famous and foremost in the achievement of true liberty "and of truth, contains the utterances of some of the noblest who ever breathed ::—as truly as finely does Milton exclaim, " our sage and serious Spenser I dare to think a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas." Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspere, Milton! May he take his place among them? No, surely. Their temple he belongs not to. Their worth he cannot estimate. Their glory he may not share. He sits in the seat of the scorner.

His wit, indeed, is of a high rank, almost as high as it has been commonly rated. It is abundant, but not very choice, nor very original, and as much feebler than that of South or Butler, of Swift or Sterne, or even of Farquhar, as genuine wit well can be. His characters display little variety or keeping. The conception of his plot is generally confused, the carrying of it on exhibits a constant neglect of propriety and probability. He is not a master of his craft. He affected to value lightly his literary works, and to speak of them as the amusements of his idle hours; and as such we may read them, and forget them.

As we quit Ilam and pass over Bunster Hill to our Dove, the vast form of Thorpe Clouds rears its lofty head before us. This is the hill that formed so prominent a feature from the lower part of Dove-dale. It is a striking object for many miles as we ascend the river, with the little church of Thorpe nestling under it, and a few homesteads dotting its side. Those who think it necessary to be provided with a guide to Dove-dale can always obtain one at Thorpe. There is not anything of interest about the village. In the adjoining village of Tessington a graceful custom still lingers-a

harmless relic of distant times. On Holy Thursday, after a sermon preached in the church, the villagers go in procession, with the clergyman at their head, to the several wells in the parish; at each of which some portion of the church service is read and a hymn sung. The wells are for the occasion decked with an abundance of flowers formed into designs, mottoes, and chaplets; the whole ceremony being ended, the remainder of the day is devoted to festivity. Open house is kept by all in proportion to their means, and all who come are welcomed. This " well-flowering," as it is called, is spoken of as singularly interesting and beautiful by those who have seen it, and the inhabitants of Tis

sington enter into the spirit of the festival with much zest. A similar practice prevails in Tideswell, Wirksworth, Bakewell, and, we believe, some other places in Derbyshire, but nowhere is it carried out so heartily as in Tissington. References to a somewhat similar custom are not uncommon in the poets of antiquity; and Milton in his 'Comus' says of the goddess Sabrina

"the shepherds at their festivals

Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,

And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream,
Of pansies, pinks, or gaudy daffodils."

The practice of decking fountains with flowers and singing their praises seems to have been common with many of the nations of antiquity. The reader will recollect, perhaps, that when the Israelites were at Beer, they "sang this song, 'Spring up, O well; sing ye unto it "" (Numbers xxi. 16, &c.). The custom prevailed among the various people converted to Christianity, and was encouraged by the priests in the earlier ages of the church, and only swept away in this country at the Reformation. None would desire to see such a custom generally revived, nor is it likely to be; yet he must be singularly sour-tempered who does not wish that it may long live in Tessington.

The Dove, after it quits Dove-dale, is no longer pent up between close hills, but strays as it lists through broad and fertile valleys. For a few miles lofty hills arise on either hand, but their slopes are covered with woods and coppices, or present wide pastures alive with numberless sheep and cattle. The river hastens swiftly on its course, sparkling and foaming over every obstacle, and delighting

the ear with its glad murmur. Its banks abound with flowers, as Cotton noticed in his day :

"the beauty of her stream is such,

As only with a swift and transient touch
To enrich her steril borders as she glides,

And force sweet flowers from her marble sides."

Drayton, too, speaks of "the Dove whose banks so fertile be." This fertilizing power of our river has passed into a proverb

"In April Dove's flood

Is worth a king's good."

Few springs, indeed, pass over in which the meadows on either side are not overflowed, and the result is, as the rhyme says, singularly beneficialwhen the flood is not so great as to be destructive, as sometimes happens.

We shall not lack variety if we follow our river among its many windings; yet we must not tarrythe untiring stream keeping on its way with so constant a progress-nay, the very fish, as they flash along its bed, seem to chide our stay. We will on. For some few miles farther our Dove is essentially a sylvan stream, and affords many a fair picture of quiet beauty, such as seems fashioned for the musings of the contemplative man. The pretty little village and ivy-clad church of Okeover, with the gravestones dotting the side of the hill, and looking as if they were not enclosed within the narrow limits of a churchyard, will claim the rambler's attention, and another little church nearly opposite to it, on the Derby side of the Dove, will also not pass unnoticed. Okeover has a handsome mansion; there are, too, a good many barrows and other antiquarian relics in its vicinity. But, as we said, we

must not linger. Just before we reach Ashbourn, a little stream runs into the river on our left-" a pretty river called Bently Brook, and is full of very good trout and grayling," as Piscator tells us.

Ashbourn is a neat little town and an agreeable one to stop at, as the neighbourhood affords many pretty walks; but probably the Dove rambler will be content, like Viator, with merely calling there. He will not find the Talbot standing now, but there are plenty other inns as good, where he may have a "flagon of the country liquor, Derbyshire ale, if he please." Not but what now, as then, "you may drink worse French wine in many taverns in London than they have sometimes here," but probably the stranger will think, with Viator, "that a man should not come from London to drink wine in the Peak." And he will not find now that "Ashbourn has, which is a kind of riddle, always in it the best malt and the worst ale in England," as Piscator said of it a century and a half ago. The Talbot, where the travellers stopped, was in the market-place; it was pulled down in 1786. Ashbourn is surrounded by high hills, which afford some striking views. The church, which was erected in the thirteenth century, is a remarkably fine one, with a lofty and very handsome spire. It contains some curious ancient monuments, chiefly to various members of the Cockayne family-the former possessors of Ashbourn Hall. The celebrated monument, by Banks, to Penelope, the only daughter of Sir Brook Boothby, is also deposited here. It is an affecting yet simple and graceful representation of the dying child turning over on her couch in the restlessness of pain. An inscription underneath says, that "The unfortunate pa