My friend, Mr. F. C. Spencer, speaking of Caldene, says, "Watson, in his history of Halifax, states that there was no contributory stream to the Calder of the name of Col, but in this he was certainly mistaken. Caldene, or Coldene, is the valley of the Col, or Cal. Whether it is this rivulet which furnishes the first syllable in the name of Calder, I do not presume to determine, inasmuch as the river is called Calder previous to receiving the waters of the Col, but one thing is plain, that the old tradition which Watson endeavoured to set aside was not without, at least, a plausible foundation."

Formerly, when none of those unseemly buildings were in existence which the sons of traffic have erected in but too many parts of this valley, and which are so lamentably incongruous with its fine scenery, CALDENE must have been one of the most beautiful spots in England. I am far from being an enemy to commerce;

but I could wish its operations to be more exclusively confined to those parts of the country where, without desecrating the sanctuaries of nature, which ought ever, like the sabbath, to be kept holy, the necessary facilities for successfully carrying on those operations may be afforded. I grant, that, previous to the invention of the steam-engine, something like a plea may be admitted for the erection of factories in those localities where abundant falls of water were necessary for the working of machinery; but now, as the superiority of steam-power, both in speed and continuity of operation, is universally allowed, I cannot perceive the motive for still selecting the most beautiful situations in the country, as the site of cotton-mills and warehouses, and the abodes of a densely crowded manufacturing population.

All I contend for is this: that, provided equal, if not superior advantages would accrue to the manufacturer from the establishment of his various works in places better suited to their character, those lovely spots, which Nature's own hand has sanctified, might still remain as secluded temples where the Inspired might commune with her Spirit- -as oases in the wilderness of toil, to which the poor artisan could retire to recruit his spirits, and invigorate his frame.

What should we say, if some commercial Goth were to purchase ground in the purlieus of York Minster, and erect a large mill, whose chimney should aspire to the height of the Great Tower, blackening with its smoke the walls of that sacred edifice, while the harsh din of the machinery mingled with the matin-song of thanksgiving, and the solemn voice of prayer?

The temple of Commerce beside the temple of God!-Abhorred proximity! The mind shudders at the very idea. What would be the feeling, if, as an individual from a manufacturing town remarked to me, as he stood gazing upon the beautiful Cascade at Lowdore, "a company of enterprising merchants were to obtain possession of the Vale of Keswick, erect mills upon the banks of the lake, and make that roaring stream (meaning the cas

cade) instead of roaming idly over the rocks, subservient to some useful purpose in manufacture?" Such desecration would well merit and receive the just indignation of mankind.

compeers.

Caldene has not lost all its original beauty. On approaching it from Hebden Bridge, Rawtonstall Bank is seen swelling up before you, with its hanging woods, like a green rampart to oppose your farther progress, defended on the right by the picturesque rocks of Deil Scout, and on the left by those of Turret. A little in advance within the vale, and nearly opposite to the rocks last mentioned, the grey crags of Oswald, in wild magnificence, frown through the foliage of the trees, that seem to stand like so many sentinels in green, to guard the mountain from the devastation which the hand of man is making among some of his ancient The dark waters of the Calder, once majestic and musical in their flow, before they were held in vassalage to commerce,-now languid and feeble-fret impotently at his feet. It is not, however, this portion of the valley, that is the most interesting in scenery: the beauties and glories of Caldene are to be found to the north west. There the mountain called the Eaves, whose sloping side is covered with heather, furze, and pines, and whose brows are coronetted with rocks of the most singular and grotesque appearance, overlooks a dell, which I have never seen surpassed by any scene of the kind in either Cumberland or Wales. At the entrance to this beautiful spot, a tasteful little church has been recently erected, which, were it not for its contiguity to a Factory, whose windows, like staring eyes, peer above the trees that overshadow the sacred edifice, might almost vie in situation with the hallowed pile near Rydal Mount. Leaving this church on the right, you proceed by a winding path up a gentle acclivity, until you enter a narrow road which leads along a precipitous hill to the village of Lumb. At every step, the scene presented to the view increases in interest. Now you walk beneath an awning of green foliage, which the trees on each side of the road, like "brethren dwelling together in unity,"

form over your head, by the intermarriage of their boughs; while every leaf, trembling in the breeze, seems instinct with music. A sudden turn in the road brings you to the verge of a shelving precipice of several hundred feet in depth, down which if you venture to look, you will perceive tier below tier, of projecting rock, beautifully decorated by the hand of nature with almost every variety of wild flower and shrub.* At the base of this declivity, the scanty waters of Caldene Clough, that have escaped thraldom, rave almost unseen along their rocky channel, save here and there, where they fall, with a sort of shelly sound, into a tiny moss-bordered lake, like an infant to sleep. Here the trees intermit their shade, and enable you to enjoy a sort of ichnographic view of the beautiful wooded glen beneath, and the wild scar on the opposite side of the clough, with its bright springs oozing from its side, and falling from green mossy islet to islet, in innumerable threads, like liquid silver. Before you a little hamlet, almost embosomed with trees, sleeps at the foot of the majestic Eaves; while the toppling crags of Deil Scout, far above you, threaten every moment to descend, and bury you in the abysm beneath. Proceeding a little farther, you come to a footpath on the right, which leads down to the Milking Bridge, that, with its narrow and ivied arch, spans the amber stream of the Col. Loiter not on the bridge-save only to take another glimpse of Deil Scout, which here appears most terrifically appalling and sublime-but advance about twenty or thirty yards along the left bank of the stream, until you come to a rock embedded in the water, and overhung by a solitary mountain ash. Seat yourself there; and then say, if nature ever presented to your view so enchanting, so sublime a picture. In the foreground, you have the hoary bridge, with all its wild festoonery, and behind

* In addition to the many attractions which Caldene, as well as the whole valley of Todmorden, offers to the eye of taste, the Botanist will find it by no means unworthy of attention. Many of the most rare of the Yorkshire plants will reward the researches of those who will take pains to examine the many mountain cloughs and rivulets with which the whole district abounds.

it, the romantic scar, before alluded to, "like Niobe all tears," having its summit crowned with a diadem of trees, that "wreathe their old fantastic roots on high;" while far in the distance, *Llads-Lowe Balder towers up in dark relief against the eastern sky.

Following the upward course of the stream, many other beautiful scenes present themselves to the eye of the lover of nature; but none of them equal the one I have just now faintly described.

The vale of the Hebden, too, is rich in picturesque and sublime scenery; particularly that portion of it, which is known by the name of Hardcastle Crags. I must, however, forbear to enter into detail, and invite the reader of taste to explore the whole of this valley, and reap that reward which the contemplation of its beauties cannot fail to afford.

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A certain wonderful comet, &c.

"In the year 1541, August 21," says Herlicius Appian, a comet appeared, tailed like a dragon; but its continuance in the heavens was but of short duration."

"This," says Mr. Spencer, "is the name of a singular and magnificent rock in the vale of Caldene, near Hebden Bridge. The antiquary will at once perceive its British derivation and Druidical appropriation. The words signify The Slaughter Hill of Balder,'-this rock being, no doubt, the altar on which the Cymbric sacrifices were performed."

S