and which present a thousand charms
to the eyes of the lover of nature. How deliciously do the crystal
waters of the Wye and the Dove rush along such valleys, or dales, as
they there are called. With what a wild variety do the gray rocks soar
up amid their woods and copses. How airily stand in the clear heavens
the lofty limestone precipices, and the gray edges of rock gleam cut
from the bare green downs--there _never_ called downs. What a genuine
Saxon air is there cast over the population--what a Saxon bluntness
salutes you in their speech!

It is into the heart of this region that we propose now to carry the
reader. Let him suppose himself with us now on the road from
Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell. We are at the Bull's Head, a little
inn on that road. There is nothing to create wonder, or a suspicion of a
hidden Arcadia in any thing you see, but another step forward,
and--there! There sinks a world of valleys at your feet. To your left
lies the delicious Monsal Dale. Old Finn Hill lifts his gray head
grandly over it. Hobthrush's Castle stands bravely forth in the hollow
of his side--gray, and desolate, and mysterious. The sweet Wye goes
winding and sounding at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, green
as the emerald, and its dark glossy alders. Before us stretches on,
equally beautiful, Cressbrook Dale; Little Edale shows its cottages from
amidst its trees; and as we advance, the Mousselin-de-laine Mills
stretch across the mouth of Miller's Dale, and startle with the aspect
of so much life amid so much solitude.

But our way is still onward. We resist the attraction of Cressbrook
village on its lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into Wardlow
Dale. Here we are buried deep in woods, and yet behold still deeper the
valley descend below us. There is an Alpine feeling upon us. We are
carried once more, as in a dream, into the Saxon Switzerland. Above us
stretch the boldest ranges of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods
are heard the voices of children. These come from a few workmen's
houses, couched at the foot of a cliff that rises high and bright amid
the sun. That is Wardlow Cop; and there we mean to halt for a moment.
Forward lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, and lead-mines, but
forward goes no road, except such as you can make yourself through the
tangled woods.

At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this little hamlet of Bellamy Wick
was built, or the glen was dignified with the name of R