have not done with you; I will show you something more wonderful than the appearance of this evening: to-morrow, at midnight, go and stand upon Arncliffe bridge, and look at the water on the left side of it. Nothing will harm you; fear not.'

“And why should I go to Arncliffe bridge? What end can be answered by it? The place is lonely; I dread to be there at such an hour; may I have a companion?' "'No.'

"Why not?'

"Because the charm will be broken.' "What charm?' "I cannot tell.' "You will not.'

"I will not give you any further information: obey me, nothing shall harm you.'

"Well, Bertha,' I said, 'you shall be obeyed. I believe you would do me no injury. I will repair to Arncliffe bridge to-morrow at midnight; good night.'

I then left the cottage, and returned home. When I retired to rest I could not sleep; slumber fled my pillow, and with restless eyes I lay ruminating on the strange occurrences at the cottage, and on what I was to behold at Arncliffe bridge. Morning dawned, I arose unrefreshed and fatigued. During the day I was unable to attend to any business; my coming adventure entirely engrossed my mind. Night arrived, I repaired to Arncliffe bridge: never shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely night the full orb'd moon was sailing peacefully through a clear blue cloudless sky, and its beams, like streaks of silvery lustre, were dancing on the waters of the Skirfare; the moonlight falling on the hills formed them into a variety of fantastic shapes; here one might behold the semblance of a ruined abbey, with towers and spires, and Anglo-Saxon and Gothic arches; at another place there seemed a castle frowning in feudal grandeur, with its buttresses, battlements, and parapets The stillness which reigned around, broken only by the murmuring of the stream, the cottages scattered here and there along its banks, and the woods wearing an autumnal tinge, all united to compose a scene of calm and perfect beauty. I leaned against the left battlement of the bridge; I waited a quarter of an hour-half an hour-an hour-nothing appeared. I listened, all was silent; I looked around, I saw nothing. Surely, I inwardly ejaculated, I have mistaken the hour; no, must be midnight; Bertha has deceived me, fool that I am,

why have I obeyed the beldam? Thus I reasoned. The clock of the neighbouring church chimed-I counted the strokes, it was twelve o'clock; I had mistaken the hour, and I resolved to stay a little longer off the bridge. I resumed my station, which I had quitted, and gazed on the stream. The river in that part runs in a clear stili channel, and all its music dies away.' As I looked on the stream I heard a low moaning sound, and perceived the water violently troubled, without any apparent cause. The disturbance having continued a few minutes ceased, and the river became calın, and again flowed along in peacefulness. What could this mean? Whence came that low moaning sound? What caused the disturbance of the river? I asked myself these questions again and again, unable to give them any rational answer. With a slight indescribable kind of fear I bent my steps homewards. Ou turning a corner of the lane that led to my father's house, a huge dog, apparently of the Newfoundland breed, crossed my path, and looked wistfully on me. 'Poor fellow!' I exclaimed, hast thou lost thy master? come home with me, and I will use thee well till we find him.' The dog followed me; but when I arrived at my place of abode, I looked for it, but saw no traces of it, and I conjectured it had found its master.

"On the following morning I again repaired to the cottage of the witch, and found her, as on the former occasion, seated by the fire. Well, Bertha,' I said, 'I have obeyed you; I was yesterday at midnight on Arncliffe bridge."

"And of what sight were you a witness ?'

"I saw nothing except a slight disturbance of the stream.

"I know,' she said, 'you saw a disturbance of the water, but did you behold nothing more?'

"Nothing.'

"Nothing! your memory fails you.'

"I forgot, Bertha; as I was proceeding home, I met a Newfoundland dog, which I suppose belonged to some traveller.'

never

"That dog,' answered Bertha, ‘ belonged to mortal; no human being is his master. The dog you saw was Bargest; you may, perhaps, have heard of him.'

"I have frequently heard tales of Bargest, but I never credited them. If the legends of my native hills be true, a death may be expected to follow his appearance.'

"As Bertha refused to make any further communication, I left her. In less than three hours after I quitted her I was informed that my friend N▬▬▬, whose figure I had seen enveloped in the mist of the caldron, had that morning committed suicide, by drowning himself at Arncliffe bridge, in the very spot where I beheld the disturbance of the stream!"

Such was the story of my companion; the tale amused me, but by no means increased my belief in witchcraft. I told the narrator so, and we again entered into a serious discussion, which continued till the inn clock struck seven, when the stranger left me, saying, that he could not stay any longer, as he had a distance of ten miles to travel that evening along a very lonely road. The belief of witchcraft is still very prevalent in Craven; and there are now residing in different parts wise men and wise women, whom the country people consult when any property is stolen or lost, as well as for the purpose of fortune-telling. These impostors pretend generally to practise divination by the crystal, as in the tale -a mode of deception which Moncrieff has very ingeniously ridiculed in his "Tom and Jerry." Witches and wizards are not so common as they were a few years ago amongst us. The spread of education, by means of National and Sunday Schools, goes a great way to destroy superstition. Few witches were better known in Craven than Kilnsay Nan, who died a few years ago. This old hag travelled with a Guinea pig in her breast, which she pretended solved questions, and used at times to open a witchcraft shop in Bag's-alley, Skipton: her stock of spells was not very large, for it only consisted of her Guinea pig, and about half a pack of dirty cards.

Littondale, the romantic valley which forms the scene of the above tale, is at the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, where Wharfdale forks off into two great branches, one whereof retains the name of Wharfdale to the source of the river; and the other, which is watered by the Skirfare, (some times cailed the Litton and Litton Bech,) Is called Littondale. The ancient name was Amerdale; and by that designation Wordsworth alludes to it in his "White Doe,"

"The deep fork of Amerdale."

The whole of the dale is in the parish of Arncliffe; so called, according to my great

from Eaɲn, an eagle, and clyff, a rock; i. e. the eagle's rock;" as it afforded many secure retreats for that bird in its ridges of perpendicular limestone." The western side of the valley extends to Pennigent; on the skirts of which mountain are many ancient places of interment, called "Giants' Graves," thought to be Danish.

During the last summer I took a ride up Littondale, principally with a view of inspecting Arncliffe church, on the venerable tower of which I had frequently gazed at a distance. Alas! it is the only venerable thing about the church, all the rest of which has been rebuilt in a most paltry and insignificant style-not an ornament about it, inside or outside: as Dr. Whitaker truly says, "it has been rebuilt with all the attention to economy, and all the neglect, both of modern elegance and ancient form, which characterises the religious edifices of the present day." It is indeed, as the same historian observes," a perfect specimen" of a" plain, oblong, ill-constructed building, without aisles, choir, column, battlements, or buttresses; the roof and wainscotting of deal, the covering of slate; the walls run. ning down with wet, and the whole resembling a modern conventicle, which this year may serve as a chapel, and the next as a cockpit." The remarks that Arncliffe church leads the doctor to make ought to be thundered in the ears of every "beautifier" from Cornwall to Berwick upon Tweed :

"Awakened by the remonstrances of their ecclesiastical superior, a parish discovers that, by long neglect, the roof of their church is half rotten, the lead full of cracks, the pews falling down, the windows broken, the mullions decayed, the walls damp and mouldy. Here it is well if the next discovery be not the value of the lead. No matter whether this covering have or have not given an air of dignity and venerable peculiarity to the church for centuries. It will save a parish assessment; and blue slate will harmonize very prettily with the adjoining cotton-mill! The work of renovation proceeds-the stone tracery of the windows, which had long shed their dim religious light, is displaced, and with it all the armorial achievements of antiquity, the written memorials of benefactors, the rich tints and glowing drapery of saints and angels-but to console our eyes for the losses, the smart luminous modern sash is introduced; and if this be only pointed at top, all is well; for all isstill Gothic!* Next are condemned the Rylstone chapel has been “beautified" in this way.

massy oaken stalls, many of them capable of repairs, many of them wanting none: these are replaced by narrow slender deal pews, admirably contrived to cramp the tall, and break down under the bulky. Next the fluted wood work of the roof, with all its carved enrichments, is plastered over. It looked dull and nourished cobwebs! Lastly, the screens and lattices, which, from a period antecedent to the Reformation, had spread their light and perforated surfaces from arch to arch, are sawn away; and, in the true spirit of modern equality, one undistinguishing blank is substituted for separations which are yet canonical, and to distinctions which ought to be revered."

In Littondale is the celebrated cave Doukerbottom Hole: the road leading to it is steep and difficult to travel for one unused to hilly countries; but the tourist will receive an ample recompense for the badness of the road, by the splendid views obtained from all parts of it of Whernside and the neighbouring hills. It is some years since I saw Doukerbottom Cave; and at this distance of time I fear to attempt a description of its wonders; but I remember that the entrance is steep and rather dangerous; the first chamber very spacious and lofty, and the roof starred with beautiful stalactites formed by the dripping of the limestone; that then the cavern becomes narrower and lower, so much so, that you have to stoop, and that at the end the ear is stunned by a waterfall, which discharges itself into some still lower cave. I remember, too, that I visited it in company with an amiable dissenting minister, and that we were highly amused at the jokes and tales of our one-eyed guide, Mr. Proctor, of Kilnsay. I have just been inquiring after that worthy and eccentric old fellow, and find that he is dead. I am sorry for it; and if my reverend friend should see this article, I doubt not but he will lament with me, that poor old Proctor is gone. For many years he had been guide to Doukerbottom Cave and Whernside.

In Littondale is a ridge of rock, called Tenant's Ride, from one of the Tenant family having galloped along it while hunting. A dangerous feat truly, but not so daring as is generally supposed; for I am given to understand the ridge is seven yards wide, and perfectly level. There are fine waterfalls in the valley. I trust that a time will come when Littondale will be more frequented than at present.

December, 1827.

T. Q. M.

HAGBUSH-LANE

From desire to afford the destrue Corrall's cottage time to redect, and reparation for the injury they had zi on the old man and his wife; and w. to abstain from all appearance of making, the topic has remained untouched.

On the 28th of November Mthe agent of a respectable whose sympathy had been Pk:

the statements of the Table Bana, on me to make some inquines case, and I invited him to accor: to Corrall's shed. We proceeje: ** stage to the "Old Mother Red Camden-town, and walked from along the New Road, leading to II till we came to the spot at the corner of Hagbush-lane, on the »* side of the road. We had joc:ime nothing-the shed had disappears the clay swamp whereon it stood A the dreary line of road, and the ato meadows, rendered cheerless by a frosts and rains, there was not a being within sight; and we were s a mile from any place where inquire be made, with a chance of success, res es ing the fugitives. As they mogul tired into the lane for better shelter the winter, we made our way as quaggy entrance as well as we cri I soon recognised the little winding so delightful and lover-like a was of vernal sunshine. Its aspect, t gloomy and forbidding. The disrobet looked black, like funeral mutes the death of summer, and wept cc di upon our faces. As we wound our so way we perceived moving figures a distance of the dim vista, and sove up to a comfortless man and w poor couple, huddling over a smisræ dering fire of twigs and leaves. T us that Corrall and his wife had a down their shed and moved three before, and were gone to live in s--* the new buildings in White-condunt s The destitute appearance of our art. in this lonely place induced i specting themselves. The man was a don labourer out of employment, a 4. two days, they had been seeking it country without success. Because were able to work, parish-officers not relieve them; and they were out a home and without food. т walked and sauntered during the nights, for want of a place to sleep