Hill and dale, and wood and lawn, And verdant fields, and darkening heath between, And villages embosomed soft in trees. A long line of stately chestnut trees bounds one side of the walk. Eastward the view is limited by a range of undulating eminences that stretch along the line of the horizon, dark, shadowy, and lonely-looking, in places, a kind of mountain wall—the outwork, so to speak, of the Peak hills beyond—with upland pastures and sweet verdant slopes, green where the grass has been newly mown, and tinged with yellow where the grain is ripening in the bright August sunshine, showing where man has encroached upon Nature’s wild domain, and what good husbandry has won from the bleak wastes that once formed part of the great forest of Macclesfield. Hidden from view in a green, cup-like hollow in the hills is the “lordly house of Lyme,” that calls up memories of the deeds at Crescy, in which the flower of the Cheshire chivalry were engaged; for it was in acknowledgment of the seasonable aid Sir Thomas Danyers rendered to the “Boy Prince,” when on that bloody field his Royal father bade him “win his spurs and the honour of the day for himself,” that Richard the Second bestowed the fair domain of Lyme upon Sir Piers Legh, a younger son of the house of Adlington, who had wed Sir Thomas’s daughter. Just above the hall the “Knight’s Low” lifts its tree-crowned summit; tradition hovers around it, and tells us that far back in the mist of ages a knightly owner of Lyme there found his resting-place.