fields, each field surrounded by its dyke. In the corner of every field stands the "cow-byre," a little stone building, the upper story being used for hay, the lower to shield the cows in winter.
Wet and dripping I left Muker, but notwithstanding the rain I could perceive at every step the road was becoming grander. Now through the mist I saw the enorm6us fells rising on every hand. I heard the roar of the mountain torrents, swollen with the heavy rains; the brown, foaming waters dashing over slabs of limestone, ' now this side, now that. Soon I passed Thwaite, a little village picturesquely situated on a beck, whose dashing force covers its stony walls with spray. On I went, until I found that I was coming on the moor.
But where was Keld? Keld, my bourn? Keld, to see which I had made this pilgrimage? Why, it turned out to be a little hamlet of stone cots, hid in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by illimitable moors. The moors—cragless, treeless, undulating sweeps of peat—bog and heather and swamp; the moors—
"That seldom hear a voice save that of heaven!
How like a prostrate giant—not in sleep,
But listening to his beating heart—they lie!
With winds and clouds dread harmony they keep."
And yet in this silent, remote spot hearts have been beating, brains working, and life going on as fresh and vigorous as any in the busy haunts of men. Here a noble-hearted Christian minister, who has been called "the Oberlin of the dales," lived and laboured, and this it was which made the spot attractive, and drew me to it.
James Wilkinson was himself a dalesman. The very name of his birthplace, Beckside Farm, Howgill, suggests the scenes amongst which he was cradled. One sees the little stone homestead standing in the gill or gully of some romantic vale, the mountain stream dashing down in sparkling cascades.
Labouring day by day for the good of his people, thinking only how he might promote their mental and spiritual welfare; turning his thoughts into deeds; shut out from all external influences in this remote spot for twenty-eight years, James Wilkinson lived a poem, if he never wrote one. He used his great powers of organisation and untiring energy entirely for the good of others,
