did, I gladly accepted the wretched pittance given

for what they call slop work. But perhaps, my ladies, you do not know what that is?" "Indeed they do," said Mr. Greville; are you not aware that several cases of distress have come to light, in which the hard usage of the employers is so apparent, that the public attention is drawn to the subject, and we must hope some increase of remuneration will be adopted."

"I told her so-I told her so," cried the widow with much feeling. "I told her, if the gentlefolks only knew how shamefully we were paid,-for work as I have done for eighteen hours a day, I could not get more than sevenpence,-they would see us righted. But she always said no; that ladies and gentlemen never bought our sort of work-and that things they did buy, they would have at the cheapest, without staying to think if it were possible to live by making them. All this hardened my heart-which I thought had grown dead to every feeling. But it was not dead to kindness-the first that had been shown to me for years. It was a few weeks before my child died, that instead of plain work, I undertook some curious knitting in wool according to a certain pattern. However, the work was so much more tedious than I expected, that the lady for whom it was ordered made some other purchase instead, which induced the shopkeeper to take it on his own hands. And being a winter article, never till this morning was it unpacked, and exposed in his window for sale."

"Go on," said Lucy, for the widow paused-"go on, I cannot guess what all this leads to.'

"Do you remember?" proceeded Mary Morris, in a quivering voice;-" do you remember how you trembled and turned pale, when you first learned my little Nancy had died of small-pox? we had been too poor to pay for her vaccination-and-and-like many others, too idle-too thoughtless to take her where it would have been done for nothing. Do you remember how you reproved me for my negligence, which, perhaps, I should have heeded less, had you not told me that you had an especial dread of the disease, having lost a dear friend by it, who, like yourself, had never been susceptible of the usual preventative? Do you remember how you implored me to destroy every article belonging to the child? Lady-lady— "and the widow's voice rose with her emotion-"lady, the black and crimson knitted shawl you bought this morning was knitted in that infected chamber, and even, from our scarcity of clothing, was wrapped round my dying Nancy!" "Horrible-horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Greville, starting from her chair. "Lucy-surely, Lucy, you have not worn it?"

"Be calm, dear mother," replied Miss Greville, with tearful eyes-" I have not even touched it, except with my glove."

"Thank God!" murmured Mary Morris. "It was to be sent home this evening," continued Lucy; "I do not think it is yet come.'

And never will," returned the widow, ticle is reduced to ashes."

"6 every par

"My poor Morris," said Lucy, touched to the heart, "tell us how you have done this-how you could do it."

"You will bear with me, while I tell all my thoughts?" and the poor woman felt that her audience was no indifferent one. "I know not what it may be, but I do

know that a cloud has passed over you, and that, young as you are, you have seen sorrow. It was this that made your words go to my heart, for they came from yours; it was this that made you wise, oh! so much wiser than many that are old. It was this that taught me to tell you my griefs, and to own my errors; for the very happy-those who have always been happy -seldom understand sorrow; and it is hard to make them comprehend the temptations of poverty. It was you who taught me to feel human affection again-for I knew that I loved you when I found I rejoiced that your eye was brighter, your cheek more rosy, your step more light, and your voice more cheerful than before. You were leaning on the arm of a handsome gentleman today, when I saw you admire, through the window, that very infected shawl; and I knew by the turn of his head that he loved you, and I knew that you would not suffer one to look so, if his love were not allowed. I saw you go into the shop; I saw the shawl taken down; I peered through the door, and knew that you bought it. My heart smote me, but my thoughts were too confused for me to act at the moment-nor was my conscience thoroughly awakened till afterwards. I pictured you sick and suffering. I thought even you might die-or I thought you might rise changed, disfigured, with beauty for ever gone—and I thought, would the handsome gentleman love you the same as now?-for lady, dear young lady, such things have been; and the woman who is loved, should cherish her beauty yet more than she who hopes to win a heart. Well, all these thoughts struggling in my mind made me nearly wild. I went to the shopkeeper, and told him the story: he only laughed, until I threatened to relate it to you. I afterwards manœuvred to see the parcel, which was packed and directed, for as I evidently knew you, it never occurred to him that I was ignorant of your address, and so he took no pains to conceal it. On my returning him the four shillings he paid me for the knitting, and the three shillings the material cost, he at last gave it up; and he will tell you a version of the story, taking, no doubt, some credit to himself, and beg you to receive some other article for the pound at which I saw it was priced."

"Your conduct," said Mr. Greville, with emotion, "has in this instance been so admirable, that it extenuates a hundred faults. But, in the abject poverty you describe, how did you procure the sum of seven shillings?"

"I-I-pawned the bed the dear young lady sent me yesterday."

"But you shall sleep on it to-night," cried Mr. Greville, drawing a sovereign from his purse, "with an easy conscience, and, I trust, a lighter heart than usual."

"It cannot be," said the widow, calmly-" though my heart is lighter, and I am happier than I have been for many years. I feel once more that I may dare to hope to meet my little Nancy in Heaven-and in this world I am resigned to my fate."

"What is it you mean?"

"I must tell you the whole truth-though I did not mean it or you will misjudge me. Hannah Wilkins and I have parted-indeed, though we rented the room between us, the things are all hers. The scraps I had were made away with when poor Nancy lay ill.” "I suppose," said Mr. Greville, with some pene

tration, "she quarrelled with you for parting with the bed?"

The widow bowed her head, and tears again gushed forth.

"Whatever present inconvenience may arise to you," continued Mr. Greville, "I rejoice at the separation; for it is evident to me, that your companion has heightened every temptation which has crossed your path, and weakened every good resolution that has arisen in your mind. Above most things, should rich or poor shun such associates. Now that I have learned your story, I recognize you as persons of whom I chanced the other day to hear something. It may be some encouragement for the future, for you to know that even the poor pittance you have been able to earn, has been in consequence of your better character. Her future is easily seen,-she will sink to perfect beggary. But tell me, have you a roof to shelter you ?"

"I thought you would have reproached me," sobbed the widow-" turned me away from your door. And I am used to anger and upbraidings.—I never thought I should tell you-I go to-night to ask admission into the workhouse.' "No, no," cried Mr. Greville-" no need for that." "Suppose," said Lucy, laying her hand kindly on the widow's arm- 66 suppose you take the sovereign papa has placed before you-recover your bed-hire a clean little room to yourself-and

"We will find some oddments to furnish it," said Mrs. Greville, continuing the speech her daughter had hesitated finishing.

"And you shall make me a shawl, precisely like that I bought to-day," exclaimed Lucy; "and for your labour you shall be fairly paid;-this will be a

beginning, till we can find more regular work for you."

"I think,” said Mrs. Greville, with a smile that made Lucy blush—“I think we alone shall find plenty of work for you between this and Christmas,-for a wedding without new clothes is like—is like---.”

"Christmas without plum pudding," said Mr. Greville, impatient for a simile.

"Summer without flowers," cried his more poetical

wife.

The widow was too happy for aught save tears, and blessings on her benefactors.

"I wonder," murmured Mr. Greville, after a long pause"-I wonder if, when we cannot be roused to humanity by the knowledge of suffering, it is decreed that we must be frightened into it in self-defence? Little he knows, I fear, of the human heart, who has never been tempted!"

Should this sketch from real life meet the eye of a child of toil, of want, of penury, not in vain will it have been committed to paper, if a sentence therein strengthens one good resolve, or loosens one strong chain of habit that binds to evil thoughts or bad example. Not in vain, if it makes him understand that the rich cannot relieve the want they do not know. And oh not in vain, if it makes some favourite of fortune turn with pitying heart and open hand to the toil-worn and starving. Not too ambitious for a prayer is it, that my simple story may be one of the many grains in the heavy balance, to prompt our country's Sages and Senators to plan wisely for their humble, oppressed, but industrious countrywomen, whose ill-repaid, life-wearing toil, has lately been brought to their notice.

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.

And boldly, too, the answer came,"A POET I-the SPRING my name! Where'er I go, I bear along

The life of light, the love of song.

"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.

"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."

WHOEVER goes to Derbyshire, the Monts Dores of England, will find himself drawn, by its great reputatation and popularity, to visit Dove Dale, the most celebrated of all the beautiful vallies of that part of the country, probably as much on account of its being the nearest and the first reached, as for its real merits; for Monsal Dale, near Bakewell, Darley Dale, near Chatsworth, and the fine dales of Hope and Castleton, as well as the magnificent gorges of the Peak, which more resemble it in its grandest aspect, may all vie with the banks of the Dove in attraction. Still Dove Dale has features of its own which cannot but render it a favourite haunt, and, like the vallies in the Pyrenees, it is a beauty with many rivals.

The vale of Matlock itself, from whence tourists generally start for this excursion, is, perhaps, the most striking of any, with its majestic Tors rising perpendicularly from the murmuring river Derwent, their huge masses clothed with thick and spreading trees, and wreaths of ivy hanging from their rugged summits. Immediately above the bath on each side rise these fine rocks, hemming in the valley and giving it the appearance of a fortified spot. The range of the Hag Tors, succeeded by those of the Wild Cat, peer from the clinging and clustering branches which partly conceal them, and seem to make signals to the answering heights of Masson opposite, while the dark, mysterious, Druid-like piles of the Dungeon Tors shroud themselves entirely in a thick, tangled wood near, as though they were jealous that modern eyes should gaze upon their dark ravines and high altars, where once solemn service was performed to a VOL. II.

Deity whose attributes are now unknown, and the rights of whose awful worship are only guessed at. It would seem as if the Bath of Matlock were destined to remain a secret, guarded as it has been for ages by mountains of stone of such gigantic size. That which is called the High Tor stands sentinel at one extremity, a huge square mass with buttresses and towers, and at the other it was necessary to hew a way through an enormous rock, in order to obtain a passage. The road now passes by both these subdued giants, but they still frown angrily on the intruders in their solitude. A huge mountain, opposite the cleft which man's hand has dared to make, looks fearfully menacing, as it raises its great height in front, as if still inclined to bar the way. Yet here, on the very spot most belonging to secret nature, where art and commerce seem least to find their place, the roaring of the impetuous stream, leaping over a barrier of rocks, announces a phenomenon; and a structure, as large as the mighty Tors themselves, lifts its broad form, transparent with many windows, and proclaims that trade has usurped, or, at least, divides the honour of the place which wanderers in search of health alone had sought in former days.

Richard Arkwright's cotton-mill stands close beside the giant Tors, and rivals them in magnitude, while his Castle of Willersley crowns the verdant hill above the gushing stream, and shows itself, amidst the surrounding forest, a memorial of the triumph of industry and ingenuity.

The stranger is startled when told by his guide that the beautiful valley he traverses for several miles on S

his way to Dove Dale, is called by the high Roman name of Via Gellia: it is true that, thanks to Derbyshire simplicity, the classic sound is somewhat altered, and the puzzling appellation of Viajelly still more perplexes him. This Via is full of beauty, winding and turning in graceful uncertainty, and presenting its rocky eminences, its small lakes, and its deep woods to the admiring eye.

Then comes a sudden change;-wild moors, without a tree, stretch forth their barren bosoms, dotted with large dark stones here and there, and sometimes sinking down into witchlike glens, over which black discoloured heaps of rocks grimly preside, like the watch-towers of ogres, who lie in wait for stragglers from the happy valley beyond. These dismal tracts, many of which are now redeemed from barrenness, and richly cultivated, are placed immediately amongst the fine scenes to which they form so great a contrast; and between Via Gellia and Dove Dale occur several such. Here formerly stood many Druid altars and rocking-stones, which were accustomed, through long years, to awe the beholders; but "stone hedges" being the fashion in Derbyshire, one by one these temples have disappeared, and may be traced in their remnants alone.

Everywhere the road sparkles with sparry particles, and round Matlock up to the High Peak, the paths glitter as if the fairies had strewn them with diamonds; but as Dove Dale is approached, these indications of mines cease. At a certain spot where a humble way-side inn appears, the traveller quits his vehicle, and here those who are accredited guides are in waiting, to conduct the bewildered seeker after novelty. Not that any place can less need a guide than Dove Dale, as the path is sufficiently easy and straightforward.

--

On a first approach nothing but barren hills of uninviting aspect, without a solitary tree, are before the view, no indications appear of the future beauty, and for nearly a mile no improvement takes place. All this time, as the walk continues, a strange object attracts the attention; it is an immensely high pyramidal mountain of several sides, all nearly flat and tapering to a point, where on the very summit is placed by nature a single pointed grey stone, forming the peak. This mountain is covered with short turf, but neither tree nor shrub break its monotony, and the shape, totally unlike any which surround it, gives it a remarkable and surprising effect. This is the celebrated Thorp Cloud, named as one of the curiosities of the country. It stands across the valley like a huge gate, and the river Dove runs round its foot. When the point is reached at which the river appears, the valley begins to show signs of beauty. Luxuriant foliage runs feathering up the steeps; grey, picturesque rocks come forth amongst the trees; and a hundred accidents of the ground render it interesting and

curious.

The female explorer, whose strength is not equal to six miles' walking, is here recommended a remedy by the female guide, whose praises of the valley before it shows claims to admiration, somewhat disturb the tranquillity of enjoyment requisite on these occasions; but should her arguments avail, and a help, in the shape of a pretty quiet donkey, be accepted, she will make herself acquainted with an interesting boy of

little more than seven years of age, who is the presiding genius of the scene, and who, as patient as his animal, plods on beside, leading it by the bridle over stony places, as if his fragile arm had power to support it, should the sure foot slip at the edge of a precipice.

In passing this road lately, the writer of this sketch made the acquaintance of little Tommy, of whose life his grandmother, the guide, recounted the few and sad events. After a long struggle through a rough road we rested beneath a shady tree, and the great heat having given a richer glow to the peach-like cheek of little Tommy, and his general appearance bespeaking his fatigue, we desired him to sit beside us and share our hermit meal. The sigh that accompanied his action as he threw himself prone on the turf, and the abandonment of his dimpled brown tiny hands to repose as he loosed the bridle, were touching in the extreme. His grandmother, while we paused, took out her knitting, and observing our attention much attracted to little Tommy, remarked

"Ah! poor child, young as he is, he has had plenty of troubles, if he did but know them; and, no doubt, there are many more waiting for him. It's always unlucky to be born within sight of Thorp Cloud-his mother and he, too, had the misfortune of it."

66

Indeed," said I; "is that said to be the case?" "Oh, there's no doubt of it,' was the answer. "I've had twelve children, and Martha was the only one born in my cottage, which you might see up there amongst the rocks on the other side of the river-just facing the great mountain that shuts the valley in. We were only lately come to live here then, and I never expected to stay so many years. As soon as I saw that strange big rocky hill, I had a sort of shudder come over me, and was sure it boded no good. My husband died when my Martha was only five years old, and she died in a decline, fretting after her husband; and I have had nothing since to live by but showing the valley to strangers. All my own children are in different parts, and little Tommy and I live together now alone, both father and mother dead; our donkey is the best in the valley, and never tires, nor my grandson neither in general; but the sun to-day is so hot, it is better not to think of going back for an hour till the shadows are a little longer.'

We quite agreed with her, and encouraged her to tell us the traditions of the valley, which she did as follows:-The reason Thorp Cloud is unlucky is, because, in former times, there was a convent on the very top of the rock, where strange evil work went on amongst the monks. They possessed the right of fishing in the Dove, and had great possessions in this part of the country. Whoever passed through the valley was obliged to pay a toll, and they often exacted more than persons had any right to give. By degrees, as they were unresisted, they grew more and more insolent, until they were little less than robbers; for several of the stoutest used to post themselves at a small chapel under the arch of rocks which looks over the turn of the stream, and as they could see every one that approached, they would hasten down the steep, and stop the passenger, demanding his money to whatever amount they pleased.

No representations were of any avail, for they were