For those who care to run on through the great Standedge tunnel, three miles and sixty-four yards long, thus getting to Marsden, there is an extremely fine mountain-pass called Wessenden Clough, the heights on either hand not less than a thousand feet, and once again a rushing torrent. There is a path back to Greenfield over the moors, but the way is rather long, except for the practised. The great tunnel at Woodhead, upon the Sheffield line, often thought to exceed the Standedge, is, we may here remark, twenty yards shorter. [Illustration] Footnote [19: All needful particulars will be found in the little "Guide to Hayfield and Kinder Scout," purchasable at Hayfield and at Bowden Bridge.] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. BAMFORD WOOD. So rich a shade, so green a sod, Our English fairies never trod; Yet who in Indian bower has stood, But thought on England's "good green wood?" And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade, Her hazel and her hawthorn glade, And breath'd a prayer (how oft in vain!) To gaze upon her oaks again? HEBER. Forty years ago no part of our neighbourhood more abounded in natural attractions than the district which comprises Moston, Blackley, Boggart-hole Clough, Middleton, Bamford Wood, and the upper portions generally of the valleys of the Medlock and the Irk, the latter including that pretty little cup amid the grassy and tree-clad slopes still known as "Daisy Nook." How charmingly many of these places have been introduced into our local literature needs no telling. Samuel Bamford was not the man to misapprehend the beauty of nature. Throstle Glen was one of his favourite resorts. Edwin Waugh, happily, is still with us, not alone in perfect story, but ready with the always welcome living voice. The spread of building and of manufacturing has induced heavy changes in almost every portion of the district mentioned, changes partaking, only too often, of the nature of havoc, especially in the immediate vicinity of the streams. So long, however, as it holds centres of social and intellectual culture and refinement--Mr. George Milner lives at Moston--the mind does not care to contrast the present with the past, accepting the record, and in that quite willing to rest. The district in question is peculiarly interesting also from the fact of its having been one of the principal scenes of the work done by the old Lancashire "naturalists in humble life" during the time that they earned their reputation. A noted locality for hand-loom silk weaving, it was long distinguished in particular for its resident entomologists, the delicacy of touch demanded by that elegant art being just that which is needed when one's play-hours are spent with Psyche; upon the same occupation would seem indeed to have arisen yet another of the old characteristic local tastes--that for the cultivation of dainty flowers, such as the auricula and the polyanthus. Floriculture is still