are led onwards alongside a little streamlet: now the roof rises into lofty vaults, whose top is lost in the deep shadow; presently it sinks so low that you are constrained to stoop till your back aches again; and so you pass on by winding ways till you reach the farthest point that has been attained, some 750 yards from the entrance.

By this time you are able to discern the objects around more distinctly; and in returning can make out the forms of the several chambers. Some are very remarkable. One is a cavity that rises to an amazing altitude. By the aid of a 'Bengal light,' which the guide fires at some height up this opening, you see the sides far up brilliantly illumined, yet can hardly perceive the roof. Other cavities there are scarcely less remarkable, though of less extent; to exhibit these artificial lights are also employed. At one spot, where is a series of arches almost as regular as though wrought by hand, a red light has of late been used. As you look from a distance towards the light, the effect is very singular. Contrasting with the fitful lurid glare that plays over every projecting fragment, and throws the arches into strong relief, are deep gloomy recesses, which seem as though within them some mysterious occupants were moving stealthily about. Just the 'robbers' cave' would it seem to be of some old romance that haunted the imagination in one's youthful days. Besides these lights, which are brought to show the height and form of the principal chambers, candles are in others so placed as to produce a pleasing or curious effect and, occasionally, at one spot, a band of singers is assembled high up in a sort of natural loft, to greet the visitor. At one place a blast of gunpowder, which has been fixed in a bore in the rock, is discharged. And this produces the most surprising effect of all. The report is usually described as "seeming to roll along the roof and sides of the cavern like a heavy and continuous peal of thunder." But this is not exactly its character. The first report is perhaps like a burst of overpowering thunder, save that it is more intense; but then the reverberations resemble a prolonged rushing sound, which grows fainter and fainter till it dies away in a whisper, like that of a gentle breeze stirring softly among the leaves of some ancient grove.

It would be idle to stay to mention the trivial names of the various chambers :-Roger Rain's House, where a spring finds its way downwards, falling from the roof in a perpetual shower;-the Devil's Wine Cellar (which by the way is empty), and the like, would suggest little in themselves, and require a considerable space to explain. Not the least noteworthy thing connected with this strange place, is the very singular and beautiful effect of the daylight streaming into the mouth of the cavern, as it appears to you on emerging from the darkness. Vain attempts have often been made to depict this effect-it is inimitable, as it is indescribable.

The castle on the summit of the lofty Castle Hill, directly over the entrance to the cavern, appears to have been erected in the Norman era by Peveril, surnamed from his abode,' of the Peak.' Its history might be worth

repeating had we time. Sir Walter Scott's use of it in his novel of the same name will of course be remembered. Only the keep of the castle (which never seems to have consisted of much more than a keep), and that in a very decayed condition, remains. It is worth while, however, to ascend to it for the sake of the prospect.

There are several other caverns, in their way hardly less interesting than the Peak Cave; but a mere mention of them will be sufficient. Tre-Cliff, or the Blue John Mine, is remarkable on account of the greater part of the Blue John, or fluor-spar, being procured from it. This beautiful mineral is indeed only found, in a sufficient quantity to render the working profitable in Tre-Cliff, as the hill is called which this mine pierces. But the mine would be sufficiently interesting on its own account: in it are some cavities at least equal in size to those of the Peak Cavern, and far higher. Here too, from the walls, depend vast numbers of stalactites. The works of the mine will of course not be overlooked; by the entrance may be seen a very large block of Blue John. block of Blue John. Another block is in the Conservatory at Chatsworth, which, though larger, is of a different and inferior variety. The Speedwell Mine is also worth visiting: it was opened some sixty or seventy years ago, in search of lead; but after the expenditure of £14,000, and eleven years' labour, it was abandoned. Here you are floated along a tunnel, which was cut some 650 yards through the solid rock: he boat is driven along by means of wooden pegs fixed in the sides of the tunnel, against which the guide pushes. The echoes in the tunnel are very fine; the guide, or some one he employs, often amuses the visitor by singing as he passes along; we have seen some whimsical effects produced by ventriloquism-the poor old guide being utterly bewildered by the, to him, unaccountable sounds. When this tunnel was wrought thus far, the miners broke, unexpectedly, into a cavern of astonishing magnitude. Downwards is an abyss that almost makes you dizzy in looking into, as you listen to the long pause there is ere a stone cast in plunges into the water at the bottom. The guide declares that it has not been fathomed; but Mr. Adam says that "the actual depth in standing water is about 320 feet." Upwards, the fissure reaches beyond the means of admeasurement. "Rockets, of sufficient strength to ascend 450 feet, have been fired without rendering the roof visible.". It ought to be told, as a striking instance of perseverance, that even the breaking into this cavern did not put a stop to the works. The daring miners cast a bridge over the fearful abyss, and recommenced tunnelling on the other side: nor did they stop till, after carrying it, as is said, some 600 yards further, without finding a vein of lead that was worth working, they were compelled, after eleven years' continuous labour, to stop, from having exhausted their funds. In the course of the working, upwards of 40,000 tons of rubbish are said to have been thrown into the bottomless pit,' as the guide calls it, without any perceptible difference being produced in its depth; but the keeper of the Peak Cavern asserts that enormous

babbling of the credulous gossip tradition," says Mr. Rhodes, "there is nothing either vast or astonishing in this fissure in the limestone strata: it is a deep yawning chasm, entirely devoid of picturesque appendages, and altogether as uninteresting as a hole in a rock can possibly be." So passeth away the Wonderful! Yet this is rather too rough usage; for what 'picturesque appendages' could possibly be expected to be found connected with a yawning fissure, or, if the term be preferred, a hole in a rock?

Well, we may leave Castleton now. These things are but a sample of what may be found there. Visitors generally take a rapid survey of two or three of the most celebrated objects, and are whirled away after a stay of a few hours in the village: but in truth there is sufficient to occupy not hours merely but weeks, if weeks could be spared.

THE HIGH PEAK.

Indeed, we are inclined to fancy that a young man with health and time, and a hearty liking for the country, would find the High Peak district much better worth staying in and thoroughly exploring than is commonly supposed. Those parts which are usually traversed are pretty well known, but there are considerable tracts which are seldom seen, and in and about them there is not only a good deal of scenery of a superior kind-though perhaps nowhere equal to those more famous spots which attract pilgrims from all parts-but there is also many a sequestered village and rude homestead where some vestiges of primitive habits yet linger. In the district we have gone over are some of these places; but we are referring now rather to the broad wild moorland country extending north of Castleton and away to the right and left. It is a different kind of country in every respect to that usually gone over by tourists. Long desolate tracts occur though not without oases; rough roads and craggy hills must be gone over, and sometimes rough accommodation and rude fare be put up with. But these would in themselves be salutary and even agreeable to one graduating as a traveller. It is true, intellectually as well as physically, that

"A good digestion turneth all to health."

(Herbert.)

In this northern portion of the High Peak it is that the peak mountains attain their greatest altitude. The mighty range, called emphatically The Peak, falls little short of 2,000 feet: Ashop Moor, at the eastern extremity, being 1,880 feet, and the Peak at the western 1,980 feet above the level of the sea, while the intervening 'Edge' is seldom much depressed. Some of the peaks towards Glossop are above 2,000 feet high; but the country there is hardly so striking in character. In speaking of these Peak mountains, the reader must not imagine that this is a mountain district similar in character to that of Cumberland or Wales-where, looking from some watch-tower in the skies," it might

seem as though the waves of a boiling sea had been transformed into everlasting granite. This is rather a wild moorland waste, the entire surface of which appears to have been heaved up, and then to have subsided into an irregular succession of acclivities and declivities, which ever and anon break into bold and lofty hills and bluff tors, with deep valleys between. The whole area of the High Peak is considerably elevated, so that none of the mountains assume the appearance we are apt to consider essential to a mountain, of "piercing the sky." These heights do not rise into spiry pinnacles belted with clouds, though clouds often rest upon them: nor are there ridges which seem the home of mist and flitting vapours. The grand atmospheric effects, so constantly observable among the Cumberland mountains, for example, must not be looked for here. Yet these moorland heights are not uninfluenced by the atmosphere, nor without their changing effects of sunshine and shadow. Often when clouds are passing rapidly over the sky, the effect of the broad shadows skimming over these wide swelling moors is extremely fine: and when a storm is gathering in the distance, or involving in its gloom one and another of the mountain ridges, and the lightning is playing upon the bleak tor, and the thunder reverberating from side to side, the least impressive prospect becomes grand, and the nobler scenes almost sublime. When, too, the storms are passing off, and the valleys glitter under the vivid rays of the sun, and the rainbow is bridging the deep ravine, a new loveliness is imparted to the loveliest spot, and the dreariest is rendered pleasing.

Nor must it be supposed that only on the heights is beauty or grandeur to be found. Everywhere are there pretty rapid streamlets working their way through cheerful and often beautiful dales. Sometimes, too, good-sized rivers are met with, which might well furnish the painter with many a choice study of rock and water and overhanging foliage. The upper course of the Derwent, for example, yields many a charming picture, sometimes of close and shady nooks,—at others broad and open scenes, with a lofty moor filling up the distance. (Cut, No. 6.) The Ashop, too, the Alport, and the Noe, have some very pleasant scenery along their banks. Mr. Montgomery's poem, 'The Peak Mountains,' will be a safe and sufficient guide to the poetic features of the High Peak.

But we must break off, only mentioning, before we quite leave this part of our tour, two or three placesout of the wilder country, though still in the High Peak-which ought, if possible, to be visited. Hathersage is one of these: it is in a picturesque spot, and is picturesque in itself: it has, too, its little lions. The country-people boast that Little John, the redoubted companion of Robin Hood, was buried there: they point out his grave in the churchyard, and ask you to notice the head and foot stones, which are eleven feet apart. From Hathersage you may follow the Derwent down a beautiful valley to Stoke, and then turn aside to Eyam. The chief interest connected with this little

village is of a painful yet ennobling kind. In 1666 the plague was conveyed thither, in a box of clothes which had been sent from London, where the pestilence was raging. The rector of Eyam, Mr. Mompesson, as soon as the nature of the disease became evident, adopted prompt measures to prevent it spreading to the adjoining villages. He persuaded his parishioners to agree not to go beyond a boundary-line which he marked out; the people of the neighbourhood, at his suggestion, undertook not to enter within it, and, while carefully avoiding personal intercourse, to deposit at certain places such provisions as might be needed. Mr. Mompesson had, at the first appearance of the disease, besought his wife to leave Eyam with their children; but as he would not desert his charge, she heroically insisted on sharing in his pious labour and braving the danger: the children they sent away. For seven months the pestilence walked abroad, entering, in turn, every house; in some destroying every inmate, in others carrying off parent or child. Out of 330 inhabitants which the village contained when the destroyer entered it, only 80 were left when he departed. During this sad season Mompesson and his wife were the advisers and the nurses of the sick, the guides and comforters of the dying, the stay of the survivors. Religious worship was no longer carried on in the church, but instead the holy man assembled his flock in the little lonely Dale at the end of the village, where, from a recess in the rock, he dispensed words of wisdom and of hope. Mr. Mompesson escaped the contagion, but his wife fell a victim. Her tomb is in the churchyard, near the east end of the chancel. Along the hill-sides may be seen numerous graves of those who were interred there when it was accounted dangerous to lay the sufferers in the graves of their fathers, lest, on opening them at some future day, the infection might again spread abroad. It is said that the disease did break out again some sixty years afterwards, when one of the graves was incautiously opened.

Cucklett Dale, where Divine service was performed during the continuance of the plague, should be visited: it is a picturesque dell, looking into Middleton Dale. The rock which served as the pulpit is pointed out. The spot is known as Cucklett Church. In Eyam churchyard there is a very curiously-sculptured ancient cross. Miss Seward, the most disagreeable, or rather the least agreeable, of female writers, was born in Eyam, of which place her father was rector. We have only space left to recommend a visit to Middleton Dale and now we must off to Buxton.

the guests strongly suspected to be dog." (Tour in Derbyshire, by Thomas Browne, son of Sir Thomas.)* This, at the first glance, is rather startling. Buxton is seated in the midst of a stony country; the meanest hut is built of stone; the very fences are all of stone: how did it happen, then, that the gentry who repaired to Buxton for the benefit of the waters came to be "crowded into low wooden sheds?" The fame of the hill and moorland mutton is not of recent date,—how came it to pass that, in the seventeenth century, it was not distinguishable from dog? Could the unfortunate gentry procure no better meat or lodging? Had a fire swept away the houses? Had there been a disease raging among the sheep? Surely this could not have been the ordinary condition of things at a Derbyshire watering-place in the seventeenth century. There must have been something rotten in the state of Buxton.

Let us inquire into the matter. A grave charge like this, advanced with so much solemnity, and without any qualification, by such an authority, claims careful consideration; and it is manifestly incumbent on us, in treating of the history of the town, to ascertain whether it be strictly accurate.

The first thing, of course, is to examine the reference. Now here, in order to come to a right understanding of the value of the authority quoted, it is necessary to remark that this 'Tour in Derbyshire, by Thomas Browne,' is not, as might be supposed from the way in which it is referred to, an elaborate account of a Tour, published some time in the seventeenth century. In fact, this reference is hardly sufficiently explicit; no such book would be found in any catalogue. The work referred to was printed for the first (and only) time in 1836, among the Correspondence' appended to the Memoir of Sir Thomas Browne, in the edition of his works edited by Mr. Wilkins. The original is, with other of Sir Thomas Browne's family papers, deposited in the British Museum. (Sloane MS., 1900.) It is bound up in a small volume with some notes and prescriptions, and entitled 'Dr. Edward Browne's Memorandum Book.' Mr. Wilkins says it is evidently written by Thomas Browne; and he is, no doubt, correct. It appears to have been written hurriedly, and is very brief; as printed it occupies twenty of Mr. Wilkins' pages (v. i., pp. 22-42). But as neither the size of the book nor the date of its publication are of much importance if the writer be creditable, and have had sufficient opportunities for acquiring information, we must look a little further. The Tour' was made in 1662. At that time Thomas Browne was sixteen years of age. His father intended him to be a sailor, but proposed, before sending him to sea, that he should go to college for a year; and previous to going there Thomas and his brother Edward took a holiday ride from Norwich, where Sir Thomas Browne resided, through Derbyshire to Chester, and thence, by way of Warwick, home. They were in all three days in Derbyshire. The account of the Tour seems to have been written after his return to Norwich, and * History of England,' i. 346.

apparently for the amusement of his friends. He was a merry rattling youth, and the whole account is written in a strain of good-natured exaggeration.

Still he would describe not untruly what he witnessed: let us see therefore exactly what he says. They had been examining the wonders at Castleton, had then proceeded to Eldon Hole, and he continues "from hence we made as much haste as we could to Buxton, and gained by that time it was dark by help of a guide." It was Saturday night, and they were to stay there over the Sunday: now comes the passage on which Mr. Macaulay has based his statement-it ought to be read along with the context. "At this town the better sort of people wore shoes on Sundays, and some of them bands. We had the luck to meet with a sermon, which we could not have done in half-a-year before by relation (I think there is a true chapel of ease indeed here, for they hardly ever go to church). Our entertainment was oat-cakes and mutton, which we fancied to taste like dog; our lodging in a low rafty* room,

*We are not quite certain as to what he means by a 'rafty' room. The word is written very plainly in the MS., so that there is no error in transcription. We suppose he has intended to intimate that the rafters of the room were exposed (as the rafters of rooms continued to be long afterwards in Derbyshire). Norwich was a wealthy town, and probably he was not used to see rooms without plaster ceilings.

and they told us we had higher hills to go over than any we had passed yet, which relished worst of all," &c. (Wilkins' Browne, i. 34). Now here is something that seems on first reading it not altogether unlike what Mr. Macaulay states, but even the slight resemblance fades when looked at steadily. In the first place, it is our entertainment that is spoken of, not that of the gentry'-and a couple of youths entering a strange country-town at night may not have gone to a place where the gentry were accustomed to lodge: they may have fared ill therefore, without it by any means following as a matter of course that those who were staying at the baths fared after the same fashion. You may have but lenten entertainment at the Cat and Fiddle, while your neighbours fare sumptuously at the Queen's Hotel. There is nothing whatever said, it will be observed, about the visitors being crowded into wooden sheds, or crowded into any sheds. As for what he says of the mutton, it might be enough to observe, if we cared to defend the Buxton sheep, that a lad of sixteen, used to the fat wethers of the Norfolk marshes, was very likely to look a little askant at the small lean moorland sheep: we have heard an almost similar complaint brought against Welch mutton.

But the mutton may stand as

it is-dog or sheep, as the reader pleases-for the present. We have to point to a passage a few lines lower, wherein Master Browne shows plainly enough that he is no authority either way for the style in which the