don't believe he could have done justice to beautiful Durham Cathedral
and the famous bridge; or splendid Richmond Castle on its height above
the Swale; or the exhilarating North Road; or charming Ripon; or even
the exquisite, almost heart-breaking beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey,
by the little river that sings its dirge in music sweeter than harp or
violin. No, he couldn't have put his soul into his eyes for them, and I
didn't. I was almost sorry that we were to go on and see Harrogate and
the Strid and Bolton Abbey, because in my restlessness I didn't feel
intelligent enough to appreciate anything. I could only be dully
thankful that the sword hadn't pierced me yet; but I wanted to be alone,
and shut my eyes, and not have to talk, especially to Mrs. Norton.

[Illustration: "_The exquisite beauty of ruined Fountains Abbey_"]

Dimly I realized that Harrogate seemed a very pretty place, where it
might be amusing to stay, and take baths and nice walks, and listen to
music; and my bodily eyes saw well enough how lovely was the way through
Niddersdale and Ilkley to Pately Bridge, where we had to get out and
walk through enchanted woods to the foaming cauldron of the Strid. The
water, swollen by rain, raced over its rocks below the crags of the
tragic jump, like a white horse running away, mad with unreasoning
terror. Nevertheless, my bodily eyes were only glass windows which my
spirit had deserted. It left them blank still, at Bolton Abbey, which is
poetically beautiful (though not as lovable as Fountains), on, up the
great brown hill of Barden Moor, through Skipton, where, in the castle,
legend says Fair Rosamond lived; until--Haworth. There--before we came
to the steep, straight hill leading up to the bleak and huddled townlet
bitten out of the moor, my spirit rushed to the windows. The voices of
Charlotte Bronte and her sister Emily called it back, and it obeyed at a
word, though all the beauty of wooded hills and fleeting streams had
vanished, as if frightened by the cold, relentless winds of the high
moorland.

Rain had begun to fall. The sky was leaden, the sharp hill muddy;
everything seemed to combine in giving an effect of grimness, as the car
forged steadily up, up toward the poor home the Brontes loved.

Isn't it a beautiful miracle, the banishing of black darkness by the
clear light of genius? It was that light which had lured us away from
all the charms of nature to a region of ugliness, even of squalor. The