CHAPTER VII.BEESTON CASTLE.

This castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.This guest of summer,The temple–haunting martlet, doth approveBy his lov’d mansionry, that the heavens’ breathSmells wooingly here.

SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN for our country pleasure an entire day can be commanded, Crewe, ten or twelve miles from Chelford, and thirty–one from Manchester, marks the way to Combermere Abbey and Beeston Castle—places alike of singular interest, though of totally different character. To reach Combermere, it is needful to continue a little distance along the line which diverges from Crewe for Shrewsbury, booking to and alighting at Wrenbury. Two or three different routes may be taken thence, in any case by pleasant fields and lanes not difficult to discover. The shortest way is to go first across Mr. Wilson’s broad acres of model farm–land,cereals right and left; then along a lane with a mill–pond upon the left; then through a corridor of trees upon the right, the floor, green as their boughs, bordered like a missal, shortly after issuing from which we arrive at the beautiful water referred to in the Abbey name. More than a mile in length, covering one hundred and thirty–two acres, and much too irregular in outline to be seen at once in its full extent, Combermere, with its adjacent woods, yields as a picture only to Rostherne. The paths in every direction are full of landscape. Though the country is flat, we do not perceive it to be so, and what may be wanting in grandeur, is found in tranquillity and repose. The mansion, of which there is an admirable view across the mere, occupies the site of the ancient monastery—a Benedictine, founded in 1133. Strictly modern, plain and substantial, there is nothing about the exterior to preserve the memory of monastic times; inside, however, old and new are let shake hands, the library being an adaptation of the ancient refectory. The walls, the galleries, and the principal apartments contain great store of Indian trophies and curiosities, brought home by the renowned Sir Stapleton–Cotton, whose bravery in the Peninsular War, and afterwards at the siege and capture of Bhurtpore, gained for him the title first of Baron, and then of Viscount, now held by the Lord Combermere, his son.

A similar short ride from Crewe, now by the line which continues to Chester, conveys us to Beeston, the walk from which station to the castle, occupying less thanhalf an hour, is again by lanes and fields. Lancaster Castle, excepting its incomparable gateway–tower, and a small portion inside, has been so much altered in order to adapt it for modern uses, that the past is lost in the present. Clitheroe Castle is all gone, excepting the keep. Beeston, happily, though itself only a relic, has suffered nothing at the hands of the modern architect. Even time seems to look on it leniently. As a memorial of the feudal ages, it is in our own part of England supreme and uncontested, and in any case one of the most charming resorts within the distance for all in Manchester who care for the majestic, the antique, and the picturesque. This famous and far–seen ruin is seated upon the brow of a mighty rock, which, rising out of the meadows on the eastern side by a regular and at first easy, but afterwards somewhat steep incline, terminates, on the western side, in an abrupt and absolutely vertical precipice, the brink of which is three hundred and sixty–six feet above the level of the base, or of almost precisely the elevation of the High Tor at Matlock, and of the loftier parts of St. Vincent’s. Hence, in the distance, viewed sideways, as for example, from Alderley Edge, the outline is exactly that of a cone–shaped mountain toppled over and lying prostrate. The broad green slope, dry and velvety, furnishes an unsurpassed natural lawn for rest and pic–nic. Mounting it to the summit, the ruins, which now consist chiefly of ivied bastions, tower above our heads with an inexpressible and mournful grandeur that recalls the story of Caractacus in thestreets of ancient Rome. The mind runs back to the time when the walls were alive with armed men, and shouts rose from the turrets, now discrowned. Not that the castle was ever actually assaulted, for a glance at the entrance is enough to convince any one that as a military post in the feudal times it was impregnable. Of military incidents connected with Beeston, there is indeed no record whatever. All that history has to tell is of one or two changes in the holding, brought about by treachery or want of vigilance. But from the time of the building, in 1220, by Randulph de Blondeville, sixth Earl of Chester, on his return from Palestine, there can be no doubt that for four centuries the old castle was the scene of much that was imposing.

Everything has vanished now, and for ever. Up on that wonderful crag to–day, where the scene is so still, and the “heavens’ breath smells wooingly,” we feel far more profoundly than in streets and cities, how grateful is the dominion of peace compared with the turbulence of war. For, looking over the westward parapet, at our feet is Vale Royal, a warm and smiling plain that stretches, literally, to the rim of the landscape. Randulph looked upon those far away Welsh mountains, the Frodsham hills, the estuaries of the Dee and the Mersey, all so beautiful as ingredients in the magnificent prospect. To–day we have that which he didnotsee, and probably never imagined. Scattered over this glorious map are villages, homesteads, orchards, gardens innumerable; the vast breadth of bright emerald and sunny pasture lacedwith hedgerows that in spring are blossom–dappled, and streams, of which, although so distant, we get twinkling glimpses among the leafage. If it be autumn, the scene is chequered with the hues of harvest, every field plainly distinguishable, for one of the peculiar charms of the view from Beeston Castle rock, granting a favourable day, with lucid atmosphere, is that while the country is brimful, every element is well–defined. Later still, we may watch October winding its tinted way through the green summer of the reluctant trees;—this, no doubt, it did just in the same sweet old amber–sandalled fashion five centuries ago, but the trees did not then, as now, cast their shadows upon liberty and civilisation. Two periods there are when Beeston calls upon us to remember, with a sigh, that there are forms of beauty in the world in which we may not hope to revel many times, perhaps, in their perfection, not more than once or twice. One is mid–winter, when in the great hush of the virgin snow the landscape becomes a world carved in spotless marble; the other, when the corn is waiting the sickle, and the vast plain is steeped in sunset such as August only witnesses. Watched from this tall rock, the wind–sculptured clouds that an hour before were glistening pearl slowly change to purple mountains, while the molten gold boils up above their brows; these go, and by and by there are left only bars of delicate rose, and veils of fading asphodel, and at last we are with old Homer and the camp before Troy, “when the stars are seen round the bright moon, and the air is breathless,and all beacons, and lofty summits, and forests appear, and the shepherd is delighted in his mind.”[15]So that, adding all together, the value of the grand old stronghold has in no wise died out, but only taken another shape. Instead of inspiring awe and terror, it supplies the heart with noble enjoyments, and with new and animating incentives to seek the rewards that attend love of the pure and beautiful.

When at Beeston, on descending from the castle, we visit, as a matter of course, Peckforton, a mile beyond, the residence of Lord Tollemache.

This splendid edifice restores, in the finest possible manner, the irregular Norman style of architecture prevalent in the reign of Edward I. Occupying a space of not less than nine thousand square yards, and not more remarkable for the superb proportions than for the perfect finish of every part, in Cheshire it has no equal. Peckforton has peculiar interest also in the circumstance of the walls being entirely devoid of paint and paper, thus presenting a contrast to the dressed surfaces favoured inmodern times that for the moment is overwhelming. The hill upon which it stands is covered with natural wood, and in the remote parts gives way to heathery wilderness. To pursue this for any considerable distance, when half the day has already been given to Beeston, of course is not possible. Begun early enough, we find it almost continuous with the heights reached by way of Broxton.

After the bastions and the gateway of Beeston Castle, the curiosity of the place is the ancient well, sunk through the rock to Beeston Brook, a depth of three hundred and seventy feet, but now quite dry. A trayful of lighted candles is let down by a windlass for the entertainment of visitors who care to see the light diminish to a speck. On the way to Peckforton, it must not be overlooked, either, that in a pretty garden upon the right will be found Horsley Bath, limpid water perpetually running out of the rock, and in restorative powers, if the legends be true, a genuine “fountain of rejuvenescence.”

What exhibitions various hath the worldWitness’d of mutability in allThat we account most durable below!Change is the diet on which all subsist,Created changeable, and change at lastDestroys them.

COWPER.

IT speaks not a little for the vigorous and buoyant life of the immediate neighbourhood of our town that so few examples are to be met with of decay and ruin. Turn whichever way we will, we find new houses, new factories, new enterprises, but scarcely an instance of wasting away and dilapidation. The nearest important relic of the feudal times is Beeston Castle, just described; and the nearest memorial and sepulchre of those brave, good men who, while the rulers of our country were fighting and oppressing, conserved within the convent walls learning, religion, charity, and a hundred other things that kept the national civilisation moving until theaurora of the Reformation, is Whalley Abbey, also more than thirty miles away. Excepting a few old houses of little significance, everything about us is intact, occupied usefully, and a fine testimony to the intelligence and the energy of the province. Let a stranger visit any part of the country within the radius indicated, and he will feel that he is in a place where life is concentrated: everything bespeaks nerve; whatever has died seems to have been succeeded on the instant by a more powerful thing. Like a laurel–tree, we are dressed in this district in the foliage of perennial and vehement vitality; while there is plenty of solid stem to mark honourable antiquity, the leaves that have gone have but made way for new and larger ones.

These reflections have been suggested by a visit to Arden Hall, the solitary exception to the strong, unyielding life of the vicinity. Upon this account alone it is a place of interest. The situation, also, is one of the most delightful ever selected for a country residence. The locality may be described, in general terms, as on the Cheshire bank of the river Tame, about half–way between Stockport and Hyde. The Tame separates Lancashire from that odd bit of Cheshire which, running up in a kind of peninsula at its north–east corner, terminates with Mossley and Tintwistle, the Etherowe forming its boundary on the opposite side, and dividing it from Derbyshire. Few would suppose it possible, but the county of Cheshire is at this point scarcely more than two miles across! The ruin itself is easily found, theway to it being by Levenshulme and Reddish,[16]inquiring there for the Reddish paper–mills, which lie in the valley on the Lancashire side of the river, and are approached by a steep descent, with beautiful views of the surrounding country in front and upon the left. Crossing the river by the mills, mounting the hill, going through a few fields and a grove of trees, right before us, sooner than expected, stands the hall, a large, tall square building of grey stone. At first sight, it appears to be in tolerable preservation. The remains of the old sun–dial are still visible, the diamonded casements of some of the windows are perfect, and the exterior generally is undefaced. But the illusion soon passes away. Penetrating to the inside, the great hall—a noble apartment, some eleven yards by eight—is found heaped with rubbish and fallen beams; the ceiling, once ornamented with pendent points, is all gone, except a small portion in one corner; it seems a wonder that the roof still cares to stay. A slender turret, rising above the rest of the fabric, includes a circular staircase, leading to the gallery of the upper floor. Here the diamonded casements reappear, looking full into the western sky, and over the trees and river winding at the foot of the steep; and here we discover the loveliness of the site. Abundantly wooded, strewn with fertile meads, and opening out in every direction pretty views of distant hills, with yet more distant ones peeping over their shoulders, there is not a more picturesque valleyeast of Manchester, that is to say, not until we are fairly into Derbyshire, than is spread before the windows of forsaken Arden. There is not a spot upon its slopes where we may not pause and admire, and wish for our friends. As at Beeston, the mind quickly travels back to the lang syne. Out of those windows, through the open casements, how often have the eyes of fair girls gazed, in sweet summer evenings, long and peacefully, upon the woods and winding water, and painted sunset, one generation after another, all gone now, their ancient home crumbling to dust—but the woods and winding water and sunset the same. The poets talk of nature’s sympathy with man; there is nothing so marked as her lofty indifference to him.

Archæologically, Arden is interesting as a fine specimen of the domestic architecture of the sixteenth century, and is remarkable for its unusually large bay windows. The waterspouts are inscribed 1597. The history of the estate and its proprietors dates, however, as far back as the time of King John, and though no direct evidence is within reach, there is reason to believe that an earlier building once stood near, and that the present ruin is the second hall. John o’ Gaunt is said to have been an inmate of the original. The family history may be seen at length in Ormerod’s “Cheshire,” in the third volume of which work, p. 399, is a drawing of the hall as it appeared before relinquished to decay. Visitors to the Art–Treasures Exhibition of 1857 will recollect Mr. C. H. Mitchell’s pretty water–colour view of the sameplace, and there are few, perhaps, of our local artists who have not sketched it. It would appear from the date of Ormerod’s work (1819), where the hall is described as containing furniture and paintings, that it has been deserted only since the death of George III. Until recently one of its curiosities was a stone pulpit, in which it is said Oliver Cromwell once preached. The rustic legend of the place is that, once upon a time, long before powder and shot were invented, there lived hereabouts a doughty baron. On the opposite side of the valley was a similar castle, held by a rival baron, who returned his neighbour’s jealousy with interest. These two worthies used to spend their time in shooting at one another with bows and arrows, till at last, tired of long range, and such desultory warfare, the Baron of Arden collected his dependents, dived down into the valley, scaled the opposite heights, slaughtered his enemy, and so utterly demolished his castle, that now not a vestige of it is discoverable.

There is generally some good foundation for such legends. Upon the eastern side of the hall, some distance from the moat, traces of ancient earthworks are discoverable, extending towards the present “Castle–hill,” and which probably protected some simple fortification. Flint arrow–heads and other relics of primitive weapons found in the soil of the adjacent fields sustain the conjecture, and in truth a better seat for a manorial stronghold it would not be easy to select. The appellation of the ancient fortress when superseded by a building ofmore peaceful character, would naturally be transferred to the latter, and after the lapse of a little time, nothing more than the name would survive to tell the story. Originally it was Arderne, as in the reference by Webb, in 1622, to another seat of the family, “A fine house belonging to Henry Arderne, Esq.” In any case, the prefix of anHappears to be erroneous, if nothing worse. The last of this name was the Richard Pepper Arderne, born at the old hall, and educated at the Manchester Grammar School, who in 1801, three years before his death, was raised to the peerage, with the title of Baron Alvanley. Arden Hall is not only remarkable in being built wholly of stone, when so many other mansions of the period were timber, but in the high–pitched roof of the tower—a feature rarely observable in such edifices.

Leaving the hall, the road descends rapidly towards the river, here crossed by a stone bridge, shortly before reaching which there are some cottages upon the left. At one of these, with the name “Thomas Ingham” over the door, a nice tea may be obtained. It is not a very attractive place to look at, but the parlour (at the back) is as comfortable as any lady could desire; the provision is excellent, the attendance prompt and respectful, and the charge so moderate that it seems wonderful how it can pay. Forget not that in visiting such places the obligation is mutual. Excursionists have no sort of claim upon private houses, and should be glad to recompense with liberality the kindly willingness to accommodate, save for which they might have to plod for miles hungryand tired. Tea disposed of, we have a walk homewards even more pleasing than the first, by taking, that is, the contrary or Lancashire side of the river, and thus passing through the very woods admired an hour previously from the hall and the crest of the hill. The way is first over the stone bridge, then for a little distance up the hill, descending thence into the field–path, found by means of a large circular brick structure in one of the meadows, seemingly the ventilation mouth of a coal–mine. There is a path quite close to the river, if preferred, entered almost immediately after crossing the bridge, but the water after wet weather is apt to be disagreeable, and in autumn there is a thick and laborious jungle of butter–bur leaves. The hill–side at this point is decidedly the best place for viewing the hall, which crowns the tall cliff immediately in front of it. It is hard to think, as we contemplate its lovely adjuncts, how so romantic a site could have been deserted. The woods hanging the hill–sides with their beautiful tapestry, the river creeping quietly in the bottom, but seen only in shining lakelets where the branches of the trees disentangle themselves, and make a green lacework of light twig and leaf, just dense enough to serve as a thin veil, and just open enough to let the eye pierce it and be delighted; the perfect calm of the whole scene, and the sweet allurement of the path with every additional step, how came they to be ignored? Approaching Reddish the woods are unfenced, and the path lies almost beneath the trees. At the end of May these woods are suffused with the brightest bluein every direction,—the bloom of the innumerable wild hyacinth, which clusters here in great banks and masses, so close that the green of the foliage is concealed. The ground being a slope, and viewed from below, the effect is most singular and striking. Shakspeare speaks of “making the green one red;” here we have literally the green made blue. In the same woods grows the forget–me–not, in abundance only exceeded in the Morley meadows. One might almost fancy that the nymphs of ancient poetry had been transmigrated into these sweet turquoise–coloured flowers. Among the specialities of the Reddish valley, mentioned before as eminently rich in plants of interest, are the bird–cherry,Prunus Padus, and that curious fern theLunaria. The first is quite a different thing from the ordinary wild cherry of Mobberley, Peover, Lymm, and the Bollin valley, having long, pendulous clusters of white flowers, like those of the laburnum, and with a smell of honey. It is seen not only as a tree, but sometimes forms part of the hedges. The lunaria grows in the meadows, and is in perfection about the end of May. In August and September the river–banks here are gay also with the fine crimson of the willow–herb, the young shoots of which, along with the flowers, drawn through the half–closed hand, leave behind them a grateful smell of baked apples and cream.

The upper portion of the valley, nearer Hyde, was very diligently and successfully explored in 1840–42 by Mr. Joseph Sidebotham, then resident at Apethorne,—a townsman whom we have not more reason to be proud ofas a naturalist of the most varied and accurate information, and as one of the most scientific and successful prosecutors of microscopical research, than as a singularly skilful artist in photography, and this without letting the colours grow dry upon the palette from which he has been accustomed to transfer them to coveted drawings. It was Mr. Sidebotham who first drew the attention of Manchester naturalists to the fresh–water algæ of our district, and who principally determined their forms and numbers. He also it was who collected the principal portion known up to 1858 of the localDiatomaceæ. During the five or six years he devoted to the botany of Bredbury, Reddish, and the banks of the Tame generally, he added no fewer than twenty–five species to the Manchester Flora, many of them belonging to the difficult generaRubusandCarex. His walks were not often solitary. What a broiling day was that on which we first gathered in the Reddish valley the great white cardamine!—what a sweet forenoon that vernal one when we stood contemplating the thousand anemones! Nature seems to delight again inupsettingeverything human! One cannot even bestow a name, but she tries to undermine it. No epithet is more appropriate, as a rule, to this most modest of the anemone race, the wild English one, than its specific name, nemorosa, “inhabiting the groves;”—every reader of classical verse recalls, as the eye glides over the word, thenemuswhich grew greener wherever Phyllis set her foot in it. Giving her the least chance, see, nevertheless, how the waywardlady to whom we owe everything, laughs alike at ourselves and our nomenclature. We call the flower nemorosa, conclude that all is settled, and straightway, as in that sweet and still forenoon in the Reddish valley (1840), she flings it by handfuls over the sward, and leaves the grove as she then left the Arden woods, without a blossom and without a leaf. Similar curious departure from the accustomed habitat of the wood–anemone has since been observed at Cheadle and at Alderley.

No slight pleasure is it in connection with botany that plants and events thus link themselves together, recalling whole days of tranquil happiness spent with valued friends in the green fields. Associations with trees and flowers seem almost inevitably pleasant and graceful ones; at all events, we never hear of the reverse. When orators and poets want objects for elegant simile and comparison, they find trees and flowers supply them most readily; and, on the other hand, how rarely are these beautiful productions of nature used for the illustration of what is vicious and degrading, or in any way mixed up with what is vile and disgraceful. Trees and flowers lead us, by virtue of their kindly influences on the heart and the imagination, to a disrelish and forgetfulness of the uncomely, and to think better of everything around us; so that a walk in the fields, over and above its invigorating and refreshing value, acts as a kindly little preacher, and shows us that we may at all events read, if not

Honi soit qui mal y pense, write,In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white.

The lapse of twenty–four years has not tended to improve the aspect of the Reddish valley. The main features are the same, but the brightness is sadly dimmed. Everything now, in 1882, illustrates the operation of town smoke and hurtful vapours, not to mention the devastating influences which come of human travel. The wild–flowers have shared the fate of those in other suburban localities; the old hall has sunk further towards decay; the Inghams, happily, are extant. Mr. Sidebotham, for his own part, practices, amid the refinements of his Bowdon home, all that he cultivated originally upon the banks of the little river, and with the added success that arises upon unbroken assiduity. He tells me now of his researches into the entomology of Dunham Park, where not long ago, for one or two successive seasons, in July, a curious beetle occurred in plenty, a fact immensely remarkable, since only one other of its kind has ever been noticed elsewhere in England, this upon an oak in Windsor Forest as far back as 1829! The insect was first detected by Mr. Joseph Chappell, a working mechanic at Sir Joseph Whitworth’s, and one of the most careful observers of nature now in our midst.

The first photographs ever shown in Manchester were laid before a meeting of the Literary and Philosophical Society by the late Mr. J. E. Bowman, in November, 1838. I remember the occasion well, and the interest taken in them by Dr. Dalton.

It is fineTo stand upon some lofty mountain–thought,And feel the spirit stretch into a view:To joy in what might be if will and powerFor good would work together but one hour.Yet millions never think a noble thought,But with brute hate of brightness bay a mindWhich drives the darkness out of them, like hounds.

J. P. BAILEY.

STOCKPORT, the uninviting, in whatever direction we look to escape from it, is a point of rare value for departure for scenes of interest—this mainly because of its standing on the threshold of the hills which a little further on become members of the English Apennine,—the grand range stretching from Derbyshire to the Cheviots. Soon after passing Edgley, while the original line pursues its course to Wilmslow and Alderley, great branches strike out upon the left, one primarily for Macclesfield, the other for Disley and Buxton. Each in its turn leads to scenes of delightfulbeauty, and that before the time of railways were scarcely known. Alighting at Bramhall, we secure the added pleasure of a visit to the very celebrated old hall of that name—the most admirable example in our district of the “magpie” style of architecture, and not more charming in its external features than rich in interest within. The oldest portions date from soon after the middle of the fourteenth century, and are thus as nearly as possible contemporaneous as to period of building with the choir of York Minster. These very aged portions are found chiefly in connection with the entrance to the chapel. Massive beams and supports, hard as iron, refusing the least dint of the knife, and presenting the peculiar surface characteristic of the work of their time, attest very plainly the profound significance of “heart of oak.” Everything, moreover, in this grand old place is so solidly laid together, so compactly and impregnably knit, that it seems as if it would serve pretty nearly for the base of another Eddystone or Cleopatra’s needle. In the most tempestuous of winter nights, Bramhall has never been known to flinch a hair’s breadth—so, at least, the late Colonel Davenport used to assure his friends, the writer of these lines included. No portions of the building appear to be of later date than the time of Elizabeth, the domestic architecture of whose reign is nowhere in England better interpreted. The situation of Bramhall is on a par with its artistic qualities. No dull soul was it who more than five hundred years ago selected for his abode the crest of that gentle declivity, trees far andnear, a stream gliding below, and views from the upper windows that reach for many miles across the undulating and sweetly variegated greensward. The romantic bit at present is the ravine hard by, saturated in spring with tender wild–flowers, the wood–sorrel in myriads.

Prestbury, a few miles beyond, also has great attractions for the antiquary, the chancel and south aisle of the church being of aboutA.D.1130, while the school–house in the graveyard is entered by a doorway with apparently Norman mouldings. The tower is aboutA.D.1460. If in search more particularly of rural pastime, we take the contrary side of the line, and so through the lanes and fields to the delicious Kerridge hills. Remarkable for their very sudden rise out of the plain, these green and airy hills command views, like those obtained at Alderley, of truly charming extent and variety. Tegsnose, at the southern extremity, is thirteen hundred feet above the sea–level—the little building just above Bollington, called “White Nancy,” plainly visible from the line near Wilmslow when the sunlight falls on it, is nine hundred and thirty feet;—no wonder that from this last, since there is nothing to intercept, the prospect in favourable weather reaches to Liverpool, and even to the sweet wavy lavender upon the horizon that indicates North Wales.

Bollington is now reached also by a line (part of the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire system,) which diverges for Macclesfield at Woodley Junction. This perhaps gives nearer approach to the Kerridge hills; inany case, it is the best to take for the extremely beautiful adjacent neighbourhood, which for its little metropolis has the village of Pott Shrigley. Before the opening of the line in question, the station for this part was Adlington, on the London and North–Western. Grand as the prospects have already been, above Pott Shrigley, excepting only the “castled crag” at Beeston, all are surpassed. No lover of the illimitable need go to Cumberland or Carnarvonshire for a sight more glorious. Alderley Edge, rising out of the plain below, seems only a mound. The plain itself stretches away far more remotely than the eye can cover, no eminence of magnitude occurring nearer than the Overton hills. The towers and spires of Bowdon and Dunham are plainly distinguishable; and close by, in comparison, is the fine western extremity of the Kerridge range, with “White Nancy,”—the hill itself on which we stand, or rather seat ourselves, remembering the picture in Milton,

See how the bee,Sitting assiduous on the honeyed bloom,Sucks liquid sweet,

just such a one as suggested that other immortal portrait,

Green, and of mild declivity, the last,As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,Save that there is no sea to lave its base,But a most living landscape.

The time to go to this glad pinnacle is at the end of May or the beginning of June, mounting the hill in the first instance, by the immediate route from the station.When the time arrives to descend, dip westwards, curve round by the water, and through the fields which lead into the Disley road, thence into Pott Shrigley village. No description can convey a perfect idea of the loveliness of this part of the walk at the season indicated. The long–extended survey of hill and dale, the innumerable trees, clothing the slopes at agreeable distances with the most picturesque of little woodlands, bright and cheerful in their unsullied raiment of leaves that are only yet learning the sweetness of sunshine; the rise and fall of the ground; the incessant turns and sinuosities of the pathway, every separate item is a treat, and yet the ravishing spectacle of all, at the season referred to, has still to be named. This consists in the inexpressible, the infinite multitude of the bluebells, which far surpasses that of the old Reddish valley. They saturate every slope and recess that is in any degree shady, and diffuse themselves even upon the otherwise bare hill–sides, not in a thin and niggardly way, but with the semblance of an azure mist. In many parts, at the edges of the little groves, where the ground is steep, they seem to be flowing in streams into the meadows beneath, and where there are breaks among the nearer trees they actually illuminate the opening. When the spectacle of the bluebells comes to an end, the walk continues along a beautiful green arcade, straight, level, and uninterrupted into the village.

By whichever of the two routes we prefer to go to Macclesfield, that ancient and celebrated town becomesin itself a new and excellent starting point. If desiring to go beyond, the London and North–Western should be chosen. The massive heights on the way to Buxton, including the well–known and far–conspicuous mamelon called Shutlings Low, are accessible only by carriage or on foot. North Rode, on the other hand, is but a few minutes’ continued railway journey, and for this, if we come at all, the longest day is all too short. Just in front rises Cloud–end, the mighty promontory seen from the fields near Butts Clough(p. 23), covered with trees, theVitis Idæafilling the open spaces, and plenty of nuts in the neighbouring hedgerows. Keeping the mountain to the left, descending the green lane, and passing, “on sufferance,” through North Rode Park, agreeable scenery on each side all the way, the end is thatbeau–idealof a rural retreat, pretty Gawsworth. The ancient trees, the venerable church, the dignified old residences, all speak at once of a long–standing and undisturbed respectability such as few villages can now assert. In the graveyard stand patriarchal yews, one of them, reduced to a torso, encased in ivy, and protected on the weaker side by a little wall of steps, intended seemingly to make it useful as a tree–pulpit. Six great walnut–trees form part of the riches of the Hall, another pleasing old “magpie;” water also is near at hand, thronged with fishes that sport near the surface, and gliding through the sunbeams gleam like silver. To return to Macclesfield there is no need to retrace one’s steps to North Rode, the walk being short and pleasant, and rendered peculiarly interestingby its beech–trees, a long and noble avenue, if contemplated through an opera–glass never to be forgotten, for then the half–mile of leafy colonnade is brought close to the eye, a green and moving stereoscopic picture.

When at Gawsworth it is a pity to let slip the opportunity of visiting Marton, for the sake alike of its fine old hall, ancient church, and renowned oak. The hall, like so many others in this part of the country, is a black and white of the time of Elizabeth, supplying, in the material, yet another illustration of the ancient plenty in Cheshire of magnificent trees; Lancashire, though it contains many old halls and manor–houses of the same character, presenting a far more considerable proportion of stone ones. In the old “magpies,” very generally, so vast is the quantity of wood that one is disposed to exclaim—Surely when this house was raised a forest must have been felled. Inside there are many very interesting relics, as one would expect in a primitive seat of the old owners of Bramhall. The church, built in 1343, is in the style of Peover and the oldest portion of Warburton, the aisles being separated from the nave by oaken pillars. As for the “Marton oak,” it needs only to say that in dimensions it is an acknowledged rival of the Cowthorpe, the circumference at a yard from the ground being fifty feet, and at the height of a man more than forty feet. It can hardly be called a “trunk,” if by that word we are to understand a solid mass of timber, the inner portion having long since decayed, leaving only a shell, thoughthe branches above are still vigorous and clothed every season with unabating foliage.

Three or four miles beyond North Rode ancient Congleton comes in view, opening the way, if we care to enter Staffordshire, to Biddulph Grange, renowned for its gardens. Mow Cop, just on the frontiers, awaits those who love mountain air. Trentham Park, fifteen miles further, or about forty–three from Manchester, is the seat, as well–known, of the Duke of Sutherland; and not far, again, from this is the Earl of Shrewsbury’s—Alton Towers. To reach the latter, we diverge from North Rode along the Churnet Valley line, the same which leads, in the first instance, to the beautiful neighbourhood of Rushton, famed for its ancient church, the untouched beams of the same date as Beeston Castle; then past Rudyard Lake and the delicious woods appertaining to Cliffe Hall. The view from Rushton churchyard is one for painters. The valley, receding southwards, encloses the smooth expanse of Rudyard, which, though no more than a reservoir, has all the winning ways of a Coniston or a Windermere, seeking to elude one’s view by reliance on friendly trees. In the north and east the hills rise terrace–wise, range beyond range, each remoter one of different hue, Shutlings Low, that beautiful mamelon, towering above all, and more effectively than as contemplated from any other point we know of. After this comes the lovely walk through the woods themselves, the water visible, intermittently, all the way, with at last pause for rest, in Rudyard village. It is not a little singularthat Rudyard, like the reservoir at Lymm, should have for its parent a river Dane, though here the stream does not vanish, the Rudyard Dane being the boundary of the two counties, Cheshire and Staffordshire.

Alton Towers, a trifle further, illustrate in the finest manner what can be achieved by the skill of the landscape gardener. At the time of Waterloo the grounds were simple rabbit–warren, and the site of the present mansion was occupied by only a cottage. Worthily is it inscribed, just within the garden gate, “He made the desert smile,” thehebeing Charles, the sixteenth earl, under whose directions the work was executed. The framework consists of two deep and winding valleys, which lose themselves in a third of similar character. Over their slopes have been diffused terraces, arbours, ivied grottoes, trees and shrubs innumerable, green cypresses that rise like spires among the round sycamores, and rhododendrons that in May, looked at across the chasm, seem changed to purple sea–foam. Wherever practicable, there have been added waterfalls and aspiring fountains, and threading in every direction there are moss–grown and apparently interminable sylvan paths. From many points of view, the scene is one no doubt that would have captivated Claude or Salvator Rosa. Still, it must be confessed that the impression, after survey, which lingers longest in the mind is of something not simply lavish, but inordinate. Very beautiful, without question, as an essay in constructive art, therefore invaluable educationally, one falls back, nevertheless, when departing, onthe thought of tranquil Norcliffe, that never tires. The earl, it may be interesting to add, to whom the Alton grounds owe their existence, represented by lineal descent the famous Talbot of the Maid of Orleans’ story. When we part with him, we may run on, if we please, to Rocester Junction, and thence to Ashbourne, the threshold of Dovedale, there to chat with immortal Izaak Walton.

Shutlings Low, the old familiar and far–seen mamelon above–mentioned, the only one we know of in Cheshire, is considered also to be the highest ground in the county, the summit reaching an elevation of over seventeen hundred feet. The view which rewards the rather stiff climb is like that from the crest of Mow Cop, not only vast in compass, but very agreeably new, from commanding as much as the eye can embrace of Staffordshire. The ascent is best made from Wild Boar Clough, itself the most picturesque of the many wild ravines which betoken the near neighbourhood of Derbyshire. For pedestrians the walk from Macclesfield to Buxton is also a glorious one, Axe Edge intervening, with at about a hundred feet below its topmost point the celebrated hostelry, reputed to exceed in elevation even the “Travellers’ Rest” in Kirkstone Pass, and which in name commemorates faithful Caton,Caton fidèle.

So shalt thou keep thy memory green,And redolent as balmy noonWith happiness, for love makes glad;Child–natures never lose their June.

S. E. TONKIN.

WHEN the L. and N. W. opened its branch from Stockport to Buxton, June 15th, 1863, every one loving the country had visions of immense delight among the sweet and then scarcely known hills of Disley and Marple. Previously, they were no more than an element of the scenery observed from the Buxton coach. Since then we have better understood the meaning of those grateful lines,

You gave me such sweet breath as madeThe things more rich.

For if the fronts of these beautiful hills be sometimes rugged, there are none that the western breezes better love to caress, nor are there any that welcome the sunshinewith a more strenuous hospitality. Disley and Marple count not with the places which the sunshine only flatters; they are always cheerful and pretty, whether it be the hottest day of July, or winter, or spring. Even after a storm, be it ever so vehement, they recover themselves as rapidly as a child’s cheek after the tears. How great and affable, too, their landscapes!—how bright their lawn–like pastures, where tricolour daisies bloom all the year round: there are woods moreover, in the recesses, where we may bathe our eyes in the sweet calm that comes only of green shade, and that like the airy summits up above, give at the same moment both animation and repose.

Disley is known to most of us as the first station after Hazel–grove, and the point from which departure is taken for Lyme Park. Intermediately there is a delightful walk, reaching the greater part of the distance, upon the right–hand side of the line, through the sylvan covert called Middlewood. The wood is not “preserved.” It is semi–private, nevertheless, so that permission to pass through ought to be asked; it is rare, even then, to hear any voices except our own and those of the birds. Either to ascend, or to proceed by train direct to Disley, and enter the wood at the head, is, in its way advantageous. The latter is, perhaps, the better course, since we then accompany the stream,—one of the very few so near Manchester still unpolluted. The water is the same as that which flows past Bramhall, running thence to Cheadle, where its bubbles swim into the Mersey.Middlewood, unfortunately for its primitive charm, has recently shared the fate of Gatley Carrs, so that the path is now very inconveniently obstructed, and the Bramhall part of this pretty brook, instead of being the inferior, is to–day, perhaps, after all, the most pleasing. Comparisons may be spared. The meadows it traverses were never wanting in any substantial element of pastoral charm, and if a thing be good absolutely, what need to ask for more? The way to them isviâCheadle Hulme, then to Lady Bridge, as far as Bramhall–green, there crossing the road, and stepping anew upon the grass, where the path returns to the water–side. Hence, we go on to Mill–bank farm, told at once by its three great yews, and for the return may take Hazel–grove.

The broad green slopes and expanses of Lyme Park, though they partake of the loneliness of the neighbouring moors, are, as indicated above, pleasant at every season of the year. Nature, in truth, is always good, no matter what the season is, if the people are so who seek it. As we traverse them, in the south–west the eye rests upon the great plain that stretches to Bowdon; upon the left, on a swelling height, is the far–seen square grey tower called Lyme Cage, clearly intended, when built, for a huntsman’s refuge; and passing this it is not far to the hall, upon which, being in a hollow, one comes so suddenly as to be reminded of the adventures of the knights–errant in tales of chivalry. A very fine quadrangular gritstone building, partly Corinthian, partly Ionic, some portion is nevertheless of the time of Elizabeth.The interior is also very various, in many portions stately and richly ornamented, and literally crowded almost everywhere with works of art, including a rude picture of the original hall in the time of King John, with portraits, heraldry, tapestry, stained glass, and wood–carving enough to satisfy the most ravenous. The rare mosaic of fact and fiction currently accepted as the family history of the Leghs is well sustained by the armour and other antiquities, not the least interesting of which is the font in the chapel, in which for ages the youthful scions of the house have been baptized. There is very little timber in the park, though on the borders not wanting. The most remarkable feature, as regards trees, is an avenue of over seventy lindens.

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