The snow, which had fallen heavily during the night, enfolding the earth in a downy mantle, had nearly ceased, and only a few stray feathery flakes descended; the broad breezy moors that stretched their length across the landscape were thickly covered, and it lay deep in the cloughs and dingles that the storms of ages had channelled down their sides. The hedgerows in their fleecy garniture assumed quaint and indefinite shapes, and chequered the cold snow with their fantastic shadows, and the few trees bordering the wayside stretched their naked boles across the path, looking weird and gaunt and grim; but there was neither colour nor savagery enough to make a picture--nothing but a dull leaden gloom that left a saddening and depressing influence upon the senses, instead of making glad the heart of the beholder. The eddying wind that blew from the west broke in fitful gusts, and drove the dark leaden cloud-rack and drifted sea-fog swiftly athwart the sky, betokening a coming change; there was a rawness, too, in the atmosphere that sent a chill through your veins, and everything seemed cold and comfortless; while the few wayfarers you met looked sad and woe-begone, and as sullen and ungenial as the weather. We missed the cheery sunshine, and the sharp, crisp, nipping air of a clear, frosty day; but for all that we trudged along with light heart and steady step, though the roads were heavy, for the snow had melted in places, and now and then we plunged ankle-deep in thick icy sludge that oozed through the sodden ground. The rounded summit of Rivington Pike--Riven Pike, as it was anciently written--stands out boldly against the dull background of mist and murkiness, and the little square tower that crowns its highest point looks as if it had suddenly thrust its dark form up through the surrounding whiteness. As we mount the higher ground the prospect widens, and looking round the eye takes in a broad expanse of country. In front, in addition to the "Pike," are the bleak moors of Rivington and Anglezark; below, half hidden by the leafless woods, we get occasional glimpses of the long lake-like reservoirs of the Liverpool Corporation Waterworks. Northwards, where the smoke hangs like a pall, is Chorley; and further on, had the day been clear, we might have seen the tall chimneys of Preston and the gleaming waters of the Ribble estuary. Duxbury, for centuries the home of the Standishes, reminds us of the Puritan captain, Miles Standish, whom Longfellow has immortalised:-- He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly Back to Hugh Standish, of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, Who was the son of Ralph, and grandson of Thurstan de Standish--Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded; Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock, argent--Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.