1 82 Country Rambles. 



rose, there is a free, plentiful, whole-hearted hospitality, 

 that adds quite a charm to the associations already so 

 pleasant, of summer afternoon in the sweet stillness of 

 Mere dough. The hostess is as large as her welcome; 

 the bread and butter is incomparable.* Every one who 

 has gone by train to Bolton or Bury, will remember this 

 beautiful valley, sometimes called the Agecroft, sometimes 

 after its river, the Irwell. On the left, as soon as 

 Pendleton is passed, the high grounds of Pendlebury 

 come into view, their brows covered with trees. On the 

 right, first we have broad, sweet lawns of meadow and 

 pasture, and in autumn yellow corn-fields; and, beyond 

 these, rising in terraced slopes, with deep bays and 

 rounded promontories, according as the hill recedes or 

 swells, the woods overlooking Agecroft Park, presently 

 succeeded by those of Prestwich. For fully two miles 

 the eye rests upon rich masses of leaf, interrupted only 

 by mounds of tender green, the crests of the Rainsall and 

 Agecroft hills, and towards the close, the picturesque 

 tower of Prestwich Church. The course of the river 

 may be traced by the winding line of continuous foliage, 

 but the water is too low down to be discerned until we 



* Mrs. Taylor, we are' very sorry to say, died, though apparently 

 of supreme vigour, in the spring of 1877, and the cottage is now 

 occupied by a totally different family. Mere Clough, too, is not 

 what it was. Though spared the desecrations of Boggart-hole, 

 the grove of fine trees that once filled the bottom has disappeared. 

 The best of the wild-flowers have also disappeared, or nearly so ; 

 and the brook is less often limpid than impure. Similar changes 

 have overtaken everything public in the neighbourhood. 



