Clear in the morning, but clouding at noon as yesterday. Mr Forster invited me to go and visit to Bolton Abbey today, and I agreed to stay, pounded I had no summons from home. My letters contained nothing so I felt free to remain. Mr 215 Bruce left us this morning, which I regretted, as I had found a very favorable opinion of him. Mr Temple went over to a neighboring town on duty, to return at night, and I drove with Mr Forster and his partner to Bolton Bridge, where we left his house, and began a stroll towards the Abby. The whole drive along the side of the Wharfe was exceedingly picturesque, but it became far more so as we ascended farther. There is a residence erected by the proprietor, the Duke of Devonshire, at the gateway of the old Abby—and a portion of the edifice itself has been restored as a church. The Chapel behind and the front remain in ruins. I do not know but I like it as well as Netley. The Valley grows narrower as you proceed and exhibits a diversity of wood, and water and opening which exceeds any thing I have yet seen in England. We stretched our walk to Barden towers, an old mined mansion of the Cliffords, a proud family who owned all this region in former days, but has become extinct except by females through when the present owner derives his title. It is not a large establishment. An inscription out in a stone tells us that it was built by Anne, Countess of Clifford, Pembroke and Montgomery, and Sheriffess of a part of Westmoreland, about two centuries ago. We walked home on the opposite side of the river, in the course of which Mr Foster gave me rather a sense through short trial of climbing. I can walk much without feeling it, but ascents are too much for me. A leaden sky had done much to sadden the scent before we left it at the bridge and drove home. Only Mr Temple to dinner. Much general conversation about religion and education.