has gained some height above the river, into a craggy mountain slope. On the right, a huge, insulated, shapeless column, called Pickering Tor, rises from the river to a great elevation. By its base a few light trees dip into the clear stream, and the hills are pretty thickly clad with foliage and all these, with the rich prospect beyond, the river, here calm as the pale blue sky which bends above, repeats in its dark bosom. Our view belongs to this lower part of the dale. (Cut, No. 8.)

valley, called Narrow Dale." It has been called on the left, is a vast wall of rock, running up, after it "barren of wood, and, with one or two exceptions, devoid of beauty." Barren of wood it is, and perhaps devoid of beauty; but its very desolateness has an attraction. The hill-sides run up to a great height very precipitously, bare, craggy, and void of vegetation save grass and furze, and a little stunted brushwood. Here and there huge rocky fragments project from the slopes, and occasionally large spaces consist wholly of screes; while the river, pent within a close rocky channel, courses rapidly along the deep bottom. This may not be beauty, but is something that is at least very agreeable to look upon.

Mill Dale, which succeeds, is less interesting; but very curious and picturesque is the sort of village by the bridge, or rather disjointed collection of houses, which seem as though they were fitted into or carved out of the knolls and recesses of the rock. But visitors to Dove Dale do not come thus far; they almost invariably enter it from the south, and turn back again when they have ascended it as far as Dove Holes.

Perhaps it is best, as well as most convenient, to approach Dove Dale on the southern side. It has at any rate the advantage that it obliges the visitor to retrace his steps, and so see the Dale in both directions. Dove Dale is nearly three miles long; it has many short and sharp windings, and some pretty long ones; but on the whole its direction is north and south; and hence, as the banks rise up on either hand into lofty broken cliffs and craggy hills, and other lofty hills raise themselves in the distance wherever the valley opens sufficiently to permit them to be seen, the reader who is used to look on Nature with an observant eye, will see that very much of the character and beauty of the several spots will depend on the time of day and state of the weather in which they are witnessed. If Dove Dale be passed through as the sun is sinking behind the hills on a bright autumnal afternoon or evening, there would be little hesitation in saying that the downward walk is by far the finest, notwithstanding some glorious scenes in the opposite direction: at other hours the decision would probably be the reverse.

As you proceed, scenes of exquisite loveliness alternate with those in which a rugged grandeur predominates. Sometimes you seem shut in a close shady dell, where luxuriant trees hide all the lower rocks, and overhang the water. Sometimes hardly a tree is to be seen, but the hill-sides are covered with short grass, and heath and furze contrast with the gray protruding crags about which they love to cluster. Occasionally the whole hill-sides seem broken up, and spiry pinnacles and irregular ragged crags stand up like fragments of some wide ruin. In some places the rocks rise up abruptly to a vast height, and beetling masses impend threateningly. The river, too, seems to adapt itself to the character of each succeeding scene. At one time it glides quietly and smoothly; at others it rattles rapidly over a pebbly bed: again it winds between large loose pieces of rock, that have fallen from the adjoining heights; and all through the dale it every now and then forms into some delicious little foaming water-breaks.

But the tourist must not, if he can climb, confine himself to the bottom of the dale. From the slopes of the hills, and from the summits of the cliffs, some noble views of the windings of the dale and the varying forms of the hills which border it are obtainable. One spot he will, of course, not omit to ascend. Reynard's Cave is one of the 'lions' of Dove Dale; it will be found about halfway up the dale, at some height up the hill-side on the left. Before you reach the cave you come upon an enormous isolated mass of rock, which rises from the hill-a sort of natural triumphal arch: its appearance is very strange, having so artificial a look, though manifestly natural. From it you have a grand view of the dale; and the river, with its water-breaks, looks very charming from this height. Some yards higher up is the cave, a natural excavation, which pierces for a short distance into the rock; this is sometimes called Reynard's Hall, and another recess close by, Reynard's Kitchen.

We are not going to enter upon any particular description of Dove Dale. That has been done often enough already, and we have neither time nor inclination to do it again just now. We can only point out two or three of the noted points as we stroll through it. The opening of the Dale on this northern side is very grand. On both sides the rocks rise in enormous masses from the river, black, bare, and frowning. By some mighty convulsion of Nature, the rocks seem to have been rent asunder, while the storms of ages have In parting with Dove Dale, let us only add that, after torn and riven the surface. Here bold spiry fragments not having seen it for some years, and having, meanstand detached; there gloomy caverns seem to pierce while, witnessed much beautiful and famous scenery, into the heart of the mountain. Beyond rise lofty we strolled about it the other day with as much delight moorland 'slopes; while the stream forces its way as the first time we saw it, and quitted it as unwillingly. beyond the opposing blocks of mossy stone that lie Although we cannot do more, we must not neglect in its channel. But far enough to see this tourists to recommend the visitor to Dove Dale on no account seldom proceed. A little further is what is commonly to leave the grounds of Ilam Hall, or the village of considered the northern entrance to Dove Dale. Here | Ilam, unseen.