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did, I gladly accepted the wretched pittance given know that a cloud has passed over you, and that, young for what they call slop work. But perhaps, my as you are, you have seen sorrow. It was this that ladies, you do not know what that is ?”


go to my heart, for they came from "Indeed they do,” said Mr. Greville ;

yours; it was this that made you wise, oh! so much not aware that several cases of distress have come to wiser than many that are old. It was this that taught light, in which the hard usage of the employers is so me to tell you my griefs, and to own my errors; for apparent, that the public attention is drawn to the the very happy-those who have always been happy subject, and we must hope some increase of remunera- -seldom understand sorrow; and it is hard to make tion will be adopted.”

them comprehend the temptations of poverty. It was “ I told her so— I told her so," cried the widow with you who taught me to feel human affection again—for I much feeling. “I told her, if the gentlefolks only knew that I loved you when I found I rejoiced that your knew how shamefully we were paid, -for work as I eye was brighter, your cheek more rosy, your step more have done for eighteen hours a day, I could not get light, and your voice more cheerful than before. You more than sevenpence,—they would see us righted. were leaning on the arm of a handsome gentleman toBut she always said no; that ladies and gentlemen day, when I saw you admire, through the window, never bought our sort of work—and that things they that very infected shawl; and I knew by the turn of did buy, they would have at the cheapest, without his head that he loved you, and I knew that you would staying to think if it were possible to live by making not suffer one to look so, if his love were not allowed. them. All this hardened my heart—which I thought I saw you go into the shop ; I saw the shawl taken had grown dead to every feeling. But it was not down; I peered through the door, and knew that you dead to kindness-the first that had been shown to bought it. My heart smote me, but my thoughts me for years. It was a few weeks before my child were too confused for me to act at the moment-nor died, that instead of plain work, I undertook some was my conscience thoroughly awakened till aftercurious knitting in wool according to a certain pat- wards. I pictured you sick and suffering. I thought tern. However, the work was so much more tedious even you might die-or I thought you might rise than I expected, that the lady for whom it was ordered changed, disfigured, with beauty for ever gone—and I made some other purchase instead, which induced the thought, would the handsome gentleman love you the shopkeeper to take it on his own hands. And being same as now ?—for lady, dear young lady, such things a winter article, never till this morning was it un- have been; and the woman who is loved, should chepacked, and exposed in his window for sale.”

rish her beauty yet more than she who hopes to win a “Go on,” said Lucy, for the widow paused—"go heart. Well, all these thoughts struggling in my on, I cannot guess what all this leads to."

mind made me nearly wild. I went to the shopkeeper, Do you remember?” proceeded Mary Morris, in a and told him the story: he only laughed, until I quivering voice ;="do you remember how you trembled

remember how you trembled threatened to relate it to you. I afterwards manœuvred and turned pale, when you first learned my little Nancy to see the parcel, which was packed and directed, had died of small-pox? we had been too poor to pay for as I evidently knew you, it never occurred to for her vaccination-and-and-like many others, too him that I was ignorant of your address, and so he idle—too thoughtless to take her where it would have took no pains to conceal it. On my returning him the been done for nothing. Do you remember how you four shillings he paid me for the knitting, and the reproved me for my negligence, which, perhaps, I should three shillings the material cost, he at last gave it up; have heeded less, had you not told me that you had an and he will tell you a version of the story, taking, no especial dread of the disease, having lost a dear friend doubt, some credit to himself, and beg you to receive by it, who, like yourself, had never been susceptible of some other article for the pound at which I saw it the usual preventative? Do you remember how you was priced.” implored me to destroy every article belonging to the “Your conduct,” said Mr. Greville, with emotion, child ? Lady_lady and the widow's voice rose “has in this stance been so admirable, that it exwith her emotion“ lady, the black and crimson tenuates a hundred faults. But, in the abject poverty knitted shawl you bought this morning was knitted you describe, how did you procure the sum of seven in that infected chamber, and even, from our scarcity shillings ?” of clothing, was wrapped round my dying Nancy !” “I-1-pawned the bed the dear young lady sent

“Horrible-horrible !” exclaimed Mrs. Greville, me yesterday." starting from her chair. “Lucy-surely, Lucy, you “But you shall sleep on it to-night,” cried Mr. have not worn it ?

Greville, drawing a sovereign from his purse, “with "Be calm, dear mother," replied Miss Greville, an easy conscience, and, I trust, a lighter heart than with tearful eyes_“I have not even touched it, except usual.” with my glove."

“ It cannot be," said the widow, calmly—“though Thank God !” murmured Mary Morris.

my heart is lighter, and I am happier than I have been “It was to be sent home this evening," continued for

many years. I feel once more that I may dare to Lucy; “I do not think it is yet come.”

hope to meet my little Nancy in Heaven—and in this “And never will,” returned the widow, “every par- world I am resigned to my fate.” ticle is reduced to ashes.”

“What is it you mean?”. “My poor Morris,” said Lucy, touched to the “I must tell you the whole truth-though I did heart, “tell us how you have done this—how you not mean it—or you will misjudge me. Hannah Wilcould do it.”

kins and I have parted—indeed, though we rented the “ You will bear with me, while I tell all my thoughts?" room between us, the things are all hers. The scraps and the poor woman felt that her audience was no in- I had were made away with when poor Nancy lay ill.” different one.

“I know not what it may be, but I do "I suppose,” said Mr. Greville, with some pene

tration," she quarrelled with you for parting with the beginning, till we can find more regular work for bed ?

you.' The widow bowed her head, and tears again gushed “I think,” said Mrs. Greville, with a smile that forth.

made Lucy blush—“I think we alone shall find plenty “ Whatever present inconvenience may arise to you,” of work for you between this and Christmas,- for a continued Mr. Greville, " I rejoice at the separation; wedding without new clothes is like—is like--.” for it is evident to me, that your companion has “Christmas without plum pudding," said Mr. heightened every temptation which has crossed your Greville, impatient for a simile. path, and weakened every good resolution that has “Summer without flowers,” cried his more poetical arisen in your mind. Above most things, should rich wife. or poor shun such associates. Now that I have The widow was too happy for aught save tears, and learned your story, I recognize you as persons of whom blessings on her benefactors. I chanced the other day to hear something. It may

“ I wonder,” murmured Mr. Greville, after a long be some encouragement for the future, for you to pause"- I wonder if, when we cannot be roused to hu. know that even the poor pittance you have been able manity by the knowledge of suffering, it is decreed that to earn, has been in consequence of your better cha we must be frightened into it in self-defence ? Little racter. Her future is easily seen,-she will sink to he knows, I fear, of the human heart, who has never perfect beggary. But tell me, have you a roof to been tempted !” shelter


?“I thought you would have reproached me,” sobbed Should this sketch from real life meet the eye of a the widow—" turned me away


door. And child of toil, of want, of penury, not in vain will it I am used to anger and upbraidings.- I never thought have been committed to paper, if a sentence therein I should tell you—I go to-night to ask admission into strengthens one good resolve, or loosens one strong the workhouse.”

chain of habit that binds to evil thoughts or bad ex"No, no,” cried Mr. Greville—" no need for that.” ample. Not in vain, if it makes him understand that

Suppose,” said Lucy, laying her hand kindly on the rich cannot relieve the want they do not know. the widow's arm

suppose you take the sovereign And oh! not in vain, if it makes some favourite of papa has placed before you-recover your bed—hire a fortune turn with pitying heart and open hand to the clean little room to yourself—and

toil-worn and starving. Not too ambitious for a “ We will find some oddments to furnish it,” said prayer is it, that my simple story may be one of the Mrs. Greville, continuing the speech her daughter had many grains in the heavy balance, to prompt our hesitated finishing:

country's Sages and Senators to plan wisely for their “And you shall make me a shawl, precisely like humble, oppressed, but industrious countrywomen, that I bought to-day,” exclaimed Lucy; "and for your whose ill-repaid, life-wearing toil, has lately been brought labour you shall be fairly paid ;- this will be a to their notice.




“Then go! ye vassals, hasten forth,

As on the lightning's wing, -
Gather all that is fair of earth!

Gather, and to me bring!

“ A robe of soft and summer green

Around my shoulders throw;
Of ivy wreath a verdant screen,

To hide my couch of snow!

PROUD and stern on his mountain throne,

King WINTER kept his state;
In his cloudy robe, with his icy crown,

Dark monarch of earth! he sate.
His aged head was wreathed with snow,

With snow like hoary hair ;
The hills beneath him crouch'd them low,

In homage round his chair.
Dread and drear is the monarch's power,

And blighting the breath he breathes,
But the sternest heart hath its gentler hour,
As the rock-cleft hideth the moss-borne flower,

With its pink and tiny wreaths. “I will prepare a royal feast”

(So spake the monarch's voice)— “That may, such

weary ages pass’d, My lonely heart rejoice.

“ Unlock the bound and fetter'd stream,

To run in silver down;
Call here the zephyr and the beam,

To make the flowers their own.

“And reach me in a foaming cup

The juice of the southern vine,
That I may see it flashing up

In its bright and crystal shrine.

“But where I dwell, and whence I come,

I may not tell; 'tis distant far ; Thou canst not live where I can roam ;

And when I leave my glowing star, As now I do—to cross the main, And field and flood and mountain chain. I breathe the spell that sets them free From all thy icy tyranny.

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“ The voices that around me rise,

Companions of my onward path, A greater power within them lies,

Than dwells in all thy stormy wrath ; For if my golden lyre I take, And if my gentle song I wake, The world is soften’d to the strain, And laugheth forth in flowers again." “Then,” said the monarch,

o wake for me The song in which such magic dwells That I may drink its melody,

And mark the marvel of thy spells."
The youthful minstrel touch'd the string,
And sung unto the agéd king ;-
And gardens spread and flow'rets sprung
Around, like visions, as he sung.
The song was o'er; the minstrel ceased ;

No word the monarch said ;
But he his hands together press'd,

And bow'd his hoary head.
What should that falling tear-drop speak?

It did not flow for pain :
What flush was on that agéd cheek,

When he raised his head again?

“Take thou, the guerdon is thine own,

My kingdom take to theeBe thine


diadem and crown, My sceptre thine shall be. “ I'll bend no more beneath the weight

Of stern and blighting power ; I sought in vain, on my throne of state,

For the love-encircling bower.

“My heart the joy could never know,

That love, that song could bringPoet, thy hand! Farewell, my throne, I'll blend my being with thine own,

Thou spirit of the SPRING."

“ Call from the sunny lands of song

And boldly, too, the answer came,The minstrels of the air,

“A POET I—the SPRING my name! For I have miss’d and mourn'd too long

Where'er I go, I bear along Their notes so silver-clear.

The life of light, the love of song.


“And bear, ye vassals, bear my throne,

Where flowers may round me spring; I will no longer dream alone,

That I on earth am king!”

And low their heads his vassals bow'd

Before their master's will ;
But said, “Thy slaves are not allow'd

Thy bidding to fulfil.

“Hadst thou for gold or treasure ask'd, Or the flashing

diamond-stone, We would for thee our strength have task'd —

They should have been thine own. “We'll build for thee thy palace walls

Of crystal clear and bright, And hang around thy regal halls

The rock-borne flowers of light;

“If so thou wilt !” His face, the king In sorrow turn'd

away ; “Go! I have ask'd of ye, a thing

From powers beyond my sway, “Stern is my strength, wide my command, But my

domain of dread Gives but the sceptre to the hand,

No garland for the head.”


And as he spoke, the palace wall

Sprang open with a sudden sound;
Again it closed, and in the hall

A beauteous youth was standing found.
A lofty mien-yet gentle too
Told that his birth and power he knew;
Yet as to show his skill to charm,
He bore a lyre upon his arm.
His graceful limbs with strength were strung, —

His ringlets, bright as sun-touch'd gold,
Which he behind him careless flung,

Waved rich in many a glossy fold.
With dauntless brow he gazed upon
Old Winter and his ancient throne ;
And Winter felt a secret fear,
As if a rival power were near.

Yet first the monarch silence broke;

Speak, youth, and be thine errand toldWhy hath thy foot our echoes woke?

So question'd he the minstrel bold.



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WHOEVER goes to Derbyshire, the Monts Dores of Deity whose attributes are now unknown, and the England, will find himself drawn, by its great reputa- rights of whose awful worship are only guessed at. tation and popularity, to visit Dove Dale, the most It would seem as if the Bath of Matlock were celebrated of all the beautiful vallies of that part of the destined to remain a secret, guarded as it has been for country, probably as much on account of its being the ages by mountains of stone of such gigantic size. nearest and the first reached, as for its real merits; That which is called the High Tor stands sentinel at for Monsal Dale, near Bakewell, Darley Dale, near one extremity, a huge square mass with buttresses Chatsworth, and the fine dales of Hope and Castleton, and towers, and at the other it was necessary to hew as well as the magnificent gorges of the Peak, which a way through an enormous rock, in order to obtain a more resemble it in its grandest aspect, may all vie passage. The road now passes by both these subwith the banks of the Dove in attraction. Still Dove dued giants, but they still frown angrily on the inDale has features of its own which cannot but render truders in their solitude. A huge mountain, opposite it a favourite haunt, and, like the vallies in the Pyre- the cleft which man's hand has dared to make, looks nees, it is a beauty with many rivals.

fearfully menacing, as it raises its great height in The vale of Matlock itself, from whence tourists front, as if still inclined to bar the way. Yet here, on generally start for this excursion, is, perhaps, the most the very spot most belonging to secret nature, where striking of any, with its majestic Tors rising perpen- art and commerce seem least to find their place, the dicularly from the murmuring river Derwent, their roaring of the impetuous stream, leaping over a barhuge masses clothed with thick and spreading trees, rier of rocks, announces a phenomenon; and a strucand wreaths of ivy hanging from their rugged sum- ture, as large as the mighty Tors themselves, lifts its mits. Immediately above the bath on each side rise broad form, transparent with many windows, and prothese fine rocks, hemming in the valley and giving it claims that trade has usurped, or, at least, divides the the appearance of a fortified spot. The range of the honour of the place which wanderers in search of Hag Tors, succeeded by those of the Wild Cat, peer health alone had sought in former days. from the clinging and clustering branches which Richard Arkwright's cotton-mill stands close bepartly conceal them, and seem to make signals to the side the giant Tors, and rivals them in magnitude, answering heights of Masson opposite, while the while his Castle of Willersley crowns the verdant dark, mysterious, Druid-like piles of the Dungeon hill above the gushing stream, and shows itself, amidst Tors shroud themselves entirely in a thick, tangled the surrounding forest, a memorial of the triumph of wood near, as though they were jealous that modern industry and ingenuity, eyes should gaze upon their dark ravines and high The stranger is startled when told by his guide that altars, where once solemn service was performed to a the beautiful valley he traverses for several miles on Vol. II.


way to Dove Dale, is called by the high Roman little more than seven years of


who is the prename of Via Gellia : it is true that, thanks to Derby- siding genius of the scene, and who, as patient as his shire simplicity, the classic sound is somewhat altered, animal, plods on beside, leading it by the bridle over and the puzzling appellation of Viajelly still more stony places, as if his fragile arm had power to supperplexes him. This Via is full of beauty, winding port it, should the sure foot slip at the edge of a and turning in graceful uncertainty, and presenting precipice. its rocky eminences, its small lakes, and its deep In passing this road lately, the writer of this sketch woods to the admiring eye.

made the acquaintance of little Tommy, of whose life Then comes a sudden change;~-wild moors, without his grandmother, the guide, recounted the few and sad a tree, stretch forth their barren bosoms, dotted with events. After a long struggle through a rough road large dark stones here and there, and sometimes sink- we rested beneath a shady tree, and the great heat ing down into witchlike glens, over which black dis- having given a richer glow to the peach-like cheek of coloured heaps of rocks grimly preside, like the little Tommy, and his general appearance bespeaking watch-towers of ogres, who lie in wait for stragglers his fatigue, we desired him to sit beside us and share from the happy valley beyond. These dismal tracts, our hermit meal. The sigh that accompanied his many of which are now redeemed from barrenness, action as he threw himself prone on the turf, and the and richly cultivated, are placed immediately amongst abandonment of his dimpled brown tiny hands to rethe fine scenes to which they form so great a con- pose as he loosed the bridle, were touching in the trast; and between Via Gellia and Dove Dale occur extreme. His grandmother, while we paused, took several such. Here formerly stood many Druid altars out her knitting, and observing our attention much and rocking-stones, which were accustomed, through attracted to little Tommy, remarkedlong years, to awe the beholders; but “ stone hedges" Ah! poor child, young as he is, he has had being the fashion in Derbyshire, one by one these plenty of troubles, if he did but know them; and, no temples have disappeared, and may be traced in their doubt, there are many more waiting for him. It's remnants alone.

always unlucky to be born within sight of Thorp Everywhere the road sparkles with sparry particles, Cloud - his mother and he, too, had the misfortune and round Matlock up to the High Peak, the paths of it.” glitter as if the fairies had strewn them with dia- “ Indeed,” said I; “ is that said to be the case ?" monds; but as Dove Dale is approached, these indi- “Oh, there's no doubt of it, was the answer. cations of mines cease. At a certain spot where a “ I've had twelve children, and Martha was the only humble way-side inn appears, the traveller quits his one born in my cottage, which you might see up there vehicle, and here those who are accredited guides are amongst the rocks on the other side of the river-just in waiting, to conduct the bewildered seeker after no- facing the great mountain that shuts the valley in. velty. Not that any place can less need a guide than We were only lately come to live here then, and I never Dove Dale, as the path is sufficiently easy and straight- expected to stay so many years. As soon as I saw that forward.

strange big rocky hill, i had a sort of shudder come On a first approach nothing but barren hills of un- over me, and was sure it boded no good. My husinviting aspect, without a solitary tree, are before the band died when my Martha was only five years old, view,—no indications appear of the future beauty, and and she died in a decline, fretting after her husband; for nearly a mile no improvement takes place. All

All and I have had nothing since to live by but showing this time, as the walk continues, a strange object the valley to strangers. All my own children are in attracts the attention; it is an immensely high pyra- different parts, and little Tommy and I live together midal mountain of several sides, all nearly flat and now alone, both father and mother dead; our donkey tapering to a point, where on the very summit is placed is the best in the valley, and never tires, nor my by nature a single pointed grey stone, forming the grandson neither in general; but the sun to-day is so peak. This mountain is covered with short turf, but hot, it is better not to think of going back for an hour neither tree nor shrub break its monotony, and the till the shadows are a little longer." shape, totally unlike any which surround it, gives it a We quite agreed with her, and encouraged her to remarkable and surprising effect. This is the cele- tell us the traditions of the valley, which she did as brated Thorp Cloud, named as one of the curiosities follows :—The reason Thorp Cloud is unlucky is, of the country. It stands across the valley like a because, in former times, there was a convent on the huge gate, and the river Dove runs round its foot. very top of the rock, where strange evil work went on When the point is reached at which the river appears, amongst the monks. They possessed the right of fishthe valley begins to show signs of beauty. Luxurianting in the Dove, and had great possessions in this part foliage runs feathering up the steeps; grey, picturesque of the country. Whoever passed through the valley rocks come forth amongst the trees; and a hundred was obliged to pay a toll, and they often exacted more accidents of the ground render it interesting and than persons had any right to give. By degrees, as curious.

they were unresisted, they grew more and more insoThe female explorer, whose strength is not equal to lent, until they were little less than robbers; for several six miles' walking, is here recommended a remedy by of the stoutest used to post themselves at a small the female guide, whose praises of the valley before it chapel under the arch of rocks which looks over the shows claims to admiration, somewhat disturb the tran- turn of the stream, and as they could see every one quillity of enjoyment requisite on these occasions ; that approached, they would hasten down the steep, but should her arguments avail, and a help, in the and stop the passenger, demanding his money to shape of a pretty quiet donkey, be accepted, she will whatever amount they pleased. make herself acquainted with an interesting boy of No representations were of any avail, for they were

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