The Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone is founded on a local 
      tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled "The 
      Rising of the North." The tradition is as follows:--"About this 
      time," not long after the Dissolution, "a White Doe," say the aged 
      people of the neighbourhood, "long continued to make a weekly 
      pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was 
      constantly found in the Abbey Churchyard during divine service; 
      after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the 
      rest of the congregation,"--DR. WHITAKER'S "History of the Deanery 
      of Craven."--Rylstone was the property and residence of the 
      Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate 
      Insurrection; which led me to connect with this tradition the 
      principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad.
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        "Bolton Priory," says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book, The 
      History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven, "stands upon a 
      beautiful curvature of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated 
      to protect it from inundations, and low enough for every purpose 
      of picturesque effect.
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        "Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, the river 
      washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of the richest 
      purple, where several of the mineral beds, which break out instead 
      of maintaining their usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted 
      by some inconceivable process into undulating and spiral lines. To 
      the South all is soft and delicious; the eye reposes upon a few 
      rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river, sufficiently 
      tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the bounding hills 
      beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in winter, 
      any portion of his rays.
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        "But after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. Whatever 
      the most fastidious taste could require to constitute a perfect 
      landscape, is not only found here, but in its proper place. In 
      front, and immediately under the eye, is a smooth expanse of park-
      like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the finest 
      growth: on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting points of 
      grey rock; on the left a rising copse. Still forward are seen the 
      aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries; and farther 
      yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat and Barden Fell 
      contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of 
      the valley below.
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        "About half a mile above Bolton the valley closes, and either 
      side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge 
      perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.
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        "This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late, 
      that ridings have been cut on both sides of the river, and the 
      most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the 
      woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a waterfall, and bursts 
      through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the Wharf: there 
      the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock and 
      next becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island--sometimes it 
      reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native character, 
      lively, irregular, and impetuous.
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        "The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous STRID. This chasm, 
      being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed on 
      either side a broad strand of naked gritstone full of rock-basins, 
      or 'pots of the Linn,' which bear witness to the restless 
      impetuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here Wharf is 
      lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its deep and 
      solemn roar, like 'the Voice of the angry Spirit of the Waters,' 
      heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the surrounding 
      woods.
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        "The terminating object of the landscape is the remains of 
      Barden Tower, interesting from their form and situation, and still 
      more so from the recollections which they excite."
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        The earlier half of this Poem was composed at Stockton-upon-
      Tees, when Mrs. Wordsworth and I were on a visit to her eldest 
      Brother, Mr. Hutchinson, at the close of the year 1807. The 
      country is flat, and the weather was rough. I was accustomed every 
      day to walk to and fro under the shelter of a row of stacks in a 
      field at a small distance from the town, and there poured forth my 
      verses aloud as freely as they would come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds 
      me that her brother stood upon the punctilio of not sitting down 
      to dinner till I joined the party; and it frequently happened that 
      I did not make my appearance till too late, so that she was made 
      uncomfortable. I here beg her pardon for this and similar 
      transgressions during the whole course of our wedded life. To my 
      beloved Sister the same apology is due.
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        When, from the visit just mentioned, we returned to Town-end, 
      Grasmere, I proceeded with the Poem; and it may be worth while to 
      note, as a caution to others who may cast their eye on these 
      memoranda, that the skin having been rubbed off my heel by my 
      wearing too tight a shoe, though I desisted from walking I found
      that the irritation of the wounded part was kept up, by the act of 
      composition, to a degree that made it necessary to give my 
      constitution a holiday. A rapid cure was the consequence. Poetic 
      excitement, when accompanied by protracted labour in composition, 
      has throughout my life brought on more or less bodily derangement. 
      Nevertheless, I am, at the close of my seventy-third year, in what 
      may be called excellent health; so that intellectual labour is not 
      necessarily unfavourable to longevity. But perhaps I ought here to 
      add that mine has been generally carried on out of doors.
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        Let me here say a few words of this Poem in the way of 
      criticism. The subject being taken from feudal times has led to 
      its being compared to some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to 
      the same age and state of society. The comparison is 
      inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the customary and very natural 
      course of conducting an action, presenting various turns of 
      fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind might rest as 
      a termination or catastrophe. The course I attempted to pursue is 
      entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the principal 
      personages in "The White Doe" fails, so far as its object is 
      external and substantial. So far as it is moral and spiritual it 
      succeeds. The Heroine of the Poem knows that her duty is not to 
      interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay 
      them, but
<pre>
                                "To abide
             The shock, and finally secure
             O'er pain and grief a triumph pure."
</pre>
      This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most 
      suitable to a mind and character that, under previous trials, had 
      been proved to accord with his. She achieves this not without aid 
      from the communication with the inferior Creature, which often 
      leads her thoughts to revolve upon the past with a tender and 
      humanising influence that exalts rather than depresses her. The 
      anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of her mind, and the 
      apotheosis of the companion of her solitude, are the points at 
      which the Poem aims, and constitute its legitimate catastrophe, 
      far too spiritual a one for instant or widely-spread sympathy, but 
      not therefore the less fitted to make a deep and permanent 
      impression upon that class of minds who think and feel more 
      independently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and 
      interests transitory because belonging more to the outward and 
      social forms of life than to its internal spirit. How 
      insignificant a thing, for example, does personal prowess appear 
      compared with the fortitude of patience and heroic martyrdom; in 
      other words, with struggles for the sake of principle, in 
      preference to victory gloried in for its own sake.
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<h4>ADVERTISEMENT</h4>

        During the Summer of 1807 I visited, for the first time, the 
      beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and 
      the Poem of "The White Doe," founded upon a Tradition connected 
      with that place, was composed at the close of the same year.