Kisdon to my right. I passed the ruins of an old smelting-house, standing at the entrance of a narrow gorge. Capped by a round-headed mountain, its wild and solemn grandeur seemed like a dream of the Holy Land.
Boggy enough is Ivelet Moor, over which I had to cross; but the scenery repaid all. From the wooded hillsides ever and anon the little becks came trickling over the rock. All of a sudden I note a heavy fog on the distant moor; a few moments, and it has reached me, and down comes the drenching rain.
But the sun is soon out again, and with every step the dale loses the stern aspect of its moorland cradle, and becomes more and more serenely beautiful. If I cast one more glance behind I see the great moors rising on both sides of the deep flat valley, cut up into numerous fields, and studded here and there by a few fir copses, the distances ever shut in by the cold cloud-like tops of the loftier fells. But when I look forward, the scene is gentle and charming, the blue stream meanders to and fro, leaving broad banks of white stones sparkling in the sunlight. Dotted with many trees is the edge of the stream, while above and below the roadway rise the little stone cottages. What rural bits one may see on this roadway! All is free, free as the air and the water; cattle browse and pigs wander at their own sweet will. Here comes a pedlar with one leg, marching along bravely on crutches, to make a foreground to the picture, while for a distance we have the bold outline of Harkaside Moor, and further on the purply heights of Copperthwaite. Farewell, bright stream—
"Flow on, and bathe each wilding flower
That lives, and dies, and lives again;
Flow on, blessed by the vernal shower,
And morning dew, and summer rain,
A little emblem of that river
Which flows in Paradise for ever!"
