round in an irregular circle to meet the huge form of Longridge Fell lying upon the landscape like a monster couchant. A quaint relic of the olden time stands by the wayside on the left. A gabled mansion of the time of the Second Charles, now occupied by a farmer, but still bearing the name of New Hall, though, as the date (1665) testifies, the storms of more than two hundred winters have broken upon it since George Talbot, a younger son of Sir John of that name, placed his initials and the crest of his family above the doorway. At this point the road diverges to the right, and a few paces bring us to the margin of the Ribble, when a charming prospect meets the eye, a prospect that would have delighted the heart of Cuyp had he had the opportunity of sketching it. There was no stir or fret—no excitement. All was calm, placid, and serene. The swift and shallow Ribble lay before us, sparkling and glistening all over, save on the further side, where a row of trees that fringed the roadway flung the broad shadows of their spreading branches upon its placid bosom. There was a Sabbath-like peace in the air, and the stillness of a summer day lay profoundly as a trance upon the scene. An old-fashioned punt, moored to the side, lazily dragged its creaking chain, and now and then chafed itself against the bank as the motion of the water gently swayed it to and fro. Before us Ribchester Bridge lay bestriding the stream—its broad circular arches reflected in the water with a distinct vividness that was interrupted only at intervals when their image was broken into a quivering indistinctness as a passing gust rippled the mirrored bosom of the water. As we stood gazing upon the scene, a boat borne by the current slowly glided down the river, looking like a bird suspended in the blue of heaven. The oars were poised in the rowlocks, and the water, dripping from their flashing blades, fell upon the glassy surface, and spread out in widening silver rings that floated slowly onwards. [Illustration: RIBCHESTER BRIDGE.] Crossing the bridge, at the foot of which stands a comfortable inn—the De Tabley Arms—we wound away to the left, following the bold sweep of the Ribble, and a few moments later entered the “Aunciente Towne” of Ribchester. Ribchester! What visions of antiquity float before the imagination as the stranger enters this little unpretending village, for town it can now hardly be called. What memories of the past are awakened at the mere mention of the name. The old distich, which the inhabitants still take pride in repeating, tells us that It is written upon a wall in Rome Ribchester was as rich as any toune in Christendome.[2] [Note 2: Camden’s Britannia, Ed. 1586, p. 431.]