256 THE GOOD LORD CLIFFORD, 



rather exceeding half-a-pound. Here, where 

 we are now, where the river begins its winding 

 course, we may consider the Greta commencing, 

 or a little farther down, where it is met by the 

 Glendermaken, a rivulet (now so small that 

 you will hardly notice it) rising out of two small 

 tarns, Bowscale and Threlkeld, the latter, like 

 the castellated form of rock we have left 

 behind us, a subject of fabulous narrative, 

 being described as almost inaccessible, though 

 not difficult of approach ; as unfathomable, 

 though shallow ; as so deep in shade, from the 

 surrounding and overhanging mountains, that 

 the sun never shines on it and the reflection of 

 the stars may be seen in it at noonday, a 

 marvel, I need hardly remark, not an exaggera- 

 tion simply, but altogether imaginary. An 

 interesting story, and a true one, however, you 

 may remember, is connected with the name, viz. 

 that of the Shepherd Lord, "the Good Lord 

 Clifford," who, in the troublesome times of the 

 Roses, owed his life, after his father's death on 

 the bloody field of Ferrybridge, to seclusion in 

 these wilds, a story charmingly given in verse 

 by Wordsworth and in prose by South ey ; by 

 the latter, you may recollect, in the "Colloquies" 



