like the clouds at sunset, than things of solid
land. Above the high road, along a steep
embankment, is the railway, and the hills
rise steep on the other side of it. The railway,
with the electric telegraph, the high road,
the canal, and the river, all run side by side
within the breadth of a hundred yards of each
other. The country is very thinly populated,
and except when the mills are loose,
there is an oppressive sense of loneliness. At
every turn the hills shut out the world more
and more, until it seems a wonder how we
ever got here, or how we are ever to get out.
The road is not level for a yard together, and
every step brings us deeper amongst the
hills. It is an intensely manufacturing district,
the streams from the hills making a
splendid water power. Magnificent cotton
mills, looking more like palaces than places
of industry, with beautiful villa-like residences
at short distances from them, belonging
to the proprietors, are to be seen in all
directions, in the most picturesque situations,
and often in places where it would
seem impossible for a mill to stand. These
mills, as well as the residences, are built of
white stone, and are five or six stories high,
with tall spire-like chimneys; they are all
full of costly machinery. Clusters of grey
stone cottages for the work-people are scattered
about; but neither the mills nor
the cottages seem to take up any room, nor
do they break the loneliness and silence of
the scene. The amount of capital invested
within a compass of six miles round
Ashton and Stayley Bridge is something
wonderful.

We passed through the village of Mossley,
which seems cut out of the rock, and is inhabited
entirely by work-people — "hands" as
they are called. One small village rejoices in
the name of "Down-at-the-bottom," another
is called "Herod," consisting of scattered
houses, above our head and below our feet.
The changing shadows on the hills and the
deep clear purple mist that filled the valley,
did not hinder the view, but gave it a strangely
solemn aspect. No human life or human
bustle seemed able to assert itself— the silence
of nature swallowed it up. Our plan was to
go to "Bills o' Jacks," about three miles from
Saddleworth, dine there, and then walk across
the moor to the Exhibition.

Gradually all signs of human life disappeared,
and after ascending a steep hill,
overhanging a precipice without any parapet
wall to keep us from falling over, we
came upon a wild tract of moorland, with
steep crags towering high above our heads,
and huge blocks of grey rock lying about,
like masses of the solidest masonry overthrown;
not a habitation in sight, only the
hills shutting us in more closely than ever.
It looked the very spot where a murderer
might take refuge to hide himself. A sharp
turn and a sudden descent brought us to a
little wayside house of entertainment lying
in a hollow under the high road, and not
to be seen before. This is Bills o' Jacks,
a place of great resort, in spite of its loneliness.
Some years ago it was the scene
of a ghastly murder. An old man and his
son lived there together. It was then, as
it is now, a wayside inn, and was their own
property: it had been in their family for
generations. The son was married, and had
two children, but he did not live with his
wife, as he had a romantic attachment to his
father, and would not live away from him.
They kept no servant. One day the son
went out to buy some flour and groceries.
Some acquaintance in the town asked him
to stay a while and rest. He said, "No;
he had met some Irish tramps on his road,
going towards their house, and he was afraid
the old man might be put about with them
— he must make haste home to help him."
The next day people calling at the house
found the son lying just within the doorway
with his head all beaten to pieces, and the
things he had brought home with him saturated
with blood. He had been killed, apparently,
as he entered. The old man was lying
dead upon the kitchen hearth, covered with
frightful wounds. The murderers have never
been heard of; and now, most likely, never
will be. The house still belongs to the same
family.

The first person we saw on our arrival was
the widow of the son, now an old woman,
but erect and alert. She was extremely
kind and friendly; but I fancied that she
looked as if she had seen a horror which
had put a desperation between her and the
rest of the world. She lives with her son
and his wife; the son a handsome, sensible-
looking man, and his wife the very ideal of a
comely matron— calm, kind, sensible, with
mellow beauty; she seemed to spread a
motherly peace and comfort around her.
There was much bustle going on, for parties
of country holiday-makers were there; but
nothing seemed to disturb her calm hospitality.
She was very fond of Clytemnestra
and her sisters, whom she had known for
years, so that our coming was hailed with
delight. The best of everything was set
before us to eat, and though I could not
suppress a shudder at finding myself on the
very spot where the old man had lain, yet
as the kitchen looked bright and cheerful, and
no traces of the tragedy were visible, I tried
not to think of it.

After dinner, we set off over the hill-side,
which was in full bloom with the heather.
Numbers of children and country people who
had come from many miles round were
swarming amongst the rocks, picking bilberries
for sale. It was a lovely day and a
lovely scene. As far as the eye could reach
there was not a habitation in sight; a deep
valley lay at our feet, and across it were
the hills rising in long ridges, the breaks in
them disclosing further ridges of other hills