“On Cropton Cross there is a cup,
   And in that cup there is a sup;
   Take that cup and drink that sup,
   And set that cup on Cropton Cross top.”

There is a cottage on the east side of the street bearing the date 1695, and the motto “Memento Mori,” with the initials N.C., but more interesting than this is one on the same side but at the southern end of the village, and standing back more than the rest.  This was used as a madhouse at a time well remembered by some of the villagers.  People from Pickering and the surrounding district were sent here for treatment, and I am told that the proprietor possessed a prescription for a very remarkable medicine which was supposed to have a most beneficial effect upon his partially demented patients.  I am also told that this prescription was given to one, Goodwill of Lastingham, who still possesses it.  Cropton is only a short distance from the Roman camps that lie all surrounded and overgrown with dense plantations, so that it is impossible for a stranger to discover their position unless he be lucky enough to find some one close at hand to carefully describe the right track.

West of Pickering lies that long string of villages, generally less than two miles apart, that extends nearly all the way to Scarborough.  The first point of interest as one goes towards Thornton-le-Dale from Pickering is the grass-grown site of Roxby Castle, the birthplace of Sir Hugh Cholmley, and the scene, as we know, of those conflicts between the retainers of Sir Roger Hastings and Sir Richard Cholmley.  The position must have been a most perfect one for this ancient manor house, for standing a little higher than the level ings and carrs of the marshy land, it was protected from the cold northern winds by the higher ground above.  From the top of the steep hill west of the village, Thornton-le-Dale has an almost idyllic aspect, its timeworn roofs of purple thatch and mellowed tiles nestling among the masses of tall trees that grow with much luxuriance in this sheltered spot at the foot of the hills.  The village is musical with the pleasant sound of the waters of the beck that flows from Dalby Warren, and ripples along the margins of the roadways, necessitating a special footbridge for many of the cottages.  The ancient stocks that stood by the crossroads have unfortunately disappeared, and in their place may be seen the pathetic sight of a new pair that are not even a close copy of the old ones.  The old stone cross that stands by the stocks has not been replaced by a modern one, and adds greatly to the interest of the central portion of the village.  On the road that leads towards Ellerburne there stand some old cottages generally known as the Poorhouse.  They are built on sloping ground, and on the lower side there is a small round-topped tunnel leading into a little cell dug out of the ground beneath the cottages.  This little village prison was known as the “Black Hole,” and was in frequent use about fifty years ago.  An old