ccess. A pension would be to him a delicate
sunset ray--soon, possibly, to shine on his bed of death--but, at all
events, sure to minister a joy and a feeling of security, which, during
all his long life, he has never for an hour experienced. It were but a
proper reward for his eminent abilities, hard toils, and the uniform
support which he has given, by his talents, to a healthy literature, and
a spiritual faith. We trust, too, that government may be induced to
couple with his name, in the same generous bestowal, another--inferior,
indeed, in brilliance, but which represents a more consistent and a more
useful life. We allude to Dr. Dick, of Broughty Ferry, a gentleman who
has done more than any living author to popularize science--to
accomplish the Socratic design of bringing down philosophy to earth--who
has never ceased, at the same time, to exhale moral and religious
feeling, as a fine incense, from the researches and experiments of
science to the Eternal Throne--and who, for his laborious exertions, of
nearly thirty years' duration, has been rewarded by poverty, and
neglect, the "proud man's contumely," and, as yet, by the silence of a
government which professes to be the patron of literature and the
succorer of every species of merit in distress. To quote a
newspaper-writer, who is well acquainted with the case: "I know that Dr.
Dick has lived a long and a laborious life, writing books which have
done much good to man. I know that he has often had occasion to sell
these books to publishers, at prices to which his poverty, and not his
will consented. I know, too, that throughout his life he has lived with
the moderation and the meekness of a saint, as he has written with the
wisdom of a sage; and, knowing these things, I would fain save him from
the death of a martyr."

[From Household Words.]

THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS--A TALE OF THE PEAK.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I--THE CHILD'S TRAGEDY.

There is no really beautiful part of this kingdom so little known as the
Peak of Derbyshire. Matlock, with its tea-garden trumpery and
mock-heroic wonders; Buxton, with its bleak hills and fashionable
bathers; the truly noble Chatsworth and the venerable Haddon, engross
almost all that the public generally have seen of the Peak. It is talked
of as a land of mountains, which in reality are only hills; but its true
beauty lies in valleys that have been created by the rending of the
earth in some primeval convulsion,