WHARFEDALE. 125 



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, wth the reader's per- 

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

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

 €ven " 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 hem 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, 

 TSjid 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 



