Perhaps the most curious relic is St. Wilfred's Needle, a small window in the thick wall of the crypt, and various merits have been attributed to anyone who could pass through it. In old days this was proof of innocence against any charge of crime; but just now the young woman who can perform the somewhat acrobatic feat will be married within a year--rather a discrimination against the more buxom maidens. About four hundred years after the founding of the Saxon monastery, the present church was built; but it was not until 1836 that it was elevated to the rank of a cathedral. Like York Minster, Ripon is singularly devoid of tombs of famous men, though there are many fine monuments and brasses to the noble families of the vicinity. The architecture is strangely mixed, owing to the many alterations that have been made from time to time. The exterior must have been far more imposing before the removal of the wooden spires which rose above the towers. Ripon is a quiet, old-world market town, progressive in its way, but having little resource other than the rich agricultural country around it. There are many quaint streets and odd corners that attract the lover of such things. A queer relic of the olden days that arouses the curiosity of the visitor is the blowing of a horn at nine in the evening before the town cross by the constable. The sojourner will not be at a loss for comfortable entertainment, since the Unicorn Hotel fulfills the best traditions of English inns. To come within hailing distance of York means that we cannot remain away from that charming old city; and the early afternoon finds us passing Bootham Bar. The rest of the day we give to a detailed study of the minster--our fourth visit, nor are we weary of York Minster yet. Pontefract--the Pomfret of olden time--lies about twenty miles southwest of York. Its very name takes us back to Roman times--Pontem Fractem, the place of the broken bridge. It is a town that figured much in early English history and its grim old castle may hold the mystery of the death of King Richard II. We came here under lowering skies, and passing the partly ruined church, climbed the steep hill where the castle--or rather the scanty remnant of it--still stands. Verily, "ruin greenly dwells" about the old fortress of Pontefract; the walls were laden heavily with ivy, the greensward covered the floor of the keep, and the courtyard has been converted into a public garden. There is so little left that it would require a vivid imagination to reconstruct the strong and lordly fortress, which endured no fewer than three sieges during the civil war. The first resulted disastrously to the Parliamentary forces and the second was successful only after a long period and very heavy losses, and even then the garrison was given the honors of the war; yet after all this strenuous work, the castle was again lost to the Royalists through a trifling bit of strategy.