And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been.'

The eastward view of green and smiling country is undeniably beautiful,
but to those who can appreciate Byron's enthusiasm for the trackless
mountain there is something more indefinable and inspiring in the
mysterious loneliness of the west. The long, level lines of the
moorland horizon, when the sun is beginning to climb downwards, are cut
out in the softest blue and mauve tints against the shimmering
transparency of the western sky, and the plantations that clothe the
sides of the dale beneath one are filled with wonderful shadows, which
are thrown out with golden outlines. The view along the steep valley
extends for a few miles, and then is suddenly cut off by a sharp bend
where the Swale, a silver ribbon along the bottom of the dale,
disappears among the sombre woods and the shoulders of the hills.

In this aspect of Swaledale one sees its mildest and most civilized
mood; for beyond the purple hill-side that may be seen in the
illustration, cultivation becomes more palpably a struggle, and the
gaunt moors, broken by lines of precipitous scars, assume control of
the scenery.

From 200 feet below, where the river is flowing along its stony bed,
comes the sound of the waters ceaselessly grinding the pebbles, and
from the green pastures there floats upwards a distant ba-baaing. No
railway has penetrated the solitudes of Swaledale, and, as far as one
may look into the future in such matters, there seems every possibility
of this loneliest and grandest of the Yorkshire dales retaining its
isolation in this respect. None but the simplest of sounds, therefore,
are borne on the keen winds that come from the moorland heights, and
the purity of the air whispers in the ear the pleasing message of a