the memory of the traveller like a permanent benediction, and remains in
his mind a standing symbol of peace.

I have no space to speak of how from Beeston you see all Cheshire; the
Vale Royal to your left, and the main plain of the county to your right.
The whole stretch is framed in with definite hills, the last and highly
marked line of the Pennines bounds the view upon the east; upon the west
the first of the Welsh hills stands sharply in a long even line against
the fading sun; and on the north you see the height of Delamere. There
are three other views in the North of England, the first easy, the last
two difficult to obtain, all between them making up a true picture of
what the North of England is. The first (and it is very famous) is the
view over the industrial ferment of South Lancashire, seen from the
complete silence of the hills round the Peak. No matter where you cross
that summit, even if you take the high road from the Snake Inn to
Glossop, where the easiest, and therefore the least striking, passage
has been chosen, much more if you follow the wild heights a little to
the south until you come to a more abrupt descent on which there are not
even paths, there comes a point where there is presented to you in one
great offering, without introduction, a vision of the vast energies of
England.

I remember once in winter when the sun sets early (it was December, and
seven years ago) coming upon this sight. The clouds were so arranged
after an Atlantic storm that all the heaven (which here is always
spacious and noble) was covered with a rolling curtain as though a man
had pulled it with his hands. But far off, westward, there was a broad
red band of sunset, and against this the smoke, the tall stacks, the
violence and the wealth of that cauldron. One could almost hear the
noise. It did arrest one; it was as though someone had painted something