THE CLIFFORDS OF CRAVEN.

There is no district in England which abounds in more beautiful and
romantic scenery than the remote and rarely visited district of Craven,
in Yorkshire. Its long ridge of low and irregular hills, terminating at
last in the enormous masses of Pennygent and Ingleborough,--its deep and
secluded valleys, containing within their hoary ramparts of gray
limestone fertile fields and pleasant pasturages,--its wide-spreading
moors, covered with the different species of moss and ling, and fern and
bent-grass, which variegate the brown livery of the heath, and break its
sombre uniformity,--its crystal streams of unwearied rapidity, now
winding a silent course "in infant pride" through the willows and sedges
which fringe their banks, and now bounding with impetuous rage over the
broken ledges of rock, which seek in vain to impede their progress from
the mountains,--its indigenous woods of yew, and beech, and ash, and
alder, which have waved in the winds of centuries, and which still
flourish in green old age on the sides and summits of the smaller
declivities,--its projecting crags, which fling additional gloom over the
melancholy tarns that repose in dismal grandeur at their feet,--its
hamlets, and towns, and ivy-mantled churches, which remind the visiter of
their antiquity by the rudeness, and convince him of their durability by
the massiveness of their construction,--these are all features in the
landscape which require to be seen only once, to be impressed upon the
recollection for ever. But it is not merely for the lovers of the wild,
and beautiful, and picturesque, that the localities of Craven possess a
powerful charm. The antiquarian, the novelist, and the poet, may all find
rich store of employment in the traditions which are handed down from
father to son respecting the ancient lords and inhabitants of the
district. It is indeed the region of romance, and I have often felt
surprise, that the interesting materials with which it abounds have so