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A mind-blowing collection! With rich visual process descriptions, creators invite
us into their workshops and let us look over their shoulders. You will discover both
an exhibition of wonderful data-inspired works as well as the backstories of each of
these pieces. Whether hand-made, machine-controlled, or created through natural
processes, all the chapters show fascinating and bespoke creations of data objects.
A much needed collection highlighting what is happening at the frontiers of art and
sciences in this new field of data design.
— Giorgia Lupi, partner at Pentagram and author of Dear Data

What a much-needed book! Till, Sam, Lora, and Wes show us that data
communication can be so much more than just visualization. There is a whole
exciting world of data physicalization waiting to be explored, and the authors open
the door for us and lead us through it with intelligent commentary. The book takes
us to visit different artists, who explain their approaches and tools—from copper
pipes to paper, from wood to electronics. It's a hugely inspiring tour. Reading this
book will make you want to experiment with data in the realm of the physical.
— Lisa Charlotte Muth, data vis designer and writer at Datawrapper

This book has fresh inspirations from innovative artist-inventors who open up
new possibilities for anyone who has data that tell a story. The screen is no longer
the goal or the limit; freeing designers to explore more dimensions and shape
deeper experiences to reach people with important messages about their health,
communities, and climate. Data physicalizations break free into new dimensions
where playful imaginations can use water, plastic, wood, or stone to fabricate data
stories for public installations and private reflections. This book makes me want to
turn on the laser cutter and restart the 3D printer to fabricate something startling,
informative, and eye opening.
— Ben Shneiderman, Professor of Computer Science, University of Maryland
A collection of recent and diverse data-driven physical artifacts and sensorial
experiences. Projects are beautifully illustrated and described in jargon-free language
packed with practical information elucidating the design process, from the tools used
to the context of their conception. Making with Data is an invaluable resource for
educators and practitioners alike. It broadens our perspective of representing data by
engaging all our senses.
— Isabel Meirelles, Professor at OCAD University and author of Design for Information

“Designing with Data” is one of today’s key mantras. What next? Perhaps “Making
with Data”, as argued by professors Huron, Nagel, Oehlberg, and Willett. This timely
book explores new ways data is penetrating our living environment and is crossing
the boundary between the physical and the digital. Innovative fabrication methods
lend materiality to data, as designers experiment with the use of laser cutters and 3D
printers to transform maps and charts into tactile models and artworks.
A compelling read for any data enthusiast!
— Carlo Ratti, Director, MIT Senseable City Lab
 MAKING WITH DATA
Making with Data: Physical Design and Craft in a Data-Driven World provides a
snapshot of the practices used by contemporary designers, researchers, and artists who
are creating objects, spaces, and experiences imbued with data. Creators of physical
representations of data draw from a range of domains and traditions, and represent
a fascinating, inspiring, and revealing cross-section of contemporary maker and data
culture.

To highlight the diversity of approaches, this book features a collection of first-hand

accounts from 25+ international artists, designers, and scientists, documenting the
process of designing and creating new physical representations and experiences with
data. In each chapter, creators tell the story of how they created specific physical re-
presentations of data and illustrate that process via documentary sketches, photos, and
other design artifacts. The book is divided into five themes (Handcraft, Participation,
Digital Production, Actuation, and the Environment), each with an introduction that
considers the broader social, scientific, and artistic implications of giving physical
form to data. In particular, this book explores the process by which those artifacts
are created, surfacing the design decisions, considerations, methods, and fabrication
techniques that modern creatives use when making with data.

The first book to showcase physical representations of data, and discuss the creative
process behind them, approaching the topic from a multidisciplinary perspective -
from computer science, data science, graphic design, art, craft, and architecture - and
beautifully illustrated throughout, Making with Data is accessible and inspiring for
enthusiasts and experts alike.
AK Peters Visualization Series

Series Editors:
Tamara Munzner, University of British Columbia, Vancouver, Canada
Alberto Cairo, University of Miami, USA

Visualization Analysis and Design

Tamara Munzner

Information Theory Tools for Visualization

Min Chen, Miquel Feixas, Ivan Viola, Anton Bardera, Han-Wei Shen, Mateu Sbert

Data-Driven Storytelling
Nathalie Henry Riche, Christophe Hurter, Nicholas Diakopoulos, Sheelagh Carpendale

Interactive Visual Data Analysis

Christian Tominski, Heidrun Schumann

Data Sketches
Nadieh Bremer, Shirley Wu

Visualizing with Text

Richard Brath

Mobile Data Visualization

Bongshin Lee, Raimund Dachselt, Petra Isenberg, Eun Kyoung Choe

Questions in Dataviz
A Design-Driven Process for Data Visualisation
Neil Richards

Joyful Infographics
A Friendly, Human Approach to Data
Nigel Holmes

Making with Data

Physical Design and Craft in a Data-Driven World
Samuel Huron, Till Nagel, Lora Oehlberg, Wesley Willett

For more information about this series please visit:

https://routledge.com/AK-Peters-Visualization-Series/book-series/CRCVIS
 MAKING Physical Design
and Craft in

DATA
WITH a Data-Driven
World

Edited by
Samuel Huron | Institut Polytechnique de Paris, France
Till Nagel | Mannheim University of Applied Sciences, Germany
Lora Oehlberg | University of Calgary, Canada
Wesley Willett | University of Calgary, Canada

STAUBMARKE
SOLAR TOTEMS
DATAPONICS

PERPETUAL PLASTIC
ZOOIDS
EMERGE
AIRFIELD
LOOP
TENISON ROAD CHARTS
DATA SEEDS
ORBACLES
DATA THAT FEELS GRAVITY
WAGE ISLANDS
CHEMO SINGING BOWL
DATA STRINGS
100% [CITY]
LET’S PLAY WITH DATA
SEEBOAT
CAIRN
ENDINGS
ANTHROPOCENE FOOTPRINTS
V-PLEAT DATA ORIGAMI
LIFE IN CLAY
# WORDS

SNOW WATER EQUIVALENT

INTRODUCTION MOTIVATION PRACTICES AND PROCESSES MATERIALS AND TOOLS REFLECTIONS

AK Peters | CRC Press
Boca Raton and London
First edition published 2023
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742

and by CRC Press

4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN

© 2023 selection and editorial matter, Samuel Huron, Till Nagel, Lora Oehlberg,
and Wesley Willett; individual chapters, the contributors

CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author
and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences
of their use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright holders of
all material reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission
to publish in this form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been
acknowledged please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.

Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted, reproduced,
transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publishers.

For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, access www.copyright.com
or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-
750-8400. For works that are not available on CCC please contact [email protected]

Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks

and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.

Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data

Names: Huron, Samuel, editor. | Nagel, Till, editor. | Oehlberg, Lora, editor. | Willett, Wesley, editor.
Title: Making with data : physical design and craft in a data-driven world / edited by Samuel Huron,
Institut Polytechnique de Paris, France; Till Nagel, Mannheim University of Applied Sciences, Germany;
Lora Oehlberg, University of Calgary, Canada; Wesley Willett, University of Calgary, Canada.
Description: First edition. | Boca Raton : AK Peters : CRC Press, 2023. | Series: AK Peters visualization series
| Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022025399 (print) | LCCN 2022025400
(ebook) | ISBN 9781032207223 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032182223 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003264903
(ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Information visualization--Social aspects. | Data structures (Computer science)
| Design and technology. Classification: LCC QA76.9.I52 M355 2022 (print) | LCC QA76.9.I52 (ebook)
| DDC 001.4/226--dc23/eng/20220725
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022025399
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022025400

Publisher's note: This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the authors.

Design by Elodie Maigné.

Cover image by Betty Soliman.

Companion website: https://makingwithdata.org

Taylor & Francis
Taylor & Francis Group
http://taylorandfrancis.com
For Anke, Azur, Iris, Rhys, and Tiphaine.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

13 Series Foreword
by Alberto Cairo and Tamara Munzner

14 Foreword
by Barbara Tversky

15 Foreword
by Hiroshi Ishii

16 Introduction

28 HANDCRAFT
Introduction | Sheelagh Carpendale and Lora Oehlberg
36 SNOW WATER EQUIVALENT
Adrien Segal
50 LIFE IN CLAY
Alice Thudt
62 V-PLEAT DATA ORIGAMI
Sarah Hayes
74 ANTHROPOCENE FOOTPRINTS
Mieka West
86 ENDINGS
Loren Madsen

98 PARTICIPATION
Introduction | Georgia Panagiotidou and Andrew Vande Moere
108 CAIRN
Pauline Gourlet and Thierry Dassé
122 SEEBOAT
Laura Perovich
132 LET'S PLAY WITH DATA
Jose Duarte and EasyDataViz
146 100% [CITY]
Rimini Protokoll
(Helgard Haug, Stefan Kaegi, and Daniel Wetzel)
162 DATA STRINGS
Domestic Data Streamers
(Daniel Pearson, Pau Garcia, and Alexandra de Requesens)
176 DIGITAL PRODUCTION
Introduction | Yvonne Jansen
184 CHEMO SINGING BOWL
Stephen Barrass
198 WAGE ISLANDS
Ekene Ijeoma
210 DATA THAT FEELS GRAVITY
Volker Schweisfurth
220 ORBACLES
MINN_LAB Design Collective
232 DATASEEDS
Nick Dulake and Ian Gwilt

242 ACTUATION
Introduction | Pierre Dragicevic
250 TENISON ROAD CHARTS
David Sweeney, Alex Taylor, and Siân Lindley
264 LOOP
Kim Sauvé and Steven Houben
276 AIRFIELD
Nik Hafermaas, Dan Goods, and Jamie Barlow
286 EMERGE
Jason Alexander, Faisal Taher, John Hardy, and John Vidler
298 ZOOIDS
Mathieu Le Goc, Charles Perin, Sean Follmer,
Jean-Daniel Fekete, and Pierre Dragicevic

310 ENVIRONMENT
Introduction | Dietmar Offenhuber
318 PERPETUAL PLASTIC
Liina Klauss, Moritz Stefaner, and Skye Morét
332 DATAPONICS: HUMAN-VEGETAL PLAY
Robert Cercós
344 SOLAR TOTEMS
Charles Sowers
358 STAUBMARKE (DUSTMARK)
Dietmar Offenhuber

370 Conclusion
372 Resources
374 About the Editors
376 Acknowledgements
378 Index
FOREWORDS
 — 13
–
ALBERTO
CAIRO
AND TAMARA
MUNZNER
Editors,
AK Peters Visualization Series

Data physicalization has a long history and a bright future. The vibrant and exuberant
state of the art in creating physical representations of data is celebrated in this first-ever
book on the subject. This book showcases the work of a diverse set of people from a
broad swath of communities—designers, artists, architects, makers, crafters, resear-
chers, engineers, and data scientists. It provides a guided tour through the creation, de-
sign, and fabrication processes and techniques for a fascinating collection of projects,
situated within historical context and a rich intellectual landscape of considerations
and implications.

This book is part of the AK Peters Visualization series, which aims to capture what visua-
lization is today in all its variety and diversity, giving voice to researchers, practitioners,
designers, and enthusiasts. Visualization plays an ever-more prominent role in the wor-
ld, as we communicate about and analyze data. The series encompasses books from all
subfields of visualization, including visual analytics, information visualization, scientific
visualization, data journalism, infographics, and their connection to adjacent areas such
as text analysis, digital humanities, data art, or augmented and virtual reality.
— 14

Why make data physical?

Data begin as physical, real stuff in real space and in real time: people, things, places,
events, ticks in time, a birth, a death, an atom smashed, a price declined, dots in space
that accumulate. Data are collected, combined, reduced, transformed, and mapped,
typically to space and typically to sight, but also to time, to sound, to touch, to smell
to enable extracting the general from the individual, finding meaning, and drawing
–
implications.
BARBARA
TVERSKY Data, then, are created by a process, a process that occurs in time and space. Seeing
is a cognitive scientist and, even better, grasping, manipulating, or creating physical instantiations puts you
intrigued by everything in touch, literally and figuratively, with the processes that transform aspects of the
spatial, in the mind or
world into data. Directly experiencing physical instantiations slows you down, makes
in the world, natural or
invented, in memory, you pause, to think and reflect. What is this representing? What is the mapping from
language, events, gesture, the world to the artifact? It can make you sense the process. Sliding beads on an abacus
visualizations, art, design, corresponds far more directly to the actions of adding, subtracting, multiplying, and
and creativity, working dividing real things than the formulaic writing of numbers and symbols in rows and
with artists, scientists,
columns. Knitting a row of a scarf each day where the color and length of a row cor-
and engineers of many
varieties. She wrote Mind
responds to the number of deaths by overdose makes the terrible pace of unnecessary
in Motion: How Action loss of life tangible. Hearing the bells count the hours, more chimes, for later, greater
Shapes Thought. hours, does the same. We become aware of the individual and the particular, and of
Credit: Roslyn Banish. the process that accumulates and maps, that creates the mean, the curve, the equation.

Making data physical creates art, incidentally or intentionally. Art, too, abstracts. Tra-
ditional representational art abstracts the artist’s conception of a person, a scene, an
event; the person, scene, or event depicted is likely to be familiar and recognizable.
Modern abstract art abstracts emotion or form, not just in visual art but also in music,
literature, video, and more. Data physicalizations are a new kind of art form, a form
that is both abstract and representational, but representing data about people, scenes,
or events, not the entities themselves. In so doing, data physicalizations make the abs-
tract concrete again, but the concrete has been transformed.

This wonderful book is packed with delightful examples of this new artscience form,
examples that are inspired and inspiring and will bring joy to the senses and thought
to the mind.
Another Random Scribd Document
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Legendary
Yorkshire
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Legendary Yorkshire

Author: Frederick Ross

Release date: November 28, 2016 [eBook #53617]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGENDARY

YORKSHIRE ***
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Legendary Yorkshire, by Frederick
Ross

Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet

Archive. See
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LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE.
 NOTE.

Of this book 500 copies have been printed, and this is

No. ...
 Contents.

PAGE
The Enchanted Cave. 1
The Doomed City. 15
The "Worm" of Nunnington. 34
The Devil's Arrows. 51
The Giant Road-Maker of Mulgrave. 70
The Virgin's Head of Halifax. 80
The Dead Arm of St. Oswald the 100
King.
The Translation of St. Hilda. 117
A Miracle of St. John. 131
The Beatified Sisters of Beverley. 147
The Dragon of Wantley. 168
The Miracles and Ghost of Watton. 176
The Murdered Hermit of Eskdale. 195
The Calverley Ghost. 214
The Bewitched House of Wakefield. 231
 LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE.

The Enchanted Cave.

ho is there that has not heard of the famous and redoubtable

hero of history and romance, Arthur, King of the British, who
so valiantly defended his country against the pagan Anglo-
Saxon invaders of the island? Who has not heard of the lovely but
frail Guenevera, his Queen, and the galaxy of female beauty that
constituted her Court at Caerleon? Who has not heard of his
companions-in-arms—the brave and chivalrous Knights of the Round
Table, who went forth as knights-errant to succour the weaker sex,
deliver the oppressed, liberate those who had fallen into the clutches
of enchanters, giants, or malicious dwarfs, and especially in quest of
the Holy Graal, that mystic chalice, in which were caught the last
drops of blood of the expiring Saviour, and which, in consequence,
became possessed of wondrous properties and marvellous virtue of
a miraculous character?
If such there be, let him lose no time in perusing Sir John Mallory's
"La Morte d'Arthur," the "Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth," the
"Mabinogian of the Welsh," or the more recent "Idylls of the King,"
of Tennyson. According to Nennius, after vanquishing the Saxons in
many battles, he crossed the sea, and carried his victorious arms
into Scotland, Ireland, and Gaul, in which latter country he obtained
a decisive victory over a Roman army. Moreover, that during his
absence Mordred, his nephew, had seduced his queen and usurped
his government, and that in a battle with the usurper, in 542, at
Camlan, in Cornwall, he was mortally wounded; was conveyed to
Avalon (Glastonbury), where he died of his wound, and was buried
there. It is also stated that in the reign of Henry II. his reputed tomb
was opened, when his bones and his magical sword "Excaliber" were
found. This is given on the authority of Giraldus Cambrensis, who
informs us that he was present on the occasion. But the popular
belief in the West of England was that he did not die as represented,
his soul having entered the body of a raven, which it will inhabit until
he reappears to deliver England in some great extremity of peril.
This is what is told us by old chroniclers of Western England, the
Welsh bards, and some romance writers; but in Yorkshire we have a
different version of the story. It is true, say our legends, that Arthur
was a mighty warrior, the greatest and most valiant that the island of
Britain has produced either before or since; a man, moreover, of the
most devout chivalry and gentle courtesy, and withal so pure in his
life and sincere in his piety as a Christian, that he alone is worthy to
find the Holy Graal, if not in his former life, in that which is
forthcoming—for he is not dead, but reposes in a spell-bound sleep,
along with his knights, Sir Launcelot, Sir Gawaine, Sir Perceval, etc.,
and that the time is coming when the needs of England will be such
as only his victorious arm, wielding his magically wrought Excaliber,
can rescue from irretrievable ruin. He sleeps—it is asserted—along
with his knights, in a now undiscoverable cavern beneath the Castle
of Richmond, whence he will issue in the fulness of time, scatter the
enemies of England like chaff before the wind, as he so frequently
dispersed the hordes of Teuton pagans, and place England on a
higher eminence among the nations of the earth than it has ever
previously attained. This enchanted cave has been seen but once,
and by one man only. It happened in this wise:—
Once on a time there dwelt in Richmond one Peter Thompson. At
what period he flourished is not recorded, but it matters not,
although a little trouble in searching the parish registers and lists of
burgesses of the town might reveal the fact. He gained a living by
the fabrication of earthenware, and hence was popularly known
amongst his comrades and townspeople as Potter Thompson. He
was a simple and meek-minded man, small in stature and slender in
limb, never troubling himself with either general or local politics. His
voice was never heard at the noisy meetings of the vestry, nor did
he join in the squabbles attendant on the meetings of the electors
for the choice of their municipal governors or representatives in
Parliament; he merely recorded his vote for the candidate who came
forward as the representative of the colour he supported, leaving the
shouting and quarreling and cudgel-playing to those of his fellow-
townsmen who had a liking for such rough work. As for himself, he
was only too glad when he had discharged his duty as a citizen to
get back to his clay and his wheel, for he was an industrious little
fellow, had plenty of work, and was thus enabled, by living a frugal
life, to lay by a little money, and would have lived a comfortable and
happy life but for one circumstance.
Unfortunately, Peter Thompson was a married man; not that
matrimony, in the abstract, is a misfortune, but he was unfortunate
inasmuch as his wife was a termagant, and made his life miserable.
Her tongue went clack, clack, clacking all day long; nothing that he
did was right. She declared herself to be the greatest fool in
Richmond to have united herself to an insignificant little wretch like
him; and even when the bed curtains were drawn around them at
night, the poor fellow was kept awake for an hour or more while she
dinned into his ears a lecture on his manifold faults and his failures
of duty as a husband. Peter seldom replied, but bore it all with
meekness, and allowed her to go on with her monologue until she
was tired, or ceased for want of breath. At times, when she was
more exasperating than usual, he would start up from his wheel,
clap his hat on his head, and rush out of the house to escape her
pertinacious scolding. At such times he would go wandering about
the hills and picturesque scenery by which Richmond is environed,
and especially about the hill on which stands the Castle, and
amongst the castle ruins, remaining away for three or four hours,
moodily meditating on the mischance or infatuation which had led
him to ally himself with so untoward a helpmate.
It chanced one day that Peter, unable to endure the persecution of
his wife's tongue, rushed out of his house with the full intention of
throwing himself into the Swale, so as to end his misery there and
then. It was a brilliant summer's day, and there was a glorious sheen
cast over hill and vale, rock and ravine, the silvery river winding
between its emerald-hued banks and the clumps of foliaged
woodland—over the Castle keep standing pre-eminently above all
other buildings, church tower, ruined friary, antique bridge, and the
quaint houses of the burghers, with the tower of Easby gleaming in
the distance, imparting to the whole scene, which is one of the most
picturesque in Yorkshire—which is saying a great deal, and which for
natural beauty can scarcely be surpassed in England—a charm which
had a wonderful effect on Peter's perturbed mind. He was a lover of
nature in all her aspects, and an ardent admirer of the landscape
beauties which surrounded his native town; and he began to reflect,
as he ran down the slope, that if he carried out his purpose, he
would never more be able to delight his eyes with the lovely
prospects of nature so lavishly displayed before him at that moment;
and by the time he reached the river's bank he had almost
determined to live on and find compensation for his domestic
discomforts in his communings with nature—or at least, continued
he to himself—"I will take another turn among the hills and rocks
and old ivy-mantled ruins, before I bid good-bye to it all." He
wandered along round the base of the Castle hill, his spirits
becoming more elevated the farther he went, as he gazed on the
glorious landscape which gradually became revealed to his view.
Anon he fell into a contemplative mood, and reasoned calmly and
philosophically on the wisdom of disregarding the minor ills of life,
when it was possible for him as a compensating alternative to revel
in the delights he was now enjoying, and he soon forgot altogether
his purpose of terminating his woes and his life together from the
parapet of Swale bridge. Onward he wandered; when suddenly
turning a corner he came upon a spot altogether unknown to him—a
ravine which seemed to wind away under the Castle hill, walled in
with rugged rocks, from whose crevices sprang upward trees and
shrubs, whilst underfoot was a flooring of rough scattered stones
and fragments of fallen rocks, which appeared not to have been
trodden for centuries. Astonished at the sight, for he imagined that
he knew every nook in the neighbourhood, he rubbed his eyes to
ascertain whether he was dreaming; but he found himself to be fully
awake, and the unknown ravine to be a palpable reality. It just
flashed across his mind that sorcery had been at work, and that
what he beheld was the result of necromancy, for in his time
enchanters, warlocks, wizards, and witches were rife in the land; but
Peter had a bold heart, and he resolved upon solving the mystery by
an exploration of the recesses of the ravine, let what would come of
it.
Summoning up all his courage, Peter entered the ravine, stumbling
now and then over the stones bestrewn along his pathway. The road
wound about, now to one side then to another, and the trees
overhead to stretch out towards each other so as to overshadow the
ravine and impart a twilight effect, which, as Peter proceeded
onward, deepened into gloom, and eventually almost to darkness. At
this period, when he was compelled to move along with caution, he
encountered what at first seemed to be a wall of rock forming the
end of the ravine. On feeling it carefully he found it to be a huge
boulder which obstructed his path, but, his courage failing him not,
he found means to clamber over it and land safely on the further
side. On looking about him, as well as he could by the dim light, he
found that he had alighted on the entrance to a cavern, the boulder
seeming as if it had been placed there to prevent the intrusion of
unauthorised persons, and then he imagined that it might be the
cave of a gang of banditti, and was at once their treasure house and
their refuge in times of peril; and this idea seemed to be confirmed
by the circumstance that he could perceive, in the extreme distance,
a glimmer of light. He felt that it would be extremely dangerous to
be discovered in the purlieus of their haunt, but curiosity got the
better of his fears, and he resolved upon going forward, mentally
adding "After all it may be nothing more than the daylight streaming
in at the other end, and by going on I may come out into the open
air without having to return by the rough, shinbreaking road by
which I have come;" and onward he went, feeling his way by the
rocky walls cautiously and slowly, and, it must be added, with some
degree of trepidation.
As he proceeded along, the distant light increased, and could be
seen beaming through an opening like a doorway, with a mild
effulgence resembling moonlight. Clearly it could not be the light of
the sun streaming in through the aperture, and Peter, becoming
more convinced that he was either approaching a robbers' haunt or
a scene of enchantment, crept along as silently as possible, with
some timidity, it is true; but having come thus far, and his curiosity
being excited to the utmost pitch, he determined to carry out his
adventure to the end. As he approached the portal, he stood to
listen; but not the slightest sound broke the death-like stillness, and
concluding from this that the cave was not occupied—at least, was
not at present—he ventured onward with silent footstep, and stood
within the illuminated aperture. What was his amazement cannot be
told at beholding the scene before him. The opening gave entrance
to a lofty and spacious cavern, its walls glittering with crystals and
spars, whilst from the roof depended a profusion of stalactites,
glistening and scintillating with hues of spectroscopic brilliancy. The
light which was diffused around seemed to be something
supernatural; it was not that of the sun, nor that of the moon, nor
was it our modern electric light; but seemed to be an intensity of
phosphoric radiance—soft, mild, and provocative of slumber—which
came not from any lamp or other visible source, but appeared to be
self-evolved from the atmosphere. In the centre of the cave, upon a
rocky table or couch, lay the figure of a kingly personage, resting his
head on his right hand, after the fashion of the recumbent effigies in
our mediæval churches. He was clad in resplendent armour and a
superb over-cloak, with a golden crown, studded with precious
stones, encircling his head. By his side was a circular shield
emblazoned with arms, which would have told Peter, had he been
versed in heraldry, that the owner was the famous King Arthur;
whilst close by, suspended from the wall, were a diamond-hilted
sword in a chased golden scabbard, and a highly ornamented horn,
such as were used by military leaders for collecting their scattered
troops. Around the King lay his twelve Knights of the Round Table,
some prostrate on the floor, others reposing on fragments and
projections of the rocks, each one handsome in figure and reclining
in unstudied natural grace, presenting a study for a painter. They all
lay as still as death save that their heaving chests and audible
breathing showed that they were wrapped in profound slumber.
Peter gazed upon them for a while with wondering eyes, keeping
within the doorway, so as to have the road clear behind him for
escape, in case of any hostile demonstration on the part of the
knights. As they still slumbered on, without any sign of awakening,
he plucked up courage enough to go amongst them; and, attracted
by the splendour of the sword, he took it down to examine it more
closely; then took it by the handle, and half drew it from its sheath.
The moment he had done so, the sleepers around him gave
symptoms of awakening, turned themselves, and seemed to be
preparing to rise; but the spell of disenchantment was not complete.
Peter, terribly alarmed at what he saw, pushed back the sword into
the scabbard, threw it on the floor, and hurried with all speed to the
doorway; whilst the half-awakened slumberers sank back again into
deep sleep. Peter, not noticing this, rushed through the opening,
thinking the knights were following him to inflict some terrible
punishment on him—perhaps that of death—for his presumptuous
intrusion. It was but a few moments, and he reached the boulder
which defended the entrance, and which was much more difficult to
scale from that side. He was endeavouring to find projections to
enable him to clamber up, when he heard a hollow sepulchral voice
exclaim from the cave:—

"Potter, Potter Thompson,

If thou had'st either drawn
The sword or blown the horn,
Thoud'st been the luckiest man
That ever yet was born."
With teeth chattering, hair on end, and a cold perspiration suffusing
his forehead, he made a desperate effort, scrambled somehow or
other over the stone, and running with fleet footstep, regardless of
the rough roadway, gained the open air without any other damage
than a few bruises and a terrible fright. He went home, and had to
encounter a fearful scolding for remaining out so long and neglecting
his work. He told his wife the tale of his adventures, but she only
laughed it to scorn, saying, "You old fool! and so you have fallen
asleep on the hillside and want to persuade me that your dream was
a reality. It's a pretty thing that you should leave your wheel and go
mooning about in this way, leaving your faithful wife to suffer the
effects of your idleness."
Many a time since then did Peter seek for the ravine but could never
find it; but it is confidently assumed that Arthur and his knights are
still slumbering under the Castle hill.
 The Doomed City.

hrough the valley of Wensleydale, in the North Riding of

Yorkshire, flows the river Yore or Ure, passing onward to
Boroughbridge, below which town it receives an insignificant
affluent—the Ouse—when it assumes that name, under which
appellation it washes the walls of York, and proceeds hence to unite
with the Trent in forming the estuary of the Humber; but although it
loses its name of Yore before reaching York, the capital city of the
county is indebted to it for the name it bears. The river in passing
through Wensleydale reflects on its surface some of the most
romantic and charming landscape scenery of Yorkshire, and that is
saying a great deal, for no other county can equal it in the variety,
loveliness, and wild grandeur of its natural features.
"In this district, Wensleydale, otherwise Yorevale or Yorevalle," says
Barker, "a variety of scenery exists, unsurpassed in beauty by any in
England. Mountains clothed at their summits with purple heather,
interspersed with huge crags, and at their bases with luxuriant
herbage, bound the view on either hand. Down the valley's centre
flows the winding Yore, one of the most serpentine rivers our island
boasts—now boiling and foaming, in a narrow channel, over sheets
of limestone—now forming cascades only equalled by the cataracts
of the Nile—and anon spreading out into a broad, smooth stream, as
calm and placid as a lowland lake. On the banks lie rich pastures,
occasionally relieved, at the eastern extremity of the valley, by
cornfields. There are several smaller dales branching out of
Wensleydale—of which they may, indeed, be accounted part. Of
these the principal are Bishopdale and Raydale, or Roedale—the
valley of the Roe—which last contains Lake Semerwater, a sheet of
water covering a hundred and five acres, and about forty-five feet
deep. Besides this lake, the natural objects of interest in the district
best known are Aysgarth Force, Hardraw-scaur, Mill Gill, and Leyburn
Shall—the last a lofty natural terrace from which the eye may range
from the Cleveland Hills at the mouth of the Tees to those bordering
upon Westmoreland."
The valley is exceedingly rich in historic memories and noble
monuments of the architectural past—"castles and halls inseparably
united with English story, and abbeys whose names, whilst our
national records shall be written, must for ever remain on the scroll;
with fortresses which have been the palaces and prisons of kings. Of
these, Bolton Castle, the home of the Scropes, and one of the
prisons of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Middleham Castle, where dwelt
the great Nevill, the king-maker, and the frequent and favourite
residence of the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard III.,
and the venerable remains of Yorevale, or Jervaux, and of Coverham
Abbeys, are alone sufficient to immortalise a district of country."
In former times the dale was covered by a dense forest, the home of
countless herds of deer, wild boars, wolves, and other wild animals.
There were no roads, but glades and trackways, intricate and
winding, very difficult and puzzling to traverse, so that travellers
often became benighted, without being able to find other shelter
than that afforded by trees and bushes. At the village of Bainbridge
there is still preserved the "forest horn," which was blown every
night at ten o'clock from Holyrood to Shrovetide, to guide wanderers
who had lost their way to shelter and safety from the prowling
beasts of prey. A bell also was rung at Chantry, and a gun fired at
Camhouse with the same object. In the first century of the Christian
era there existed in the valley of Roedale a large and for that time
splendid city, inhabited by the Brigantian Celts. It nestled in a deep
hollow, surrounded by picturesque hills and uplands, and was
environed by the majestic trees of the forest, where the Druids
performed the mystical rites and ceremonials of their religion. The
houses were built of mud and wattles, and thatched with straw or
reeds, and the city was a mere assemblage of such private
residences, without any of the public buildings, such as churches,
chapels, town houses, assembly rooms, baths, or literary institutions,
such as now-a-days appertain to every small market town; yet it was
spoken of as a "magnificent city," and such it perhaps might be as
compared with other and smaller towns and villages.
It was about the time when Flavius Vespasian annexed Britain to the
Roman Empire, and the Brigantes had been partially subdued by
Octavius Scapula, the Roman Governor of Britain, but before York
had become Eboracum—the Altera Roma of Britain—and the
influence of the conquerors of the world had not penetrated to this
remote and secluded spot in the forest of Wensleydale, so that the
people of the city still retained their old religion, customs, and habits
of life; still stained their bodies with woad, clothed themselves with
the skins of animals, and still fabricated their weapons and
implements of bronze. Joseph of Arimathea had planted the cross on
Glastonbury Hill, but the people of this city had never even heard of
the new religion that had sprung up in Judea, and went on
sacrificing human beings to their bloodthirsty god, cutting the sacred
mistletoe from the oaks of their forest, and drawing the beaver from
the water, emblematic of the salvation of Noah and his family at the
deluge, of which they had a dim tradition.
The angels of heaven took great interest in the efforts of the
apostles who, in obedience to their Master's command, went forth
from Judea to preach the gospel of glad tidings and the doctrine of
the cross to all mankind, and had especially noted the erection of
the Christian standard on Glastonbury Hill, in the barbarous and
benighted island of the Atlantic. One of the heavenly host, indeed,
became so much interested in the conversion of the natives of this
isle—which he foresaw would, in the distant centuries, become a
great centre of evangelical truth, and, by means of missionaries, the
foremost promulgator of religious light to other benighted peoples of
the earth—that he determined to descend thither, and, under the
guise of a human form, go about amongst the people, and in some
measure prepare them for the reception of the teachings of the
companions of St. Joseph.
Midwinter had come, the period when the sun seemed to the Britons
to be farthest away from the earth, and when, according to the
experience of the past, he would commence his return with his
vivifying rays; and the Druids were holding joyous ceremonial in
celebration of this annually recurring event. The sun was viewed as
a superhuman beneficent being who journeyed across the heavens
daily to dispense heat and life, and to cause the fruits and flowers
and cereals to bloom and fructify, and give forth food for men and
animals, who in summer approached near to the earth, and in winter
retired to a distance from it—for what end or purpose they knew
not. Nevertheless they deemed it wise to propitiate him by two great
ceremonials of worship—the one at midsummer, attended by blazing
"Baal-fires" on the hills (a custom which still survives in some parts
of Yorkshire, where, on Midsummer-eve, "beal-fires" are lighted), a
festival of rejoicing and thanksgiving for the ripening crops and
fruits; the other at midwinter, which partook more of the character
of a supplicating worship, imploring him, now that he was far
distant, not to withdraw himself entirely from the earth, but return
as he had been wont to do, and again cheer the world with his
beams of brightness and warmth. On the occasion of this particular
festival, the weather was stormy and cold; the pools were frozen
over, and the ground covered with snow, whilst a chilling sleet,
driven by a biting north-eastern wind, beat upon those who were
exposed to its influence in the open air. The festival was proceeding
in a cleared space of the forest circled round by lofty trees, which
was the open-air natural temple of the Druids; its walls built by the
hand of their god, and its dome-like roof the floor of the habitation
where he dwelt. Whilst the Druids were engaged in offering up
prayers, the bards in singing anthems of praise, and the vates
investigating the entrails of slain animals, to read therein forecasts of
the future and the will of the gods, especially of the Sun God, in
whose honour the festival was held, the venerable figure of an aged
man might be seen descending the hill and approaching the city. He
seemed to be bowed down with the infirmities of age, and to breast
with difficulty the forcible rushing of the wind. His white flowing
beard, which reached almost to his waist, was glittering with
incrustations of ice; and his legs trembled as he came along, leaning
on his staff, with feeble and uncertain footsteps. He was clad in a
long gabardine, which he wrapped tightly round him, to protect his
frame as much as possible from the inclemency of the weather; his
head was covered by a hat with broad flapping brim; and his feet
were sandalled, to shield them from the roughness of the road.
He came amongst the cottages and passed from door to door, asking
for shelter and food, but everywhere was repulsed, and at times
with contumely and opprobrious epithets. No one would take him in
beneath their roof; no one had charity enough to give him a crust or
a cup of metheglin, and onward he went until he came to the spot
where the festival was progressing under the direction of the Arch-
Druid, a man of extreme age, but of commanding stature and
majestic port.
The appearance of the angel (for he it was, in the guise of infirm
and poverty-stricken humanity) caused some sensation, chiefly in
consequence of his peculiar and outlandish dress, and all eyes were
directed upon him as he walked boldly and unhesitatingly, but with
halting step, to the centre of the circle where the hierarchs were
grouped.
The angel, addressing himself to the Arch-Druid, inquired, "Whom is
it that you worship in this fashion?"
"Who are you," replied the Druid, "that you know not that our
midwinter festival is in honour of the great and gloriously shining
God, who reveals himself to us in his daily march across the sky?"
"Then you worship the creature instead of the creator?"
"How the creature? He whom we worship was never created, but
has existed from all eternity."
"Alas! blind mortals, you labour under a Satanic delusion. Know that
what you, in your ignorance, worship is but an atom in the great and
resplendent universe of worlds and suns, called into existence by the
fiat of Him whom I serve, who alone is self-existent, immortal, and
the Creator of all men and all things."
"You speak in parables, stranger, and in an impious strain. Mean you
to say that the god-sun is not great and powerful, he who causes
the herbage to grow and the trees to give forth fruit? Can he do this
if he be not a god?"
"He is merely the instrument of the one Almighty God, whose Son,
on the anniversary of this day, became incarnate on earth, and died
on the cross in a land far distant from this, that man might not be
subjected to the penalty for disobedience to His laws, thus dying in
his stead, to satisfy the ends of justice."
"And you say that he, a mere man, who died in the distant land you
speak of, was the son of one who created the sun?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I must say that you speak rank blasphemy."
And the priests and other officials re-echoed the shout, "Blasphemy!
blasphemy!" and the people around took it up, and the cry of
"Blasphemy!" rose up from a thousand tongues.
"Slay him! stone him!" was then cried by the excited people, and
they began to take up stones and hurl them at the old man, who,
shaking the snow of the city from his sandals, and saying "Woe be
unto you," passed through the surrounding crowd, and disappeared
amongst the forest trees.
The dusky shades of evening, or rather afternoon, were drawing in
as the angel passed through the wood; and as, in his incarnate
form, he was subject to all the sufferings and discomforts humanity
is liable to, he feared that he would have to pass the night, with all
its inclemency of weather, with no other shelter than that afforded
by a tree trunk or the branches of a bramble bush, but after
wandering some time he came upon a cleared space, where he
found some sheep huddling together on the lee side of a rising
ground, and judging that where sheep were men would not be far
distant, he passed up the hillside and gladly hailed a gleam of light
issuing from a cottage window. He approached and knocked at the
door, which was opened by a comely, middle-aged dame, whilst, by
the fire of peat, sat a man whom he presumed to be her husband,
occupied in eating his evening meal, with a shepherd dog by his
side, eagerly looking out for the bones and chance pieces of meat
which his master might think proper to throw him.
"Good dame," said he to the woman, "have you charity enough to
give me shelter from the storm, a crust of bread to allay the cravings
of hunger, and permission to imbibe warmth from your fire into my
aged and frozen limbs?"
"Yes, that indeed we have, venerable father," replied she. "Come in
and seat you by the fire, and we will see what the cottage can
supply in the way of victuals."
He stepped in, and was welcomed with equal kindness by the
husband, who placed for him a seat near the fire, took off his coat,
which he suspended before the fire to dry, and gave him a sheepskin
to throw over his shoulders; whilst the dame bustled about in the
way of cooking some slices of mutton and bringing out some of her
best bread, with a wooden drinking vessel filled with home-made
barley liquor, not unlike the ale of after days.
He was then invited to seat himself at the table, a board resting on
two trestles, and ate heartily of the viands before him. After the
meal, and when he was thoroughly warmed and made comfortable,
he entered into conversation with the worthy couple, and
ascertained that the man was a shepherd, and made a fairly
comfortable living out of his small flock of sheep, which supplied him
and his wife with raiment and flesh meat for food, besides a small
surplus for barter to procure other necessaries. He told them that he
was a wanderer on the face of the earth, not a Briton, but allied to
people who lived in the far east near the sun rising, and that he had
come hither to tell the Britons of the true God, and that they whom
they worshipped were not gods at all; to all which they listened with
wonderment and awe, but displayed none of the bigotry and hostility
to adverse faiths which had been so practically shown in the city.
With eloquent tongue he explained to them the mysteries of the
Christian religion, but they comprehended him not, such matters
being entirely beyond the capacities of their understandings.
Nevertheless they were much interested in some of the narratives,
such as the nativity and the visit of the Magi; the miraculous cures of
the sick; the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the ascension, all
which were told with great graphic power, and listened to with rapt
ears; and they sat on late into the night in this converse, and then a
bed of several layers of straw was made for the stranger in a warm
corner of the cottage, and a couple of sheep skins given him for
coverlets.
The following morning broke bright and cheerful, a complete
contrast to the preceding day. The sun came out with a radiance as
brilliant as it was possible for a midwinter sun to do, and lighted up
the hills, on which the snow crystals glistened, and the roofs of the
houses in the valley below, with a splendour seldom beheld at that
period of the year, and the people of the city hailed the sight as a
response to their festival prayers, that the God of Day would still
continue to shower his blessings upon them, and bring forth their
crops and fruits in due course. The guest at the shepherd's cottage,
wearied with his wanderings and the buffeting of the storm, slept
long after the sun had risen; but his hosts had been up betimes, the
shepherd having gone to look after his sheep, and his wife to
prepare a warm breakfast for him on his return. When this was
ready, and the shepherd had come home, their guest was
awakened, and partook with them of their meal of sheep's flesh,
brown bread, and ewe's milk. He had performed certain devotions
on rising, such as his entertainers understood not, but which they
assumed to be acts of adoration and thanksgiving to his God.
Resuming his cloak, now thoroughly dried, his flapped hat, and his
long walking staff, he went out to pursue his journey. With his hosts
he stood on the elevated ground on which the cottage was situated,
and looked down upon the city in the valley below, from which there
rose up the busy hum of voices of men going about their vocations
for the day, with them the first of their new-born year.
The stranger looked down upon the city for some moments in
silence; then stretching forth his arms towards it, he exclaimed, "Oh
city! thou art fair to look upon, but thou art the habitation of hard,
unfeeling, and uncharitable men, who regard themselves alone, and
neither respect age nor sympathise with poverty and infirmity! Thou
art the abode of those who worship false gods, and shut their ears
to, nay, more, maltreat those who would point out their errors and
lead them into the path of truth; therefore, oh city! it is fitting that
thou shouldst cease to cumber the earth; that thou shouldst be
swept away as were Sodom and Gomorrah. As for you," he added,
turning to the shepherd and his wife, "you took the stranger in
under your roof, sheltered him from the storm, fed him when
ahungered, and comforted him as far as your means permitted. For
this accept my thanks and benison, and know that my benison is
worth the acceptance, for I am not what I seem—a frail mortal—but
one of those who stand round the throne of the God I told you of
last evening, which is in the midst of the stars of the firmament. May
your flocks increase, and your crops never fail; may you live to
advanced age, and see your children and children's children grow up
around you, wealthy in this world's wealth, honoured, and
respected." Turning again towards the city, and again stretching
forth his arms over it, the mysterious stranger cried out in a voice
that might be heard in the streets below:—

"Semerwater, rise; Semerwater, sink;

And swallow all the town, save this lile
House, where they gave me meat and drink."

Immediately a loud noise was heard, as of the bursting up of a

hundred fountains from the earth, and the water rushed upward
from every part of the city like the vomiting of volcanoes; the
inhabitants cried out with terror-fraught shouts, and attempted to
escape up the hills, but were swept back by the surging flood, which
waved and dashed like the waves of the tempestuous sea. Higher
and higher rose the water; overwhelmed the houses and advanced
up the sides of the hill, engulfing everything and destroying every
vestige of life, and eventually it settled down into the vast lake as it
may now be seen.
It may be thought that this was a cruel act of revenge on the part of
the angel, but we have the authority of Milton, that the angelic mind
was susceptible of the human weakness of ambition; why, therefore,
should it not be actuated by that other human passion of revenge?
The shepherd and his wife gazed on the spectacle of the destruction
of the city with awe-stricken countenances, when another spectacle
filled them with equal amazement. They turned their eyes upon their
guest, who still stood by them, but who was undergoing a wonderful
transformation. From an aged and infirm man he was becoming
youthful in appearance, of noble figure, with lineaments of celestial
beauty, and an aureola of golden light flashing round his head. His
tattered and way-worn garments seemed to be melting into thin air
and passing away, and in their place appeared a long white robe, as
if woven of the snow crystals of the surrounding hills; whilst from his
shoulders there streamed forth a pair of pinions, which he now
expanded, and waving an adieu to his late entertainers, he rose up
into the air, and in a few minutes had passed beyond their sight.
The shepherd's flocks soon began to multiply wonderfully, and he
speedily became one of the richest men of the countryside. His sons
grew up and prospered as their father had, and their descendants
flourished for many generations in their several branches as some of
the most important and wealthy families of the district. The old man
and his wife abandoned the old Druidical religion, and prayed to the
unknown God of whom their guest spoke on the memorable evening
preceding the destruction of the city; and when the Apostles of
Christianity came hither, were among the first converts. There may
be sceptics who may doubt the truth of this legend, but there the
Lake of Semerwater still remains, and what can be a more
convincing proof of its truth, as old Willet was wont to say, when