k Minster, more
than forty miles away, could be easily seen. Near at hand, nestling in
the valley of the Swale, are the ivy-covered ruins of Easby Abbey; while
still nearer, on the hillside, the great tower of Grey Friars Church is
all that remains of another once extensive monastery. In no way can one
get a more adequate idea of the parklike beauty of the English
landscape than to view it from such point of vantage as the keep of
Richmond Castle. Richmond Church is an imposing structure standing near
the castle and has recently been restored as nearly as possible to its
ancient state. An odd feature of the church is the little shop built in
the base of the tower, where a tobacconist now plies his trade.

From the castle tower, looking down the luxuriant valley, we noticed at
no great distance, half hidden by the trees, the outlines of a ruined
church--the Easby Abbey which I have just mentioned as one of the
numerous Yorkshire ruins. It is but a few furlongs off the road by which
we left Richmond and the byway we entered dropped down a sharp hill to
the pleasant spot on the riverside, where the abbey stands. The location
is a rather secluded one and the painstaking care noticeable about so
many ruins is lacking. It is surrounded by trees, and a large elm
growing in the very midst of the walls and arches flung a network of sun
and shade over the crumbling stones. The murmur of the nearby Swale and
the notes of the English thrushes filled the air with soft melody. Amid
such surroundings, we hardly heard the old custodian as he pointed out
the different apartments and told us the story of the palmy days of the
abbey and of its final doom at the relentless hands of Henry VIII. Near
by is a tiny church, which no doubt had served the people of the
neighborhood as a place of worship since the abbey fell into ruin.

The day, which had so far been fine, soon began to turn cold--one of
those sudden and disagreeable changes that come in England and Scotland
in the very midst of summertime, an experience that happens so often
that one can not wonder at Byron's complaint of the English winter,
"closing in July to re-commence in August." At no time in the summer
were we able to dispense for any length of time with heavy wraps and
robes while on the road. From Richmond we hastened away over a fine and
nearly straight road to Ripon, whose chief attraction is its cathedral.
Speaking of cathedrals again, I might remark that our tour too