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THE DALES OF DERBYSHIRE.

WHILE the bright sunny weather continues, and summer flowers make glad the face of the earth, and the songs of birds are calling men from their books, from densely-peopled towns, and narrow streets, and roofed houses, to share with Nature the riches of beauty and health which with ever open hand she offers to all who only ask, we cannot do better than be off to the fields again; and tell to others of the lovely places awaiting their visits, and ever glowing with beauty and grace for their enjoyment and gratification. Our rambles this time will take us through some of the Dales of Derbyshire.

Of course, we do not propose to pass through all the small retired spots of loveliness which distinguish this most picturesque of counties, and which are designated by the title of Dales. This would be to make our pages a long and somewhat dreary catalogue of names, without giving any profit or pleasure, any instruction or delight. We shall but talk of those we have visited, and which have some special attractions for the rambler in search of the united treasures of health and beauty.

And first of all the dales in Derbyshire-perhaps

of all the dales in England-is the renowned Dale of the Dove. Who that has read-and who has not? -the "Complete Angler" of good old Izaak Walton, and his dear friend Charles Cotton, is not more or less acquainted with this glorious place? Taking Derby for our starting-place, it is distant some sixteen miles; and on your road you pass through the little villages of Langley and Brailford, with their pretty churches, and old, quaint, gable-ended, straw-thatched cottages, with neat and well-kept gardens and tree-covered walls; through Osmaston, with its fine seat and rare pleasure-grounds, up hill and down dale, till you reach Ashbourne, which is a lovely place situate in a lovely valley. You are unable to see it until you reach the brow of the hill which overlooks the town; then what a sight greets you! Partly embosomed in the valley, through which a small river winds along a very silver thread-in the midst of rich meadow-land and thickly-foliaged trees, and partly hanging, as it were, on the opposite hill, few situations can be imagined more striking and picturesque. Rising above the "lowly village cots" is the fine spire of its fine church,—always in villages and small towns a centre of beauty and attraction. The churchyard is adorned with an avenue of trees running from north to south through its whole length. This might have been a most beautiful sight, and a source of intense enjoyment to the inhabitants of, and visitors to, Ashbourne. How would these trees have wooed all to spend the quiet summer evening hours beneath their pleasant shade! But, alas! they afford none! The

vandalism of some Ashbournean beadles in office has flattened them on their sides, as some Indians do their children's heads; and instead of spreading their branches across the path, in the sensible manner of free and uneducated trees, they are like two lines of men, with their hands resting on each other's shoulders,—two stiff, formal, and unlovely rows: in a word, they look and are unnatural, and are displeasing and unbeautiful accordingly.

Ashbourne seems to be a flourishing place; and there are many signs of growing prosperity visible about it. At some little distance from the town is the cottage in which Moore wrote "Lalla Rookh;" a spot no lover of poetry will fail to visit. But we must on for Dovedale. As we proceed, the scenery grows more and more beautiful every moment, and soon the fair valley of the Dove bursts upon you with all the charms peculiar to valley scenery. It is not so sweetly beautiful, so lady-like in its grace, as Llangollen, or Ffestiniog, and others of the valleys of North Wales; but it has a rich dowry of its own which makes the heart glad to look upon it. In the distance is the range of hills which shut in the renowned dale; and conspicuous above all is the apex of the conical Thorpe Cloud; and that we have to climb before we penetrate the sanctuary of the Dove. So on we go, leaving the village of Thorpe on our left, and make straight for the inn yclept "The Peveril of the Peak," which conveniently offers its accommodation for man and beast at the foot of the hill.

It is now mid-day, and we are climbing the sugarloaf-shaped Thorpe, with joyous hearts and panting chests. O, this climbing of hills is rare work! There is health in it; and genial breezes kiss and greet you with a rude, rough, honest English welcome; and you shout your joy forth till the opposite peaks echo it back in very gladness. Then the merry laugh of the ladies, as some one among them makes a false step, and seizes the grass with both hands,-as an unskilful rider would the mane of his horse,-lest the hill should run away from her, and leave her in dismay at its base. Then the pauses to take in the various views, and the many excuses for resting before we reach the top of the hill! But, truly, the views are beautiful, and excuses enough in themselves. There is the village of Horn with its quaintest of old churches; and all around are the rich, many-coloured fields, with their fine hedges and glorious old trees. No wonder the English are fond of landscape paintings, when their own land affords such fine views for the artist to transfer to his canvass. Far away flows the Dove; and in its waters are groups

of cows

cooling themselves, and forming another picture, worthy of Cooper, for our study. Can anything be finer? Yes for we are on the top of Thorpe, and there below us and before us is the dale! On each side are the "rough, jagged, and precipitous" hills; and between them flow the clear waters of the river. On they come, sparkling, foaming, dashing over the miniature falls in right merry humour, and making music for their own sweet delight.

Down the hill we go,-running, sliding, or rolling, as the case may be,-until a few minutes of such descent brings us to the dale itself. The contrast between the sides of the ravine is striking. On the public side it is rocky and barren, growing nothing but a few shrubs, and a little grass: the other side is covered with trees, except here and there where the nature of the rock defies cultivation. All along the dale you see large pointed rocks, which stand alone, like the spires of a church, pointing to heaven. Some of the smaller ones might have formed a huge mastodon's tooth which had crunched some unfortunate dweller in the antediluvian world. Full of wonder, (for we are still unphilosophical enough to possess such an organ, and to let it manifest itself in its own natural way, and have no faith in, nor love of, the nil admirari theory of life,) we pass Barslow Hill, and cross the Lovers' Leap; concerning which faithful tradition says, that once upon a time two young and unhappy beings, with whom the course of true love did not run smooth, precipitated themselves therefrom into the river below: which tradition the cautious reader may accept or not, as fancy prompts or credulity inspires. For ourselves, desirous as we are of believing every story of romance and love, this of the Lovers' Leap is too much for us, seeing that we tried to throw a stone from the edge of the rock into the river, and failed by some yards in doing so. If the lovers committed suicide on this romantic spot, their death must have been a harder one than drowning, and would have left their bodies in a

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