mild evening's forehead," the star that bids the shepherd fold," was glowing in the sapphire dome above us; whilst, here and there, dim twinklings of golden fire were stealing out from the blue expanse. As we slowly picked our way down the rocky moor, the stillness of the dark tract around us seemed to deepen as the light declined; and there was no distinguishable sound in the neighbourhood of our path, except the clear gurglings and silvery tricklings of indiscernable rills, which,-like traits of genuine delicacy, deephidden in the characters of men of rugged exterior; only revealed in serene hours, and to wakeful perceptions,-were, thus, unseen, doing their gentle spiriting and unostentatiously beautifying the air of this rough solitude with their low, sweet music. From the farms below, the far-off bark of dogs, and lowing of cattle, came floating up, mingled with the subdued rush and rattle of railway trains, sweeping along the distant valley. Half an hour's active and erratic walk down the hill brought us back to the "Moor Cock." Limper, the ostler, got "Grey Bobby" from the stable, and put him into the harness. Out came the folk of the house, to see us off. Our frisky tit treated us to another romp; after which, we drove steadily down the road, in the grey gloaming, and on through Littleborough and Smallbridge to Rochdale, by the light of the stars. THE TOWN OF HEYWOOD, AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD. "Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege WORDSWORTH. ONE Saturday afternoon, about midsummer, I was invited by a friend to spend a day at his house, which is pleasantly situated in the green outskirts of the manufacturing town of Heywood. The town has a dusky, monotonous, cotton-spinning look, as those who know the place will distinctly remember; yet, it is surrounded by a very verdant country, and has much scenery of a highly-picturesque description in its immediate vicinity. Several weeks previous to this invitation had been spent by me wholly amongst the bustle of our "Cotton Metropolis," and, during that time, I had often thought how sweetly the summer was murmuring with its "leafy lips," beyond the town, almost unseen by me, except when I took a twopenny ride into a certain suburb, and walked about an hour or two in a scene which the season seemed to smile upon, almost in vain; and, where the unsatisfactory verdure was broken up with daub-holes and rows of half-built cottages; and the air mixed with the aroma of brick-kilns and melting lime. Sometimes, too, I stole down into "Smithy Door Market," on a Saturday morning, to smell at the fresh flowers, and buy a "posey" for my button-hole; and I was always fain to see them, though they did look a bit mauled sometimes. It reminded me of the time when I used to forage, with such glee about my native hedges, for bunches of the wild rose and branches of the white-blossomed thorn. To one who loves the country, and whose days are pent up in a web of streets full of noisy life, the simplest wild flower is a sweet sight; for beside the "tribute of pleasure" which its own prettiness brings, it epitomises to his mind the whole realm of nature's loveliness. But now, as the rosy time of the year grew towards its height, I began to hanker more and more after those wild moors and noiseless glens of Lancashire, where, even yet, nature seems to have it all her own way. I longed for the quiet green vallies, and their murmuring waters; the rustling trees; and the cloudless summer sky, seen through fringed openings in the wild wood's leafy screen. "Better for man, Were he and nature more familiar friends." Somebody says that "we always find better men in action than in repose;" and, though there are contemplative spirits who instinctively shun the turmoil of towns, and, turning towards the tranquil sequestrations of nature, read a lofty significance in its infinite forms and moods of beauty, yet, the heat of the battle of life lies where men are clustered. A man may spend his days in cities with, perhaps, greater benefit to his kind than elsewhere, if he possess those qualities which enable him to master their follies and distractions, as brave old Doctor Johnson did. Shakspere, too, dwelt in the bustle, and transacted the detail of city life, yet his commanding spirit surrounded itself with an atmosphere of serenity, within which he reigned secure, at once sympathising with the restless living panorama around him, and interpreting it. And Milton, whose "soul was like a star, and dwelt apart,” struggled nobly through life as a denizen of London, often beset with with his own mundane troubles, as well as actively engaged in important and dangerous employments connected with the national troubles of his time. But these are extraordinary examples; and ordinary people, drifted about by the gales of circumstance, must be content to snatch at any means likely to improve or relieve their lot; and it will do any care-worn inhabitant of the town good to "consider the lilies of the field," a little now and then. Country folk come to town to enliven the monotony of their lives, and town's folk go to the country for refreshment and repose. To each, the change may be beneficial; at least I thought so, and, as light as any leaf upon tree, hailed my journey; for none of Robin Hood's men ever went to the greenwood with more pleasure than I do. It was nearly three when we passed the "Old Church," on our way to Hunt's Bank Station. The college lads, in their quaint blue suits, and little flat woollen caps, were frolicking about the quadrangle of that ancient edifice which helps to keep alive the honourable name of old Sir Humphrey Chetham. The twopenny omnibuses were rushing by, with full loads. I said, "full loads," but there are omnibuses running out of Manchester, which I never yet knew to be so full that they would not "just hold another," especially on wet nights, and holidays. But on we went, talking about anything which was uppermost; and in a few minutes we were seated in the train, and darting over the tops of that miserable human jungle known by the inappropriate name of “ Angel Meadow." The railway runs close by a little hopeful oasis in this moral desert, the "Ragged School," at the end of Ashley Lane; and, from the carriage window, we could see "Charter Street," that notable den of Manchester Yezidees. Society seems to be more careful to preserve the breed of this remarkable generation, with its striking characteristics, rather than run the risk (by any hasty and free infusion of morals and enlightenment among them), of misleading them into any unfashionable way of theologic thinking, more deadly than their present devotional peculiarities; or any governmental subservience, worse than the extraordinary freedom of their present condition,-when they happen to be out of the hands of the police. These two very significant neighbours, "Charter Street," and the " Ragged School," comment eloquently upon one another. Here, all is mental and moral 66 malaria, and the wild revelry of the place sounds like a forlorn cry for help. There, the same human elements are trained, by a little judicious, timely culture, towards honour and usefulness, Any thoughtful man, with an unsophisticated mind, looking upon the two, might at least be allowed simply to say, Why not do enough of this to cure that?” On the brow of Red Bank, the tower and gables of St. Chad's catholic church overlook the swarming hive of ignorance, toil and squalor, which fills the valley of the Irk; and which presents a fine field for those who desire to spread the gospel among the heathen, and enfranchise the slave. And, if it be true that the poor are "The Riches of the Church of Christ," there is an inheritance there worth looking after by any church which claims the title. Uprose a grove of tall chimneys from the dusky streets lining the banks of that little slutchy stream, creeping through the hollow, slow and slab, towards its confluence with the Irwell, at Hunt's Bank, where, it washes the base of those rocks upon which, five hundred years ago, stood the "Baron's Hall" or manor-house of the old lords of Manchester. On the same spot, soon after the erection of the old Collegiate Church, that quaint quadrangular edifice was built as a residence for the Warden and Fellows which afterwards became, in the turns of an eventful fortune, a mansion of the Earls of Derby, a garrison, a prison, an hospital, and a college. By the time we had taken a few reluctant sniffs of the curiously-compounded air of that melancholy waste, we began to ascend the incline, and lost sight of the Irk, with its factories, dyehouses, brickfields, tan-pits and gas works; and the unhappy mixture of stench, squalor, smoke, hard work, ignorance and sin, which makes up the landscape on its borders; and, after a short stoppage at the Miles Platting station, our eyes were wandering over the summer fields as we G |