i8 Journal of a Winter Tour from Leeds to London. (Aug. ¥, 
‘* For every shrub, and every blade of grass, 
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in 
glass ; 
_ 4m pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns 
shew, 
While through the ice the crimson berries 
slow 3 
The geen cha: reeds which watery marshes 
yield, 
Seemed polished lances in a hostile field ; 
The stag in limpid currents, with surprise, 
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise ; 
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow’ring 
pine, 
Glazed over, in the freezing zther shine ; 
The frighted -birds the rattling branches 
shun, 
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.” 
A general idea of Hack-fall, which has 
been said to combine the beauties of 
Matlock and the Leasowes, may be ob- 
tained, by conceiving a rivulet falling in 
cascades down a narrow dell, betwixt 
two steep hills richly covered with wood, 
and interspersed with temples and ruins. 
From the top of one of these eminences 
may beseena wide view of the North Rid- 
ing of Yorkshire, bounded by distant hills. 
Hack-fall lies about four or five miles 
from the beautiful seat of its proprietor, 
Studleigh Park, which I entered at the 
northern gate, close to the house. After 
riding about half a mile through a lawn, 
I descended to a fine sheet of water, 
on the borders of which, even winter 
wore the look of spring. Studleigh Park 
is certainly highly cultivated; nature 
has done much, and art more, in contri- 
buting towards its beauty. There are 
fine sloping hills covered with wood, and 
interspersed with temples; banqueting 
houses, cold baths, and seats planted to 
catch noble prospects: and below are 
smooth lakes, and imitations of the best 
remains of ancient scujpture. Never 
theless, I cannot help differing from all 
travellers, by decidedly condemning the 
‘taste of it to be vile. Here all is art, 
and no nature; the principal sheet of 
water is divided into three compart- 
ments, resembling a moon, and a cres- 
cent on each side of it, In the exact 
centre of these are dripping figures of 
Galen, Esculapius,. and Niobe: 
responding figures are placed opposite 
to the half-moons on the banks—the 
Dying Gladiator, and the Wrestlers; while 
this abominable piece of Dogget-work, is 
supplied with water from a broad ribboa 
of a cascade not better than a mill-dam. 
Opposite, on the other side, is a temple 
of Piety, containing of all things in the 
world, a bust of Nero :—a bust of Spi- 
cor= 
nosa might have been just as suitable. 
The whole is wretched. F would not give 
the erag a mile below Knaresborough, 
for five hundred such trumpery produc- 
tions. FE must mention in justice, that 
the little bronze figure of the Venus of 
Medicis, placed in the banqueting-house, 
is the most elegant imitation of that cele- 
brated statue I have ever seen in 
England. 
Turning away in disgust from the 
boasted beauties of Studleigh, we soon 
arrive at a real beauty—the venerable 
ruin of Fountaine’s Abbey. This is 
unquestionably the finest ruin in Eng- 
land. It stands in a sequestered valley, 
near to which a modest river steals along 
ay . 
between woods and rocks. Nothing has 
fallen to ruin in Fountaine’s Abbey, 
excepting the roof and some of the win- 
dows. The chancel, the choir, the 
cloisters, the dormitory, the kitchen, the 
refectory, the chapter-house, and tha 
charnel-house, are all nearly entire; and 
in some places the plaister remains on 
the walls, painted so as to resemble large 
red stones nicely joined together. 
Fountaine’s Abbey is a Gothic building : 
it was formerly enriched with ample 
revenues; andthe Percy family, many of 
whom are here buried, were considered 
as its chief benefactors. It was founded 
in 1132 by Thurstan, archbishop of ~ 
York ; and an inscription over one of the 
gates mentions its having been finished 
in the year 1202, seventy years from its 
foundation: the length of the aisle is 
three hundred and sixty feet, and the 
cloister garden is entire. 
Riding on from Fountaine’s Abbey, T- 
passed through Ripley and Lower Har- 
rowgate; and stopping all night at a small 
inn four miles beyond the latter place, 
arrived next morning in Leeds. 
After resting some days, I again took 
horse, and travelled through Wakefield, 
which I have described in a former tour 
to Barnsley, a wretched ugly iittle town, | 
where I got a bad breakfast. Sandal, 
Castle lies in the way witha a mile of 
Yakefield, weil known to he celebrated 
for a famous battle between the White 
and Red Roses. From Barnsley, I 
proceeded to Wentworth Castle, where 
I was led through the picture-gallery, 
though in a great hurry, by the house- 
keeper, who had more important busi- 
ness in hand—the making of jellies and . 
blamanges. Wentworth Castle is a 
family seat of the Stafford family, and 
stands nobly on the summit of a hill 
covered with old wees. The grounds 
ue 4 pote sest@re 
