The scenery now begins to lose those romantic features down to this point so noticeable in this valley. Larger towns and numerous manufacturing villages disturb the once pastoral quietude. Keeping to the bank of the river we pass Mirfield, and shortly reach Dewsbury, where Paulinus, the first Archbishop of York, preached in the early part of the seventh century--“Paulinus hic prædicavit et celebravit, A.D. 627.” Some years ago there was an old cross commemorating this event. And here in the Calder, I doubt not, the great Apostle of the North baptized hundreds of converts. The ancient Saxon parish of Dewsbury contained an area of 400 square miles. Travel we on and we come to Wakefield, in the meadows close to which was fought one of the most sanguinary battles in the Wars of the Roses. On Wakefield bridge, which spans the Calder, there is a lovely little chapelle, recently restored, thought to have been originally erected in the reign of Edward III., and said to have been rebuilt by Edward IV. to commemorate the death of his father, the Duke of York, and the young Earl of Rutland, the beautiful boy so ruthlessly slain there by Lord Clifford. The Calder, flowing on past the villages of Heath and Stanley, eventually loses itself in the Aire at Castleford. Hence the distich: “Castleford lasses must needs be fair, Since they wash themselves both in Calder and Aire.” Near the border hills, some of the tributary brooks that join the Calder are streams of rare beauty, and flow through regions of sylvan wildness, than which there are none finer in Derbyshire or Devon. If the traveller had to turn aside and wander up one of these glens he would soon leave behind him the din of trade, and find himself in ravine-like woodland solitudes. One of the loveliest and loneliest of these brooks is Turvin, born on the bleak summit of Blackstone Edge, and which precipitates itself in narrow winding channels through many a clough and forest dell. When the shadows of the gloaming steal over the world, it is an eerie sight to watch the mists of autumn as they creep up the gorge and curl round the rocks, and the spectator may almost realise that he is gazing upon some weird and enchanted land. About the middle of last century this glen was the haunt of a gang of coiners who for many years succeeded in eluding and defying the officers of the law. That these daring men carried on their nefarious practices was a fact well known to everybody in the locality, and it is to be feared they were secretly encouraged, as they were assuredly screened, by their neighbours and relatives. Something like a feeling of awe, tradition says, was felt by the cottagers on the distant hills, when they heard in the stillness of night the stroke of the sledge-hammer as the coiners plied, almost defiantly plied, their desperate work. At last some of the ringleaders were captured, tried, and hung. The rest of the gang still at large took