The thought that first occurs, when one learns that Jervaulx Priory is not far from Middleham, is of Prior Aylmer and "Ivanhoe"--showing how the creations of the Wizard of the North often take precedence in one's mind over actual history--nay, rather have supplanted historical knowledge altogether, for we know nothing of the history of Jervaulx and will not take the pains to learn. It is enough to wander through its grounds, now kept with all possible care and neatness--every moss-grown stone replaced as nearly as possible in its original position and every detail of the abbey marked with exactness on the sward--and to know that the old story of monastic poverty, pomp and downfall has been repeated here. It is near the roadside and though private property, one may easily gain access by application at the keeper's cottage. The ruins are scanty indeed--little more than mere outlines of the abbey church and monastery and a few isolated columns and fragments of wall is to be seen--but the landscape gardener has come to the rescue and out of the scattered fragments has wrought an harmonious and pleasing effect. The situation is one of surpassing loveliness, just at the foot of the hills on the river Ure, which rushes between almost precipitous banks, over which its tributaries fall in glittering cascades. The soft summer air is murmurous with their music and the song of birds. There is no one but ourselves on the ground; no guide is with us to drone over prosaic history and to point out nave and transept--and this and that. As we wander almost dreamily about, we come very near to the spirit of monastic days. It is easy to imagine the old-time state of the abbey under Prior Aylmer, "when the good fathers of Jervaulx drank sweet wines and lived on the fat of the land." Even in that halcyon time it is doubtful if the surroundings were half so lovely as today. But we have mused long enough at Jervaulx--"Jervo," as the railway company officially declares it; "Jarvey," as the natives perversely term it. The day is still young and an uninterrupted run over the winding moorland road brings us to Ripon before noon. The low square-topped towers of the cathedral break on our view as we descend the hill to the Ure, upon whose banks Ripon sits. Ripon Cathedral is well-nigh forgotten by pilgrims who would see the great Yorkshire churches--so far is it surpassed by York Minster and Beverley. But after all, it is an imposing church and of great antiquity, for a monastery was established on the present site in the seventh century and St. Wilfred, the famous Archbishop of York, built the minster. Of this ancient building the crypt still remains, and to see it we followed the verger down a steep, narrow flight of stairs into a series of dungeonlike apartments beneath the forward end of the nave.