intervening sky. Other lanes, as deep and as sweetly rustic and secluded, wind away right and left, leading him to some peep of antiquated cottage or old mill, or glance over hollow glades to far-off hills, ever and anon bringing him out on the heights to a fresh and striking view of that clustered city, its castled turrets, and majestic cathedral.

It would seem as if the amenities of this sweet neighbourhood had from earliest times been fully felt, and that the jealousies and restrictions of property had here never dreamed of hedging the public out from them. The situation of the city is extraordinarily fine. The river Wear, which has a beautiful propensity to taking the most splendid sweeps, has here executed one of its most magnificent bends. It flows in a noble circle round the hill on which the city stands, enclosing it in what wants little to make it a perfect island. It not only does this, but it flows too between sloping banks of at least forty feet in height; and here taste and public spirit have seconded the beneficence of nature, so as to produce the most delightful effect. These banks are clothed with hanging woods of the tallest and most noble trees, amongst which the ash and sycamore present themselves of a grand magnitude. Through these woods, which extend themselves round the city for the distance of a mile, walks-broad, and kept in the finest order are cut at various heights, affording the most charming promenades conceivable.

The visitor finds, as he proceeds, seats at convenient distances and at agreeable points; here he comes to a stream dashing down the rocks or cliffs overhung with trees; he may