" As pennons wont to wave of old 

 O'er the high feast of Baron bold." 



On the opposite side, innumerable daws 

 were loudly chattering among the rocks, 

 in whose crevices these birds " nest," and 

 establish their haunts. On this side, the 

 rooks were less clamorous, and sedulously 

 engaged in tempting their newly -fledged 

 offspring to fly from their native branches to 

 visit other members of the colony. Gliding 

 through the river might be seen numbers of 

 spotted trout; some rising at the water- fly 

 as it sportively circled on the surface of the 

 stream ; and others, in the deeper beds, 

 basking in the sunbeam as it found an 

 opening through the greenwood spray, and 

 lighted up the dancing leaves — making the 

 recesses of the glen still darker by the con- 

 trast. Startled by the coming step, or the 

 passing shadow, the timid, quick-eyed fish 

 would seek safety beneath some rocky stone, 

 or fly to coverts far under the overhanging 

 bank. 



Approaching by the river side, near to the 

 mansion of the demesne, you come to a small 

 stone bridge thrown across the Greta. Dark- 

 blossom'd wall-flower springs from the inter- 

 stices of the rough-hewn masonry in wild 

 profusion ; and, with the delicate blue hare- 

 bell interspersed, nearly covers the bridge. 



Huge rocks on either side, serving as 

 abutments or foundations for the bridge, 

 here confine the channel of the river, which, 

 impeded in its course, dashes with roaring 

 fury through the narrow ravine over 

 opposing rocks ; while eddies of the stream, 

 striving to rejoin the wild current, are borne 

 back into sequestered nooks, foaming their 

 brown dark waters into yeasty froth in their 

 struggle for freedom. Arriving on the 

 opposite side, where there is a dairy erected 

 at the end of the bridge in the coolest and 

 most romantic of situations, you see before 

 you a path leading to the Castle of Mortham. 

 This building stands about a quarter of a 

 mile from Greta Bridge ; and is scarcely so 

 far removed from the junction of the Greta 

 with the Tees. " It is a picturesque tower, 

 surrounded by buildings of different ages, 

 now converted into a farm-house and offices. 

 The battlements of the tower itself are sin- 

 gularly elegant, the architect having broken 

 them at regular intervals into different 

 heights ; while those at the corners of the 

 tower project into octangular turrets. They 

 are also from space to space covered with 

 stones laid across them, as in modern em- 

 brasures — the whole forming an uncommon 

 and beautiful effect. The surrounding build- 

 ings are of a less happy form, being pointed 

 into high and steep roofs. A wall, with 

 embrasures, encloses the southern front, 

 where a low portal arch affords an entry to 

 what was the castle court. The situation of 



Mortham is eminently beautiful, occupying a 

 high bank; at the bottom of which the 

 Greta winds out of a dark, narrow, and 

 romantic dell, and flows onwards through a 

 more open valley to meet the Tees." 



" 'Twas a fair scene! the sunbeam lay 

 On battled tower and portal grey ; 

 And from the grassy slope he sees 

 The Greta flow to meet the Tees, — 

 Where, issuing from her darksome bed, 

 She caught the morning's eastern red ; 

 And, through the softening vale below, 

 Roll'd her bright waves in rosy glow, 

 All blushing to her bridal bed, 

 Like some shy maid in convent bred ; 

 While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay, 

 Sing forth her nuptial roundelay." 



I now retraced my wandering steps to 

 the inn at Greta Bridge, selecting the path 

 through the glen on the Mortham side of the 

 river : — 



" A stern and lone, yet lovely road 

 As e'er the foot of minstrel trode! 

 Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and wave, 

 May hear the headlong torrent rave; 

 And like a steed in frantic fit, 

 That flings the froth from curb and bit, 

 May view her chafe her waves to spray, 

 O'er every rock that bars her way ; 

 Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, 

 Thick as the schemes of human pride, 

 That down life's current drive amain, 

 As frail, as frothy, and as vain !" 



Pursuing the morning's ramble, my walk 

 lay through, an extensive open pasture, 

 behind the inn, along the river's side. I 

 could not help noticing, as I passed on, the 

 multitudes of sand-martins, which " nest" in 

 large numbers in the banks. A path across 

 the meadow leads to the Greta woods. To 

 obtain an entrance, you must pass beneath a 

 cluster of vast beech-trees, recalling in their 

 age and grandeur the celebrated trees of the 

 same kind that adorn the park of Knowle, 

 at Seven Oaks, in Kent. The pathway 

 through the wood, leads direct into the main 

 road to Barningham, and saves the foot 

 passenger a circuitous walk to that village, 

 about two and a half miles distant from 

 Greta Bridge. The footway, I should re- 

 mark, gradually ascends, until you gain the 

 summit of the rocks overhanging the Greta, 

 opposite Brignall — winding between a vista 

 of oak, birch, ash, and hazel. The banks, I 

 observed, were bordered with the purple 

 heather ; and where the sunbeam can pene- 

 trate the green copse wood, the small 

 bilberry plant is seen springing up with its 

 pretty myrtle-like leaves, and deliriously 

 sweet and deep blue fruit. In the coverts, 

 the green bracken (fern) throws out its 

 feathery stalks, affording a shelter for the 

 rabbit ; and at the twisted roots of old trees, 

 or under the hanging banks, rises the tapering 

 fox-glove, drooping its pretty crimson bells, 



