In Unfamiliar England

n, in proportion and in general effect-from almost any viewpoint-there is no more pleasing church in the Kingdom. We come in sight of its gracef

inster, resolves itself into the houses of the old town, whose ancient heart has l

vely no fees to attendants." Our experience has been that such a notice means cash in advance if you are to have the attention you want and which you really need if you are to see and appreciate such a church. We proceed, therefore, to get on a proper footing with our guide, and begin forthwith to learn the history, the architecture, the curiosities and the gossip of Beverley Minster. And the last is not

ecincts of Beverley Minster and for thirty days be entitled to the protection and hospitality of the monks, after which he was given a passport to sail from the nearest port to some foreign land. We saw the rude stone chair of "refuge" to which no doubt many a gasping scoundrel clung, safe, for the time, from justice by virtue of his ability to outrun his pursuers. One incident is recorded of a "Tailour of York" who had cruelly

ts rare marbles and delicate sculptures must represent a princely fortune. Nor could we have more than a passing glimpse of St. Mary's Church, second only to the minst

cliff of Flamborough Head, from which the startled Yorkshiremen of a century or more ago saw the "pirate," John Paul Jones, win his

new road around the promontory, one of the finest drives in England, was open-not officially open, to be sure, and it would not be until some of the "Nobs" came and the ceremonies of a formal dedication were performed. The road had been cut in the almost sheer side of the cliff, a broad driveway overlooking the varied scenery of coast and ocean-the latter now as mild and softly shimmering as a quiet inland lake. One could only imagine, on such a day, how the sea must rage a

ched on its mighty rock, still presents a formidable appearance and impresses one with the tremendous strength its situation and heavy walls gave it before gunpowder brought such things to naught. From the keep tower a far-reaching prospect lies beneath us; a panorama of the sea chafing on the broken coast, and to the landward

ll shimmers in the setting sun and in nooks on the coast we catch glimpses of fishing villages-among them Robin Hood's Bay, called by some the most picturesque of the smaller fishing-towns in England. Long before we come into Whitby we catch sight of the skeleton of the abbey on the headland, standing almost weirdly against the evening sky. We descend a long, winding hill and find ourselves threading our way through crooked, narrow streets thronged with people who get

riously from the reflection of the dim-lit skies. The ruin rises abruptly from the soft greensward upon which the cows are contentedly grazing, and near at hand, gleaming darkly in the fading light, lies the fish pool, which lends much to the picturesqueness of the surroundings.

ass outside the abbey confines and pause before St. Mary's Church, a long squat building with low tower, as bald and plain as the abbey is pretentious and ornate. It was built as a rival to the abbey church in a very early day when there were bic

ABBEY A

s of community, for has he not been in the States and has he not a brother there now? We pick up an antique lantern with dingy horn doors and green with verdigris an

that accounts for the price-genuine antiques are so rare and so sought for that the original

he nooks and corns. Whitby shops are full of jet ornaments-brooches, beads, bracelets, and a thousand and one fanciful thin

e fish-market and the finny tribes of all degrees are sorted on the pavement and sold to the townspeople. The fishing industry of Whitby is now on a small

rmen more

rchants two

at the isolated situation of the town between the wild moors and the sea, and its good harbor for small vessels, made the occupat

LD W

by R. E. Morrison, Roya

e twenty-five miles of road to Guisborough, where one comes out of the moor into the wide valley of the Tees. Guisborough is a bleak little town whose beautiful surroundings have been marred by the mines. Of its ancient priory, there remains only the magnificent eastern wall, pierced nearly to the top by t

and soon came into Stockton-on-Tees, about half the size of its neighbor. It lies directly on the river, here a black, turbid stream, sullied by the factories that crowd its banks. We hesitated entering the Black

the heart of the connoisseur and is the pride of the stately landlady, who sat at the head of the table and treated us as though we were guests in more than the perfunctory hotel parlanc

ain in England ran over the Darlington & Stockton Railway in 1825. In going to Barnard Castle we proceeded by the way of Staindrop, though the direct road by the Tees is the best. But the route we chose passes Raby Castle, which bur

d of the wooded hills, and in front of it a fine lawn, with many giant elms, stretching down to the road; but does not our picture tell more than any words? We noted that few of the great private parks which we had visited were so beautiful

ne of the most perfect examples of its type in England. The exterior has not been greatly altered, but inside it has been much modernized and transformed into a palatial and richly furnished residence. In the library is a collecti

size serves to impress upon one the proportions of feudal hospitality-that the lord of the castle must look above everything else to the good cheer of his g

CAS

usetts Bay in 1636. It was built by the Nevilles in 1370, but passed to other hands two hundred years later, when that family took part in the Catholic uprising in the north.

own and naturally enough hastens to the King's Head, where the novelist's room is still shown. Master Humphrey's clock, which adorned a building just opposite the hotel, has disappeared-purchased by an American, a native told us with a shade of ind

s nothing awe inspiring or majestic about it. True, at the time, the Tees was at lowest ebb; a long drouth had reduced it to a fourth its normal volume and of course we did not see the High Force at its best. Every spot of interest in the Kingdom has its inn and it was in the farmyard of the High Force Hotel that we left the car. On returning from the falls, a deflated tire prolonged our stay, encouraging acquaintance with the hotel people. The landlord, who out of the hotel season was apparently a farmer, became friendly and

an almost continual view of the winding stream and its pleasantly diversified valley. It was a peaceful rural landscape, glimmering

ht before-so different was the scene and so varied our experiences; still, the distance in miles is not great. The r