ing Phirdoci, that he thought sixty thousand rupees might satisfy him for a work which he seemed to have performed with so much ease and expedition. Phirdoci, justly offended at this indignity, could never he brought to accept of any reward, though the emperor would, after reflection, have gladly paid him the sum originally stipulated; the poet, however, took ample revenge in a satire of seven hundred couplets, which he wrote upon that occasion.

Mamood was very singular in his private character, for, contrary to the custom of all princes, he kept no concubines. He had but one wife, whom he obliged to do every homely part of housewifery; and when she complained one day, that she had burnt her fingers in baking his bread, desiring he might allow her a maid to assist her, he rejected her request, with saying, that he was only a trustee for the state, and that he was determined not to burthen it with needless expenses. He therefore exhorted her to persevere in her duty with patience, and God would reward her in the end.

As the Emperor of India never eats in public, his table was rather that of a hermit, than suitable to a great king. He also continued the whimsical notion of living by his pen. One day, as an omrah was inspecting a Koran of the emperor's writing before him, he pointed out a word, which he said was wrong. The king, looking at it, smiled, and drew a circle round it. But when the critic was gone, he began to erase the circle, and restore the word. This being observed by one of his old attendants, he begged to know his majesty's reason for so doing; to which he replied, That he knew the word was originally right; but he thought it better to erase from a paper, than touch the heart of a poor man, by bringing him to shame.'

The same author relates an anecdote of Alexander the Great, which shows how prone the Asiatics were to attribute to others their own imperfect ideas of things. When Secunder,' (Alexander,) he says, was on his way to India, some of his old generals, unwilling to proceed farther, began to draw their feet

out of the circle of his obedience. The hero, upon this, was thrown into great perplexity, not knowing how to proceed with them. In this dilemma, he sent a messenger to Greece to advise with his old master Aristotalise, (Aristotle,) who, by reason of his age and infirmities, had not accompanied him. When the sage read the letter, he carried the messenger into the garden, where he gave orders to the gardener to root up all the old plants, and set young shoots in their places. Without saying more, or writing any answer, he told the messenger to return in haste to his master. When the messenger arrived, he fell upon his face before the king, and told him he could obtain no reply. Secunder was somewhat surprised, and inquired into the particulars of the interview. Hearing the above relation, he smiled, and told the messenger he had brought him an excellent answer. He accordingly put some old mutinous officers to death, and cashiered others; supplying their places with young men, who became more obedient to command; and thus re-established his authority in the army.

TO MYRRHA.

YOUNG, beautiful, and fair, my Myrrha, thou
Wer't idol to control a sophist's knee;

And shall not I, the warm and passioned, bow
My soul's intensity to worship thee?

I've stood, in rapture, gazing on thy face,

Where all bright thoughts were mirrored beauteously,
Until my very passion seemed to be

A part of my life's being. While the grace
And light of beauty mantled thy pale brow,
How often 'neath fair Dian's throne of stars,
I've wished to bring us to those glittering spheres,
And find some isle, we know not of below;
Where, with thee, Myrrha, all life's sunny hours
Should glide in odours through a rosy path of flowers!
D. S. L.

A SECOND RAMBLE THROUGH DERBYSHIRE.

OUR next visit was to Hathersage, a romantic and ancient village situate in the bosom of mountains. In the church reposes, or rather did repose, the bones of Little John, for some of them are deposited as curious relics within the walls of the house of prayer, the taper spire of which gives note of civilized life. A distance of six miles divides Hathersage and Castleton, and fairy-land lies between them. Hope Dale seems the sport of Nature, or rather the repose; as if, tired of rearing rocks, raising mountains, and extending heaths, she spread out Hope Dale with all her sylvan graces, and drew the beautiful Derwent, the parent river of Derbyshire, through its soft domain, its amber waters flowing in ample breadth over its rocky pavement; and one of the most lively pleasures of this little walking tour was, that we could follow its windings and lounge upon its banks, that frequently presented their various coloured strata washed bare by the winter torrents, and fringed with the alder, the ash, and the mountain-ash, rich in orange berries, whilst the foliage of its more delicate relation was a tender yellow. No where does the Derwent appear so attractive in its course as here, not even within its graceful, bankless expanse at Chatsworth, or in its rocky vista at Matlock, as when bordered by the green meadows, then bright in autumnal verdure, of smiling Hope Dale. Thus led on, Castleton, in all its rocky cavernous grandeur, appeared, and the sylvan graces-Dryads, Hamadryads, and Naiades vanished, yet so entirely had their association banished fatigue, that after having given their usual orders at the inn, we began to ascend the mountain whereon the castle stands: the castle of the Peverils; a name that once overawed the dwellers of the Peak, with all the unrestrained power of feudal barbarism; and which, excepting a court of law, that may yet retain something of the power to alarm those within its jurisdiction, is the only relic of him whom the Norman William invested with almost regal sway in the heart of con

quered Mercia. Fearing to look upwards, not daring to look below, we crept up the castle hill; one side of which is a perpendicular rock, at the base of which is the yawning mouth of the celebrated cavern; and upon the very brink of its summit, the decaying walls of the castle. The opposite side of the mountain is equally steep, descending into a deep and narrow valley, formed by a similar ascent, wild, dark, and secluded, and separated from all human interest. The area of the castle occupies almost the whole space of the peninsula site, which is joined to the neighbouring hills on the east, by an isthmus, on its level. A thousand feet beneath is Peak's-hole, with its hundred unknown caverns, unenlightened by day, and unexplored by man --yet, in the pride of his might, he raises a few stones upon their stupendous roofs, and calls himself lord of the Peak. Nearly eight hundred years have witnessed their gradual decay, and the almost total oblivion of the bold baron, by whom it was reared; but a mighty mind has again raised the name of Peveril of the Peak, and proves how omnipotent it is, that can thus call spirits from the depths of time, and that calling, they will come.

The necessity of descending alone gave the courage to its attempt, yet the young mountaineers of the place climb the steep sides, run up the broken steps of the castle, and hang over its decayed walls, apparently insensible of the dizzy depth below.

Objects so well known as the caverns of Castleton need not be spoken of. An elegant party was just descending the sloping rocks at its extremity, and the ladies in their white dresses, with handkerchiefs folded on their heads, and tapers in their hands, following each other through the rocky chasm, as in processional array, presented an idea of cloistered nuns, whose rules ordained them to descend from the cheerful light of day to sepulchral penance. All that Castleton presents to the curious traveller we visited, but the ascent of the Winnets was one of the objects of our walk. Winnets is the provincial name, that is written Wind

yards whether from the sinuous way, or that it is the opening by which the western blasts rush down with tempestuous force, is undecided. Its characteristics are very distinct from those of Middleton Dale, though both are winding rocky ways. The road in Middleton Dale is broad and firm, and the descent almost imperceptible; from its level the grey rocks rise boldly to their summit, which terminate in massy ramparts, upon which the ash waves its beautiful foliage, and upon whose ledges the golden stone-crop and the crimson ranunculus unite their roots and blossoms. A clear stream of water takes its course at the foot of the rocks, sparkling and bubbling on one side of the road; and the winding of the dale is so gradual, as to present a beautiful changing vista through the whole course of two miles, from its entrance to its close. Very different was the aspect of the via terrorium we were entering, after having walked half a mile of level road from Castleton, Mam Torr directly in our front, and forming one side of the Winnets. The pathway is not broader than will admit two carriages to pass, and is inclosed by lofty mountains, the base of each seeming to cross each other, as if to interrupt the progress, broken by the peaked rocks of silver grey that start from their sides. Thus apparently obstructed, but still advancing, we wound along; every dozen paces presenting a different appearance. No sky to be seen but that directly above our heads, the zenith and boundary of our aerial view, and that was of the bluest blue. One moment there seemed to be no human being but our three selves, the next showed us one of our own species, like the samphire gatherer of Dover cliffs, hanging in the middle air, collecting the moss with which the upper regions of mountains were covered; two patient asses waiting at their base for the verdant burden. A few steps forward, and they were again shut out. The pass terminated in a wild and level country, over which we took one look, and retraced our steps down the Winnets. The difference of ascending and descending was strongly marked. The point of those rocks that almost