and in itself, it is very fair; a sweet refuge for weary and troubled souls, or a glorious pleasure-place for the light-hearted and cheerful. There one might ramble for days, catching new delight at every turn one makes. The sunset was magnificent on the eve of our visit, pouring such a stream of glory on all the neighbouring hills as to realize some of the grandest passages of Milton, the wondrous sunsets of Thomson, and the limnings of a Claude. Edale is a place to live in the memory long after the power of walking the hills which surround it and protect it has departed.

Leaving Castleton, and taking the Tydeswell road to Bakewell, two of Derbyshire's loveliest Dales await our visit. After passing through Tydeswell, and reaching the beautiful banks of the Wye, we get a view of Millersdale, through whose sylvan groves we pass in order to reach the pleasant spot rightly as well as poetically called "Monsal's Arcadian Dell.” Two roads are open to us: the one, taking a wide sweep, leaves the river, and goes along a regularly made road; the other crosses the river over two broad planks, and takes a blind path along the side of a beautifully-grassed, smooth, slippery, and rather precipitous hill, with the welcome river all the way. Of course we took the latter; and often did we sit down on the side of the hill, gazing with delight on the scene around us. Beneath our feet the gentle Wye lay like a lake, almost motionless; and on the opposite banks were some excellently built villas and country residences, with their fine gardens,

and orchards, and well-wooded grounds, making a contrast with the side on which we reposed. Between Millersdale and Monsaldale is Cressbrook village; and there is a very fine mill bearing the same name, and giving employment to hundreds of people, whose neat, clean houses are dotted about the hilly district around, giving and receiving a grace. This hive of industry and prosperity we leave with regret, and, passing round the hill on which we are carefully picking our way, we at once come into the midst of the graces of Monsaldale. Here we descend and cross the Wye. After walking about half a mile, we reach a point at which we must bid adieu to these lovely scenes. Luckily this point is the one from which the finest view of the Dale is to be had; so, resting there, we take one long, last, lingering look; and with hope and joy, though not unmingled with a feeling of sadness, we bid farewell, for the present, to the Dales of Derbyshire.

110

A RAMBLE BY FLOOD AND FIELD.

THE summer of 1860-if summer it could be called -was a most unpropitious one to us ramblers. The Dieu pluviose was in the ascendant; and the omnipotence of the sun successfully disputed. The chariots of the sun seem to have been safely housed, and his steeds quietly stabled. It is to be hoped that the experiment of Icarus will not be repeated when they return to their usual ways and courses, and by excess of speed, or prancing through devious tracks, endeavour to make up for lost time. We are afraid that Apollo would scarcely have known his beloved earth, so furrowed was her face with the channels made by tears. Rain, rain, incessant rain-rain, from the thick drizzle known as a Scotch mist, to the fierce tornado floods charged with meteoric stones, and rushing winds, have marked this very peculiar summer. We poor ramblers, to whom fresh air, and green fields, and rustling woods, and glorious hillclimbing, are almost as necessary as bread, have fared but badly. Watching for the sun that never came, and praying for the cessation of rain which never ceased, is not a pleasant occupation. Flattening the most prominent ornament of your face against the window is not a lovely or profitable work. Gazing on

saturated trees, drooping flowers, smoking cattle, and rain-descending clouds, is not a delightful or cheering task; nor one calculated to improve the temper, or lighten the "burden and the mystery," or to explain anything about this "unintelligible world." Yet to such resources were we too often condemned during that weeping and hypochondriacal summer.

Under such an aspect of affairs, we were only too eager to seize every occasion that offered, or seemed to offer, if not a bright, at least not a drenching day, to have one of our accustomed strolls. It came; we trusted to its half promise, and it was not kept. We went, and we were soaked with wet; and this was the manner of it. We had long promised ourselves a walk to the Knowle Hills in Derbyshire, and thence through Ingleby across Twyford Ferry, and so through Littleover to Derby. Being at the latter town on a somewhat fine morning in the rainy year already indicated, we resolved to carry our long-cherished intention into effect. It was a bright but deceptive morning. The sun did look at us invitingly, and we poor confiding innocents accepted the invitation. few miles' ride brings you to Swawkstone Bridge, (pronounced Swawsun,) where we dismissed the vehicle, and set out for our walk. The sound of the wheels was scarcely out of hearing when thick heavy clouds began to gather about us, and from horizon to horizon the heavens looked ominous. They soon did more than look. Passive darkness was not in their nature. In a few minutes down it came, thick, drenching, and unmistakeably earnest

A

rain. It meant keeping on too. This was evident and indubitable. But returning now 66 was as bad as go o'er." So on we went, resolving not to cross the hills, but to keep the river side, and so on through Ingleby to the Ferry, and to get home, some eight miles distant, as fast as we could. Still, raining as it was, the river was a most magnificent sight. Far beyond its ordinary banks had the Trent expanded; over all the adjoining meadows and fields its waters were spread; its current was fierce and strong; and the heavy rains now pouring into the "waste of waters" gave a wildness to the picture that was worth seeing, and was to us a sufficient reward for our coming and for our wetting. By this time we were as wet as we could be, and so all care about the rain was gone. We lit our pipe; we metaphorically defied wind, rain, and weather, to vex our hearts, or to damp our spirits. So on we trudged over the slushy, clayey earth, watching the flow of the river, and marvelling at its wonderful and terrible power.

A little time and we reached the village of Ingleby. This is a lovely, secluded, and picturesque place. The road through it is cut out of the rock, much as a part of the road at Matlock Baths. The trees overhang it; the shrubs cling to the banks; thick moss, or scanty lichens, add their fine tints to the dark ground-colour of the stone; and, wet as it was, nothing could take from the extreme beauty of the scene, or diminish our pleasure in observing it. A large, weather-beaten, storm-stricken, hollow, and finely