The country around
me was part of the wild tract still known by its ancient name of the
Forest of Rossendale. Lodges of water and beautiful reaches of the
winding river gleamed in the evening sun, among green holms and patches
of woodland, far down the vale; and mills, mansions, farmsteads,
churches, and busy hamlets succeeded each other as far as the eye could
see. The moorland tops and slopes were all purpled with fading heather,
save here and there where a well-defined tract of green showed that
cultivation had worked up a little plot of the wilderness into pasture
land. About eight miles south, a gray cloud hung over the town of Bury,
and nearer, a flying trail of white steam marked the rush of a railway
train along the valley. From a lofty perch of the hills, on the
north-west, the sounds of Haslingden church bells came sweetly upon the
ear, swayed to and fro by the unsettled wind, now soft and low, borne
away by the breeze, now full and clear, sweeping by me in a great gush
of melody, and dying out upon the moorland wilds behind. Up from the
valley came drowsy sounds that tell the wane of day, and please the ear
of evening as she draws her curtains over the world.
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