the recesses of the dale. The old road from Richmond to Reeth
avoids the dale altogether, except for the last mile, and its ups and
its downs make the traveller pay handsomely for the scenery by the way.

But this ought not to deter anyone from using the road; for the view of
the village of Marske, cosily situated among the wooded heights that
rise above the beck, is missed by those who keep to the new road along
the banks of the Swale. The romantic seclusion of this village is
accentuated towards evening, when a shadowy stillness fills the
hollows. The higher woods may be still glowing with the light of the
golden west, while down below a softness of outline adds beauty to
every object. The old bridge that takes the road to Reeth across Marske
Beck needs no such fault-forgiving light, for it was standing in the
reign of Elizabeth, and, from its appearance, it is probably centuries
older.

The new road to Reeth from Richmond goes down at an easy gradient from
the town to the banks of the river, which it crosses when abreast of
Whitcliffe Scar, the view in front being at first much the same as the
nearer portions of the dale seen from that height. Down on the left,
however, there are some chimney-shafts, so recklessly black that they
seem to be no part whatever of their sumptuous natural surroundings,
and might almost suggest a nightmare in which one discovered that some
of the vilest chimneys of the Black Country had taken to touring in the
beauty spots of the country.

As one goes westward, the road penetrates right into the bold scenery
that invites exploration when viewed from 'Willance's Leap.' There is a
Scottish feeling--perhaps Alpine would be more correct--in the
steeply-falling sides of the dale, all clothed in firs and other dense
plantations; and just where the Swale takes a decided turn towards the
south there is a view up Marske Beck that adds much to the romance of
the scene. Behind one's back the side of the dale rises like a dark
green wall entirely in shadow, and down below half buried in foliage,
the river swirls and laps its gravelly beaches, also in shadow. Beyond
a strip of pasture begin the tumbled masses of trees which, as they
climb out of the depths of the valley, reach the warm, level rays of
sunlight that turns the first leaves that have passed their prime into
the fierce yellows and burnt siennas which, when faithfully represented
at Burlington House, are often considered overdone. Even th