read by most visitors to Derbyshire; "The Complete Guide to Dovedale," published by Mr. Edward Bamford, of Ashbourne, and Mr. George Moores' "Guide to the North Staffordshire Railway"-both of which are of highest worth. Every one of the books named, besides several upon Haddon Hall and Chatsworth, I looked into more or less carefully, either when in Derbyshire, or while preparing the following pages, or as the book was going through the press. In the Derbyshire Advertiser-one of the oldest and most trustworthy of provincial journals-I have found, from time to time, many interesting sketches of Derbyshire places and customs. From these authorities I gathered some facts, but I used them more as checks upon my own work than as sources of suggestion: my purpose being to convey to my reader, not so much the information they give, as my own impressions and the results of my own observation.

But of much greater help to me than these, were my old and good friends, Mr. John Lucas, Mr. William H. Lucas and Mr. William Waterall, three natives of Derbyshire, now and for long resident in Philadelphia. Loving and remembering the land and the scenes of their youth, and continuing through many years in close touch with their former acquaintances and surroundings, they were able both to stir up my own sympathies, and also to give me much counsel and not a little knowledge. Some of my stories came from them; and were I to acknowledge my indebtedness to them particularly, I should say that Mr. John Lucas helped me with some recollections of Ashbourne; Mr. William H. Lucas, by lending me two or three of the books above mentioned, and Mr. William Waterall, with much of the local coloring of Bolsover, and especially by allowing me to have copied from a water-color in his possession, the picture of the "Swan" in that village.

My thanks are also due to my dear friend, Mrs. S. M. Elliot, of Philadelphia, by whose generosity this volume was made possible, and who, with Mr. and Mrs. George L. Knowles, of the same city, went with me through much of the Derbyshire country. They drew my attention to many things which otherwise would have escaped me, and for the interest they took in the gathering of my notes, and the shaping of the same into their present form, I am very grateful. It is only fair that I should add that my wife, who accompanied me throughout the whole journey, read my pages and made many helpful suggestions.

All the illustrations were prepared for this work by the Electro-Tint Engraving Company of Philadelphia, and I have no doubt that my reader will agree with me in recognizing the great merits of the workmanship. The subjects were, with a few exceptions, brought by me from Derbyshire. Among these exceptions were some photographs which I secured of Mr. William H. Rau, of Philadelphia, and the photograph of a painting of the Resurrection, which Mrs. Elliot kindly brought me from Norway.

In the Appendix I have given some of the Songs and Ballads popular in Derbyshire, and these, I hope, will be appreciated by my reader, if not for their own merits, yet because illustrating the life and habits of the people.

I ought not, perhaps, to try the patience of my reader, or to break the rule that a preface should be as brief as possible, but there is a feature of this book, and of other books of mine, of which I should like to say something. It is not unlikely that they who follow me through these next paragraphs may be all the better able to enjoy my book: such readers will consider these same passages rather as a prelude to the book than as part of the preface thereof.

I have never doubted but that they who took the trouble to read these pages would love the subjects of which they treat. Nobody else would be likely to buy the book. There is nothing inconsistent in an American loving well his own country, and also loving well the lands from which he or his fathers came. The more he knows of history and of literature the fonder will his heart go out, not only to the regions beyond the Alps, or beside the Rhine, but especially to the countries where his own mother-tongue is spoken, and the books and the men he admires are known and cherished. Both he and they who in good faith and with true affection have crossed the seas to make America their home, will know the power of reminiscence and the charm of suggestion. The thought of Britain will not make them less loyal to their own country, but the name will bring to them scenes and ideals which will help to make their life brighter and nobler, and which will enable them to add to the strength and beauty of the Republic. Holding this opinion, I do not hesitate to remind my reader of the associations which abound within the realm which stretches from Dover to St. Kilda, and from Dingle Bay to Unst.

There history lives. Castles and cathedrals rear their walls and towers, and speak both of days of proud renown and of lords whose names are luminous in earth's annals. Each place has its story. Winchester and Westminster

are crowded with royal memories. There kings hold their court and to them
bend the knee great earls and princely prelates and noble maidens; but
sovereigns proud as they reign in Dumferline. Resplendant are the scenes of
the vast drama-now a purple tragedy and now a dazzling triumph. Wood-
stock is the hiding place of Fair Rosamond and the prison of Elizabeth Tudor;
later, at Kenilworth, Leicester seeks to win the love of the virgin queen. The
Peverils rule the Derby Peak; on Alnwick's turrets waves the banner of the
Percy; to the mighty house of Neville belongs the once water-circled Raby;
Holyrood and Lochleven have their legends of the lovely Scottish queen; amid
the lochs and hills beyond the Tay dwell the Macdonalds, the Camerons and
many another famous clan; while across the sea Tyrconnell abides behind the
rocks of Donegal, and the Desmonds hold the Kerry wilds. And the ballads
with their fresh, eternal life spring from places such as these; and they touch
soul-depths, and give renown and sweetness to hill and stream and wood.
Untold are their delights-among them the romance of the "Nut-brown Maid,"
the pathos of the "Sands o' Dee," and of "Waly, Waly," and the witchery of
the "
Friar of Orders Grey ;" while tremulous, absorbing joy comes from the
Reliques of Bishop Percy and Father Prout, akin to that which springs from
the "Border Minstrelsy," and the Sherwood songs. So poets sing the glories
of Tara and of Scone, and tell the praises of Bruce, Owain Glyndwr and Rory
O'Connor. Nor while the warrior-spirit lives will be forgotten the fields where
valor struggled with valor, and swords flashed fire, and wreaths of victory
were dipped in blood. Through the ages live the stories, say, of Senlac where
the conqueror of Tostig and the anointed of England falls before the Norman
Duke; of Evesham when De Montfort dies; of North Inch where, five hundred
years agone, the Chattan and the Quhele fought the combat famed in the "Fair
Maid of Perth ;" and of Chevy Chase, where "England's deadly arrow hail"
wrought much misery. And there are Marston Moor, Dunbar and Worcester;
Killiecrankie, in which Claverhouse of Dundee fell pierced, so legend says,
with a silver bullet; Bannockburn, Flodden, Preston Pans and Culloden; and
Sedgemoor and the Boyne. These make men tremble with inexpressible
feeling, and cause warm-souled lads to wish that they could handle the bow of
a Sherwood archer or wield the mace of a Norman knight. The enthusiasm
swells at the thought of Spithead and Plymouth—

Where those great navies lie
From floating cannon's thundering throates that all the world defye.

They who love the less strifeful past will linger amongst the ruins of a Fountains, a Dunkeld and a Melrose; they will thank God for a Bangor, an Iona and a Lindisfarne, and kneel before the altar of Canterbury, Armagh or Llandaff. Visions rise of St. Patrick and St. Columba―prelates of imperishable fame; at Wearmouth Venerable Bede, and at Lichfield Bishop Chad, kindle beacon-fires of truth which spread throughout the land and live throughout the years. The three capitals, too, have supreme charms; some would rather than a Peruvian mine have had it for their portion to listen to the stern wisdom of Samuel Johnson, the flowing rhetoric of Curran, the hilarity and wit of Sydney Smith or the genial criticisms of "Christopher North." The 'Essays of Elia" reveal the rich soul of Charles Lamb, and many lines display the mirthful genius of Thomas Hood. An almanac of 1671, published in France, has the figure of the French king riding in a triumphant chariot like the sun; whereupon the Dutch published an almanac with the sun eclipsed by a man holding a Holland cheese. Fancy Rochester laughing at the humor and Charles wondering at the audacity. Along the Kentish road journey the pilgrims to the Martyr's shrine at Canterbury, as over Suffolk plains others wend to the altar of Our Lady at Walsingham. Dan Chaucer tells a gladder tale than did he who in the May morning slept beside a Malvern brook. Around Selborne wanders Gilbert White, in his perennial love of nature akin to the pure soul who made the angler's art the key to sweetest thoughts. They who love the riverside will not forget the antique-lettered pages of Juliana Berners, gentle abbess, pious and quaint, but only a prelude to the delight of wandering with Richard Jefferies by field and hedgerow, and of hearing him tell of the gamekeeper's home, and the poacher's tricks. Strolling over the Quantock Hills, Coleridge began the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner;" Chatterton under the shadow of St. Mary Redcliffe devised his Rowley Poems; in dull, damp Olney the story of "John Gilpin" was shaped by Cowper; Ludlow Castle and Milton's “ Masque of Comus" are forever united in association; at Shottery Shakespeare told his love to sweet Mistress Anne, and in the church beside the Avon with her rests in immortal glory; Wordsworth dreamed in lake-strewn Westmoreland; while in the northern realm the "heaven-taught ploughman" penned his passionate lyrics, and from the western kingdom came the living melodies of Thomas Moore. Alcuin adds to the fame of York, though his idea of astronomy was, first, to display the

power of God, and, secondly, to fix the church calendar; principally the latter. With his garrulity and gossip Samuel Pepys untiringly entertains. John Evelyn plants oak saplings from which later generations shall build the wooden walls of England. At Chicksands, in Bedfordshire, dwells the daintiest of maidens, Dorothy Osborne; and verily, for grace of person and loveliness of character, Sir William Temple's mistress is a princess among the daughters of her people. So gratifying was the accession of the first Hanoverian sovereign, that on his landing at Greenwich the parishioners there hastened to elect him churchwarden; then for two months the question was debated in the Privy Council whether a king could be a churchwarden, the archbishop of Canterbury finally declaring that he could not be both, but that he could take his choice and his crown again after he had served. Such reminiscences are endless. To those who linger amidst the flowing memories will come the convivial shadow of Mr. Pickwick, the echo of Dowinie Sampson's "Prodigious," the innocent impishness of Handy Andy, and the boisterous mirth of Simon Eyre. They will weep with Clarissa Harlowe, and laugh over the pages of Humphrey Clinker. And though May Day and Gunpowder Plot are among the things of the past, yet they will not forget the loyal souls who by squeezing into pulp an orange, symbolized their wishes regarding the successor of James the Second, and, latter, by passing their wine over a bowl of water, indicated that he whose health they drank was the king beyond the sea.

These are among the associations which gladden the heart both of the people of the old land and of the folk of the new country. No American will allow that the rich heritage these memories suggest belongs only to that part of the Anglo-Saxon race which has not crossed the sea. Our people claim a share in much more than the glory and the achievements of the past. They think of sea-kings, such as Drake, Frobisher, Hawkins, Cook and Nelson; and of sovereigns, such as Edward the First, Elizabeth and Victoria. They picture again the charms of Bettws-y-Coed, the lights and shadows of the Tay, the inexpressible loveliness of the Valley of the Dargle or of Glengariff, and the beauties of Sussex downs and Devon valleys; they recall the days of yore, the pageants of cities, the legends and proverbs of the country side, snatches of songs and fragments of stories; and in the bewildering wealth of recollections and the swift, flushing joy, they know that to them full of interest is the island lying proudly amid Atlantic waves, honored by nations and peopled by world-masters.