s are best known
to this day: some probably knowing "Tom Mundus" well who are ignorant
of his real surname. Within late years individuals have been puzzled
on hearing themselves inquired after by their own surname. At
Whitworth you might have asked in vain for the house of "Susannah
Taylor," though any child would have taken you straight to the door of
"Susy O'Yem's, O' Fair-off's at top o' th' rake."[2]

Another derivation of the surname De Heley, not at all improbable, has
been suggested--viz., that Hely Dene may have been an early corruption
of Holy Dene, having formerly belonged to the Church, and possibly, in
remote ages, dedicated to the religious rites of the Druids. A clear
rock-spring, in a gloomy dell below the Hall, is still called "the
Spaw," and often frequented by youths and maidens on May mornings.
Hence some have imagined that this Dene and its Spaw may have given to
the river running through it the name of Spodden, or Spaw-Dene.
Another spring, higher up, is called Robin Hood's Well, from that
celebrated outlaw, who seems to have been the favourite champion of
these parts, and who, according to some authorities, lies buried at
Kirklaw, in the West Riding of York.[3]

Such holy wells were, in more superstitious if not happier ages, the
supposed haunts of elves, fairies, and other such beings, not unaptly
denominated the rabble of mythology.

A warm sequestered dingle here conducts the Spodden through a scene of
wild, woodland, and picturesque beauty. Drayton, in his _Polyolbion_,
has thus immortalised it:--

"First Roche, a dainty rill, which Spodden from her springs,
A petty rivulet, as her attendant, brings."

From the mansion of Healey, built on an elevated slope above the dell,
opens out an extensive prospect. Limepark in Cheshire, Cloud End in
Staffordshire, with the Derbyshire hills, may be distinctly seen. Over
the smoke of Manchester, the banks of the Mersey are visible; and upon
the horizon rises up the barn-like ridge of Hellsby Tor,[4] in the
forest of Delamere. Towards the west may be seen, far out, like a vast
barrier, the Welsh mountains, _Moel Famma_ (mother of mountains), with
the vale of Clwyd, like a narrow cleft in the blue hills, which extend
until the chain of Penmaenmawr and the Isle of Anglesey abruptly
terminate in the sea. Few situations, without the toil of a laborious
ascent, show so commanding a prospect; while under the very eye of the
spectator, nature assume