few miles further, Mam Tor rears its majestic head 1,500 feet above the valley in which it stands.

The first convenient house built near the springs, for the accommodation of visitors, was erected by the Earl of Shrewsbury about 1568, and its construction soon caused the place to become one of general resort. During the reign of Elizabeth, the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots paid it a visit more than once; and in the old hall is still shown a window, on the glass of which are scratched, in Latin, Cæsar's verses upon Feltria, applied with some slight alteration to Buxton by the captive queen, and which have been thus translated :

“Buxton, whose fame thy milk-warm waters tell,

Whom I perchance no more shall see, farewell!"

Buxton now consists of two parts, the old and new town, and in the latter stands the immense pile of buildings erected in 1781, at a cost of 120,000, by the late Duke of Devonshire, called the Crescent, and which enclose the baths, five in number. One of these is called St. Ann's well, and over it is raised a small Grecian temple. By the side of the white marble basin, into which the water issues from the spring, is a double pump, which excites the astonishment of strangers, by producing either cold or hot water, within a few inches of each other. The spring flows at the rate of sixty gallons a minute, the water being somewhat colder than the waters at Bath, but warmer than those of Matlock and Clifton, the almost invariable temperature being 82° of Fahrenheit's thermometer; it is clear, sparkling, grateful to the palate, while the temperature as a bath is peculiarly agreeable. Its beneficial tendency is particularly apparent in gout and rheumatism, and general debility of the system.

A chemical analysis decides the Buxton water to be slightly impregnated with mineral matter, particularly calcareous earth, sea salt, and acidulous gas, with perhaps some other permanently elastic vapour.

A charitable and useful custom prevails at these baths, which is worthy of notice; it is that of collecting the sum of one shilling from each visitor of more than a day, on his arrival, to form a fund for the poor who have resort to the waters. In 1572 a fixed rate existed, according to the dignity of the visitor, and the money raised was divided equally between the physician and the poor bathers.

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The environs of Buxton abound with natural curiosities and romantic scenery, among which, the high perpendicular crags, bordering the valley of the Wye and Poole's Hole," as it is called, are among the most interesting. The latter is a cavern of considerable dimensions in a limestone rock, contracted in its entrance but spacious in the interior. The tradition of the country says, that it took its name from having been the residence of an outlaw of the name of Poole, and if so, very secure must have been the retreat, as the passage is at first so narrow that for about five-and-twenty yards, it is necessary to proceed in a stooping posture. The passage then widens into a lofty and spacious cavern, the roof and sides of which are covered with stalactites, one of which, more remarkable than the rest, about the middle of the cave, is called "the flitch of bacon." Here the cave again contracts, but beyond it becomes wide and lofty, as far as a large massy column of stalagmite denominated "the Queen of Scots' pillar," so named from a tradition that she once proceeded as far as this point.

The droppings of the water, laden with calcareous matter, falling on the rugged floor, form many masses of stalagmite, which the fancy of those

who show the cavern liken to many articles of common life. The whole length of the subterraneous passage is about 769 yards; it belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and is granted by him to nine old women, who act as guides, and receive the money given by the visitor, who they conduct into the cavern by a path which winds along the side at some height from its bottom, bringing him back by one which is on the ground floor, if it inay be so called. By this change of path, an opportunity is afforded of clearly ascertaining the height and width of the cavern in every part, and of better viewing other accumulations of stalactite, some of which are of prodigious size and remarkable form. Above "Poole's Hole," on the sides of the hill, are the kiln and limestone quarries, which give employment to more than a hundred families. They live like the Troglodytes of old, in dwellings not built but excavated out of the ashes which have been thrown here from the lime kilns, a considerable quantity of lime being burnt, and sent into distant parts by the Peak Forest Railway not far distant. Near this spot is a place called Diamond Hill, from its furnishing quartz of an hexagonal form, known by the name of Buxton diamonds, the whitest of which have the property of cutting glass.

The wells about this neighbourhood consist of beds of limestone and of lava or toadstone, which lie alternately one upon the other, and in many parts of the country are several yards thick. There are many shops in Buxton for the sale of its mineral productions and those of the Peak, manufactured into various articles of ornament and use, besides fossils and specimens of interesting natural curiosities. Among these is the beautiful spar, found near the shivering mountain, Castleton, and called "Blue John." It was formerly used in repairing the roads, but is now purchased at the expense of forty guineas per ton, for the purpose of being manufactured into vases &c. This fluor spar, frequently confounded with calcareous spar, differs from it most esentially. It contains an acid, the most penetrating of any yet known, and which is very different from the carbonic. This acid, from its peculiar properties of corroding glass and siliceous substances, has been employed in France for engraving glass plates, and the specimens obtained are reported to be of singular beauty. When moderately heated, this spar becomes phosphorescent; in a strong heat it melts of itself, and emits flames that are extremely noxious; by a certain degree of heat, its blue colour changes to a fine red, or reddish purple, but with a greater heat all its colours are discharged and it becomes white. The mountain in which it is found appears itself like an assemblage of vast rocks of limestone, without connection or regularity, and is full of openings or caverns of immense depths, while the fluor spar is found in pipe veins of various directions, and in great number and variety.

The scenery in the neighbourhood of Matlock has been said to present a close resemblance to that of Saxon Switzerland. It has certainly more wood, and quite as much rock; and though the river Derwent is, it must be confessed, a less considerable stream than the Elbe, yet the natural and geological features of both places are precisely the same.

At

In each, stratified rocks form part of the scenery, rising to a height of 6,700 feet, and evidently formed at the bottom of an antediluvian ocean, with a river winding through the deep and perpendicular cliffs. Matlock baths, these are more richly clothed with verdure, but the ledges of rock called" Abraham's Heights," and the romantic rocks around them, present a close epitome of the splintered pinnacles seen at the summit of the Bastei. They have been severed from each other by time or earth

quakes, and are chiefly covered with moss; some, more than a thousand feet above the Derwent, appear as if hanging in a most precarious manner over the flood, which sometimes flows in a smooth and gentle stream, reflecting the pendant boughs that wave on its margin, and sometimes rushes onwards with great impetuosity over a bed of rugged rocks. But the picturesque scenery of Matlock vale is seen to most advantage when approached from the bridge at its northern extremity, as its beauties then succeed each other in a regular gradation of striking objects. Foremost, we see a vast rampart of limestone rock, clothed with yew trees, elms, and limes of singularly beautiful form and foliage, from the recesses of which peeps the humble church of Matlock. As we advance, the High Tor rears its vast head to the height of three hundred and fifty feet, the lower part clothed with rich underwood, but the upper, for fifty to sixty yards, presenting a broad mass of naked, perpendicular rock. The fragments that have fallen from this eminence form the bed of the Derwent, which flows immediately under. Opposite to this fine Tor, but rising with a more gradual ascent and to a greater elevation, is Masson Hill, a pile of inmense crags, bearing, as we have before remarked, the name of the "Heights of Abraham," and which command a beautiful bird's-eye view of the whole dale, about two miles in extent, and one of the finest in Derbyshire. From this point, even the High Tor loses its sublimity, but may be distinctly traced as forming a part of the chain of rocks which bound the river on the east.

A GENEROUS FOE.

How vast are the blessings of a time of peace, none but those who are acquainted with the horrors of war can fully estimate or comprehend. Those persons, however, err greatly, who, extolling the comforts, the happiness, the virtues, peculiar to the first, deny all admiration, all praise, and almost the possibility of the display of any quality but such as is disgraceful or degrading to human nature, to the last. Man is essentially the same under all circumstances, and though situation may influence him, it cannot wholly alter him. The shepherd's pipe may gently echo in vales that cruelty and selfishness inhabit, while the trumpet-call and the shrilly fife have resounded in many a battle-field, honoured less by the glory of conquest and national bravery, than by individual acts of mercy and disinterested kindness.

It was the third morning after the memorable storming of the heights of Vera, in the year 1812, by the troops under the command of the illustrious Wellington, that a young British officer, who had on this, as in many previous hard-fought encounters with the enemy, signally distinguished himself by his bravery, skill, and energy, resolved, by way of recreation and pleasure, to pay a visit to head-quarters, from which the brigade, to which he was attached, lay at some distance. He had a double motive in this; he wished to see his brother officers and friends, and he was desirous of making some purchases for the young and lovely being to whom he had lately united himself. This, however, he confined to his own bosom, making open profession only of the former intent. Arrayed, with scrupulous care, in his best suit, full of animation and happiness, he mounted his horse. Leaving the road, he determined on ascending the heights, and taking a view of the former scene of action. He had some difficulty in accom

plishing his design, but this was disagreeable neither to his horse nor himself; the ardent temperament of both being perhaps equally gratified in the overcoming of an obstacle. All was now still and deserted; the breeze alone sighed where the sharp bullet had whistled, and broken boughs and the upturned and torn sod told only of what had been there lately transacted. The moralist, or the man of contemplation, might have found abundant food for thought, and that of a melancholy kind. Not so our hero; happy reflection, as well as cankering care, "slights both the season and the scene;" and "forgoes not," in any situation, "what she feels within." He made his observations, traced the plan of operation, made himself master of all he desired to know, and was preparing to descend, when a groan, so full of pain and suffering, that it could not fail to arrest attention, for the moment startled him. He looked around, concluding that it proceeded from some unhappy being who had been overlooked, and so left to perish. He checked his horse, and attentively listened for a repetition of the sound. All, however, was silent, and he again put his horse in motion. At that instant, a deeper groan, accompanied with a feeble cry, as for assistance, pierced his ear. Dismounting, and holding the bridle in his hand, he made his way through some bushes, in the direction of the spot from whence the sound proceeded. What a sight met his eye! there lay a poor French soldier, both of whose legs had been carried off, above the knee, by a shell.

The brave heart of the Brigade Major (for such was his rank) was moved by the deepest compassion. He spoke in the kindest accents to the poor sufferer; but though he endeavoured, both by Spanish and French, to make himself understood, his efforts were unavailing, nor were the motions he attempted to convey his meaning-that he would go in search of assistance-better comprehended, or, if comprehended, they were evidently not believed. The look of anguish that the Frenchman gave him, as the officer prepared to remount, and the bitter and hollow groan he uttered, as the latter was departing, told plainly, and in a manner never to be forgotten, that the hope of assistance which had sprung up in his bosom was abandoned in despair. "you leave me then to die," he seemed to say,-and perhaps he had said so to others before.

Our hero accurately marked the bearings of the spot: he then bent down the bushes at intervals, till, reaching the road, he broke off a bough, which he carefully laid at the point of intended ascent, and then galloped quickly towards head-quarters. Denying himself the gratification of exchanging a word with any of his friends, he hastened to the hospital. His request of immediate assistance was instantly granted. A stretcher and bearers were ready in a few minutes, and under his guidance on the road to the heights. The bough he had laid at the foot of the ascent was easily found. It was neither an easy nor a rapidly-achieved undertaking to regain the spot where the soldier lay, nor could it have been accomplished but for the precautions that had been previously taken. Having seen the poor creature properly placed on the stretcher, and guided his bearers to the descent, he left them to complete their task, whilst he returned to his own division. The day was gone, he had been deprived of the pleasure he had anticipated, he had seen no one at head-quarters, he had brought back no little present, as he had hoped, for the beloved of his heart, but the joyous tone of his voice, and the cheerfulness of his countenance, as he entered his temporary home, gave clear proof that he felt no regret.

The active life of a soldier, during a campaign, admits of few opportu

nities for the indulgence of reminiscences, and the truly generous, well contented with the simple pleasure arising from the performance of a noble deed, are the first to forget the act that reflects honour on them—and would they were the only persons who could so forget it! The officer thought no more of the wounded Frenchman. Several months had passed, when, riding in company with some of his brother officers, he drew aside to let a waggon, laden with convalescent soldiers from the hospital, pass. All at once a loud cry proceeded from it. Merci, merci!" exclaimed a man with outstretched arms towards our hero; "Merci, merci, monsieur !"

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It was the poor Frenchman, whom the Brigade Major had rescued. The finger of gratitude had indelibly imprinted the features of his benefactor on his mind, and they were recognised at once by him, while his had entirely escaped the memory of his deliverer, nor would it have been easy to have identified that animated countenance and joyous voice with the ghastly face and piercing groan which had first awakened compassion. The smile that was returned by the officer, when he really acknowledged him to be the same, awoke fresh acclamations of gratitude, and the poor fellow continued to shout, "Merci, merci, monsieur !" till he was out of sight and hearing.

The parties have never met from that moment to the present, and they are, in all likelihood, equally ignorant of the fate of each other. The officer has since risen to considerable rank, and stands very high in reputation. Recent circumstances have brought him very prominently before the public, and it is far from improbable that his name has been frequently yet unconsciously pronounced by the poor crippled Frenchman, if he is alive, without the slightest suspicion of his own individual interest in it. But is the deed forgotten by Him "whose eyes are in every place, beholding the good and the evil," or cancelled from the great book of account preserved by the Saviour and future Judge of mankind, on whose word we rely that every act of kindness shown to our fellow-creatures shall be placed to his credit, and that as such the simple gift of a cup of cold water shall not lose its reward? Oh no! safe in the book of life this act is registered, to be brought to remembrance and open light when mercy shall plead against justice, and every secret shall be revealed. Then will a late though sure recompense be accorded, if, indeed, it has not already been granted, silently though certainly, in the many signal deliverances in the hour of danger, which have marked the career of this brave and meritorious soldier. In all things "we see, as through a glass, darkly," and are too apt to ascribe to natural causes what justly belongs to the goodness of a superintending Providence. Not in this instance does a brother's blood cry from the ground for vengeance, but for holier and better evidence that it has reached the ear of God; and the devout and grateful heart reads and acknowledges in these returns of preservation the truth of the declaration though uttered in a different sense, "I will repay, said the Lord."