their revenge by murdering the excise officer who had been instrumental in bringing the culprits to justice. Other captures were made and more murder followed. But in the end, after a twenty years’ lease of successful defiance, this band of reckless coiners was broken up. Speaking of Blackstone Edge and the glens leading therefrom down to Calder dale, we are reminded of the impression this mountain with its wild passes and rugged roads had on Taylor, the Water Poet, who crossed over in 1639, and this is what he says: “When I left Halifax I rode over such ways as were past comparison or amendment, for when I went down the lofty mountain called Blackstone Edge, I thought myself in the land of break-necke, it was so steep and tedious.” Over this mountain, but in the opposite direction, wearily paced De Foe when on his way to take refuge in Halifax, perhaps resting a little while by the riverside before he climbed the steep ascent of Skircote. Whilst staying in Halifax he is said to have written part of “Robinson Crusoe.” Fair features in woman are not irremediably spoiled by accident of cut and scar, or through waste of fever and pain: the lovely lines survive, and the soul beneath breathes unspeakable subtle beauty in smile of the eye and play of emotion on the eloquent face. Such is it with fair Calder dale--a region of poetry and romance, of legendary rock and historic hall, of mountain and glen, of shaw and burn, of daisied meadow and ferny dell. From the spot where I write, looking out at the antique lattice, I see the long sweep of the valley with its wide openings and gorge-like ravines stretching through the heart and the solitude of the everlasting hills, and though smoke blackens and mill mars the landscape, there is a loveliness about the contour of high heath-clad cliff, about the green waving woods musical with bird carol and summer breeze, about the sun-bright waters winding and narrowing miles away to a silver streak, which the accidents of trade and material civilisation have very far from irretrievably ruined. F. The Legend of King Arthur in Somerset. BY MRS. C. G. BOGER. _PART III.--HIS BURIAL-PLACE AT GLASTONBURY._ (_Concluded from p. 19._) “Not great Arthur’s tomb, nor holy Joseph’s grave From sacrilege had power their sacred bones to save; He who that God in man to his sepulchre brought, Or he which for the faith twelve famous battles fought.” DRAYTON’S _Polyolbion_.