WHARFEDALE. 1 2 5 



capable, henceforth consistently retains the characteristics 

 of a mountain stream. Immediately above the priory its 

 bed is full of large boulders ; beyond, it runs still and deep ; 

 here it narrows and there it widens everywhere it has the 

 bright bubbling charm of variety. This is what we have 

 for two miles, and then we reach the Strid. At this spot 

 the Mecca of the Wharfedale tourist the river gallops 

 through a deep sluice between two rocks, so narrow that 

 you may leap across it. Hence its name. And here it is 

 the legend must be told ; after which let the grayling look 

 out. 



A certain fishiness about the story makes it quite appro- 

 priate at this time and place. One Lady Alice had a son 

 who came to an untimely end in this madly-hurrying current 

 which, as we sit over it, roars in our ears. The story has 

 been best told by Rogers, who shall, with the reader's per- 

 mission, tell it again for our benefit. Wordsworth's version, 

 though substantially the same, is, compared with Rogers's, 

 even " as water unto wine." Says Rogers : 



" At Embasy rung the matin bell, 

 The stag was roused on Barden Fell ; 

 The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 

 And down the Wharfe a hern was flying ; 

 When, near the cabin in the wood, 

 In tartan clad and forest green, 

 With hound in leash and hawk in hood, 

 The boy of Egremond was seen. 

 Blithe was his song a song of yore ; 

 But where the rock is rent in two, 

 And the river rushes through, 

 His voice was heard no more. 

 'Twas but a step, the gulf he passed ; 

 But that step it was his last ! 

 As through the mist he winged his way 



