successive magnificent scenes, as almost tempt the exclamation of the poet,
" Visions of glory, spare mine aching sight!"
This sequestered sylvan scenery conducts to the tent, which gives name to the Arcadian spot through which we have passed; and here another view is let in of the mural rock, and its proud over-shadowing woods, that form the right-hand bank of the impetuous Oure, as well as a pretty pastoral picture of distant meads and rural dwellings. But soon the excursions of the eye are again precluded, by a darker shade, which grows around us as we descend through the coal-pit walk to the troubled waters of the river that has hitherto flowed below us. Here it unfolds a wider sweep to the visitor, stretching away both to the right and to the left; the former reach suddenly shut in by the bold promontory, crowned with Mowbray-Castle, whose face is overhung by a vast mass of calcareous incrustation, called the weeping rock, which, like the dripping-well at Knaresborough, distils with water that cases with a stony coat whatever is presented to its action. At this point the lower walks terminate, and we return towards the point from whence we set out, but by a new series of paths, which, managed with the utmost art and judgment, present a quick succession of different