Forest Chapel, away up in the very heart of this mountain wilderness, perpetuates the name, and Wildboar Clough—Wilbor Clough, as the Macclesfieldians persist in calling it—Hoglegh, and Wolfscote remind us of the former denizens of these moorland wastes. Beyond Teg’s Nose a great gap opens in the hills, and then Cloud End rears its rugged form—dark, wild, and forbidding. From the summit, had we time to climb it, a charming view might be obtained of the picturesquely varied country— Of farms remote and far apart, with intervening space Of black’ning rock and barren down, and pasture’s pleasant face; And white and winding roads that creep through village, vale, and glen, And o’er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men. [Illustration: GAWSWORTH OLD HALL.] On the right the scenery is of a more pastoral character. Lawns and meadows stretch away, and the eye ranges over the broad fertile plain of Cheshire—over quaint sequestered nooks and quiet homesteads, and old-fashioned villages, with here and there a grey church tower rising in their midst; over well-tilled fields and daisied pastures, and league upon league of cultivated greenness, where the thick hedgerows cross and recross each other in a network of verdant beauty. The crumbling ruins of Beeston Castle crowning the edge of a bold outlier of rock, may be dimly discerned, with Peckforton rising close by its side, and beyond, where a shadowy form reaches like a cloud across the horizon, we can trace the broken outline of the Welsh hills, with Moel Fammau towering above them all. Presently the battlemented towers of Gawsworth Church are seen peering above the umbrage; then we come to a cross road, and, turning sharply to the left, continue along a green old bosky lane, and past the village school, close to which is a weather-worn memorial of bygone days—the old wayside cross standing beneath a clump of trees, erected, as old writers tell us, to “guide and guard the way to church,” and the sight of which, with the surroundings, calls to remembrance Hood’s lines on the symbol of the Christian’s faith:— Say, was it to my spirit’s gain or loss, One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liège’s lonely environs to Ghent, If hard by the way-side I found a cross, That made me breathe a pray’r upon the spot— While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem’s use, had trail’d around its base The blue significant Forget-me-not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope;— “Look round,” it whisper’d, “on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh and fair, But (how the simple legend pierced me thro’!)”— “Priez pour les Malheureux.”