Just outside the city, on a level stretch of grass by the River Aire, stand the ruins of the great Cistercian abbey of Kirkstall. Some of the conventual buildings, including the chapter-house and refectory, have survived in a fairly complete state. Not far off on every side are factories and tall chimney shafts.] railways, and therefore where people get their first impression of Leeds, stands a fine statue of the Black Prince mounted on a noble charger. It seems curiously appropriate that the one member of the royal line of England with such a distinction should have been chosen for a prominent statue in the chief of the black cities of England, especially when we know that Edward III.’s son was, according to tradition, instrumental in introducing the weaving industry from Flanders into Yorkshire, where it has flourished increasingly ever since. Edward III. has been called ‘the father of English industry,’ and if this is a justifiable distinction both he and his son are in a measure responsible for the blackness as well as the riches their foresight has produced. The ruins of the great Cistercian Abbey of Kirkstall, founded in the twelfth century by Henry de Lacy, still stand in a remarkable state of completeness, about three miles from Leeds. With the exception of Fountains, the remains are more perfect than any in Yorkshire. Nearly the whole of the church is Transitional Norman, and the roofless nave is in a wonderfully fine state of preservation. The chapter-house and refectory, as well as smaller rooms, are fairly complete, and the situation by the Aire on a sunny day is still attractive; yet owing to the smoke-laden atmosphere, and the inevitable indications of the countless visitors from the city, the ruins have lost much of their interest, unless viewed solely from a detached architectural standpoint. We do not feel much inclination to linger in this neighbourhood, and continue our way westwards towards the great rounded hills, where, not far from Keighley, we come to the grey village of Haworth. More than half a century has gone since Charlotte Brontë passed away in that melancholy house, the ‘parsonage’ of the village. In that period the church she knew has been rebuilt, with the exception of the tower, her home has been enlarged, a branch line from Keighley has given Haworth a railway-station, and factories have multiplied in the valley, destroying its charm. These changes sound far greater than they really are, for in many ways Haworth and its surroundings are just what they were in the days when the members of that ill-fated household were still united under the grey roof of the ‘parsonage,’ as it is invariably called by Mrs. Gaskell.