Dale. The tors, which reminded Jean Jacques of Jura peaks, have both names and legends, of some of which the guide informs us as we go along. There is a Lovers' Leap, as there is also on the Dart and on many another stream in England, not, to be sure, so bold and stern as the Leucadian cliff from which Sappho, and later Artemisia, love-despairing, threw themselves into the sea, nor yet so terrible as that precipice in the Guadalhorce, from which Manuel and Laila met their death, but it is sufficient for the purpose. Tradition tells of a young girl who here thought to put an end to a life in which love had played some unhappy pranks. She came to the brink, said her prayers and jumped off; but either her dress caught in a bush or the water was not deep enough, for she changed her mind, repented, went home, and for the rest of her days, which were many, lived in sober and exemplary maidenhood.

Seven miles the other side of Bakewell, near Middleton, at the entrance of a dale, is another Lovers' Leap. It is a high precipitous rock, and legend affirms that about the year 1760, from its lofty summit, a love-lorn damsel, of the name of Baddeley, cast herself into the depths below. She, too, escaped the death she sought. Her face was disfigured and her body bruised, but the brambles and the rocky projections broke her fall, and though bereft of part of her garments, she was able to walk home with little assistance. Her escape healed the wounds that love had made. She kept herself from such nonsense ever after, and she died unmarried. Perhaps this is the same story which is told of the Lovers' Leap in Dovedale, but did not Sargon's mother entrust her son to a basket on a river, and is that any proof that Jochebed did not do the same?

A more serious affair happened in Dovedale further toward Reynard's Cave, I believe, though some say it was about Sharplow Point. On the July of 1761, on his return from a picnic, Dr. Langton, Dean of Clogher, a member of an old Lincolnshire family, though he came from the Emerald Isle, proposed to force his horse up the steep sides of the dale so that he might the speedier reach Tissington. Anything more foolishly daring or more daringly foolish cannot well be thought of. However, a young lady, a Miss La Roche, shared both his horse and his folly. She seated herself behind him, and he spurred the horse up the perilous ascent. For a few moments it seemed as though the madcap feat could be accomplished. Then, when perhaps two-thirds of the distance was covered, either the poor animal swerved or the dean, desparing of success, attempted to turn him, and in an instant the three were overthrown. A fearful scene fol

lowed. They came toppling down the crags and screes. Fortunately, the young lady's long hair caught in a thorn-bush and saved her from death, though she was picked up insensible, and remained so for some days. The horse, too, escaped with a few bruises; but the clergyman was so hurt that he shortly died. He was buried in Ashbourne Church, where a monument is erected, as much to warn adventurous travellers of his fate, as to commemorate his memory. It is said that only the Sunday before he had preached in that church a sermon on the text: "It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment."

"Was his ghost ever seen?" I ask the old man who now pulls along and now pushes along my donkey. "Ssh!" he replies. But the heights are gloomy, even as the Drachenfels, and I do not know what might happen when in the loneliness and darkness of the evening the wind murmurs and moans through the valley. There are probably bats and owls hereabouts, and there have been witches-indeed, the three wise women in Macbeth could easily have found in this Dale a spot weird and uncanny enough for any of their curious rites. The sobbing of the waters, too, would, in the gloaming, afford melancholy music. "You do not believe in ghosts, then?" "The parson says there bean't any such things." "But," I retorted, rather unwisely it afterward seemed to me, "you don't believe everything the parson says." I do not know what made me put such a wicked question, or even to suggest to this unsophisticated tender of asses that anybody ever doubted the utterances of the clergy. I do hope my reverend brethren will forgive me, for I am satisfied if anybody disputed my word I should be more than grieved at heart. Even when my opinions are assailed I am apt, metaphorically speaking, to open the vials of—well, not ammonia water. However, there was the question, and plump and emphatic came the answer: "No, sir; not by a long shot. Parsons are like donkeys; they make a deal of noise when there is no occasion for it. Why, one of them once told me that Robin Hood could send off one arrow and then send off another that would catch up to the first, strike it and split it." "No!" "Fact, sir; and if a man could do that, I don't see why the spirits of the dead shouldn't come back." "But," I asked, "what has that got to do with ghosts?" "That's a matter of opinion, sir." I observed a mischievous twinkle in the old fellow's eye, and I am satisfied that if my brute of a donkey had only behaved himself I should have found out the connection. As it was, I came to the conclusion that if I escaped with my bones whole, there was nothing incredible either in the forester's achievements or in ghostly appearances.

In due time we reached Tissington Spires-rugged, fissured, cathedrallike rocks, wrinkled by the rains and torn by the lightnings of unnumbered ages; and here our donkeys, much to their joy, could go no further. I believe the wretch I was astride of chuckled as he turned his side to the fence, which here runs across the pathway, and thus intimated to me to dismount. If one would see the rest of the Dale there is no alternative. But the heavens are again overcast, the river is leaden-hued and the ground is wet. We did not know anything about this fence when we started; that was a secret left to time to reveal. These gentle donkey-drivers refrain from unduly worrying the strangers whom they take in-into the Dale, I mean. However, unless we make the best of it and walk, we shall miss some of the prettiest scenery and come short of the haunts of old Izaak. The guide seeks to soothe my perturbed spirits by pointing out the Abbey Rock on the opposite side of the valley-a really curious illusion that in the moonlight would make one fancy one saw the tower and walls of a church, buttressed, ivy-mantled and pierced with lancet-shaped windows. Close by are the buildings of the brotherhood, the cells, refectory and dormitory. There are also, further away, the Twelve Apostles, half-hidden in the masses of foliage, St. Peter standing foremost, as though he would step into the river or walk upon the waters as he assayed of old to do. When I think of that fence I almost wish a bumble-bee would mistake the donkeyman's nose for some flower, only I should not like to see even a poor bee made a fool of. As for the lord of the manor who had the fence put there, it might do him good were the fairies who haunt the Dale to pinch him into a cold sweat. I feel desperately malignant. Many of the rocks are inaccessible—especially these called Tissington Spires; inaccessible, that is to say, to all except boys and squirrels. Legend tells of three boys who tried to climb the highest of them. There on a solitary ash near the summit a kestrel built her nest-prize worth scratched hands and rent trousers. Two of them soon found themselves in a place where they could neither ascend nor descend. Then they cried out, and to the rescue were brought from a neighboring church the ropes used for lowering coffins into the grave. By means of these the youngsters were safely drawn up out of danger. The third lad was in like difficulty, but when it was proposed to haul him up in the same manner he exclaimed: "Coffin ropes! I'll risk my life sooner. You hang your legs over the brink, and I'll swarm up them." And the scapegrace did swarm up them, and was saved.