This interesting coin, of which I here engrave the obverse only, is a Spanish Dollar of Charles IIII. of the year 1801, struck at the Mexican silver mines, at the time when that now wretched country was under the Spanish rule. It is of the kind commonly called the "pillar dollar," from the circumstance of having a pillar on each side of the Spanish Arms on the reverse; the pillar dollars are in many countries more esteemed than the other Spanish dollars, and pass at a higher price, though they are not of more intrinsic value than the other varieties.

The great scarcity of silver money during the Continental Wars of George III., caused by the Government entirely neglecting to provide a legal currency, induced many persons to issue their pieces of necessity. The token of the Cromford Bank must have been issued before the year 1804, as in that year, the dollar had risen in value to 5s. ; in 1811 the dollar rose to 5s. 6d., and for a short time to 6s., so much had the value of silver money increased, compared with the Bank paper money, which by authority of Act of Parliament had been made a legal tender, and also inconvertible into cash by the Bank.

The Dollar issued at Cromford, has been struck with a small circular die, on the bust of the King, with the words CROMFORD, DERBYSHIRE, and the value 4/9 (four shillings and nine pence) in figures. The dollar thus struck by Messrs. Arkwright, became current for 4s. 9d., in the same manner as the same coins did when struck by the Bank of England, with a small head of the King (Geo. III.) in an oval on the bust. The example here engraved, for which I am indebted to my friend, Mr. Boyne, is the only one of Cromford which has come under my notice, and is, I believe, as yet inedited. The British Museum also possesses a specimen of this rare token.

Derby.

D

170

LEGEND OF THE PARSON'S TORR, LATHKIL DALE.

BY THE REV. W. R. BELL.

The following Ballad is founded partly on facts, and partly on local traditions. For the facts, reference must be made to the copy of the Coroner's Inqueft, on the body of the unfortunate hero of the story, at the end of the Ballad and, for the traditions, or rather perhaps-samples of them, to the Ballad itself.

The scene of the story comprises the towns of Bakewell and Monyash, and the mountainous country between them, the western part of whichthat bordering on Lathkil and Harlow Dales-being one of the most romantic diftricts of the Peak.

The writer had often heard the story from the lips of aged inhabitants of the locality, before he thought of attempting to preferve it in fong, and fhould his endeavours to perpetuate it in this way be deemed in the least acceptable, he will rejoice to think that he has neither prefumed too much upon the courtesy of the Editor, nor upon the leniency and forbearance of the readers of the "RELIQUARY."

Bakewell, Oct. 11th, 1863.

THE PARSON'S TORR.

THE Parfon of Monyash, late one eve,
Sat in his old oak armchair;

And a playful flame in the low turf fire
Oft-times fhewed him fitting there.

What was it that made that kind-hearted man
Sit penfively there alone?

Did other men's forrows make fad his heart?
Or, fay-a glimpse of his own?

Black dark was that night and stormy withal,
It rained as 'twould rain a fea;

And round and within the old Parfonage houfe
The wind moaned pitiously.

Still fat he deep mufing till midnight hour,
And then in a waking dream-

He quailed to hear mid the tempeft a crash,
And eke a wild piercing scream.

O mercy ! cried he, with faltering breath,
What founds are thefe which I hear?
May evil be far from both me and mine!
Good Lord, be thou to us near !

No longer fat he in that old armchair,

But prayed and lay down in bed;

And ftrove hard to fleep, and not hear the storm
That scowled and raged o'er his head.

But fleep feldom comes when 'tis most defired,
And leaft to a troubled mind;

And the Parfon lay wake long time, I ween,
'Ere foft repofe he could find.

As the dark hours of night pafsed flowly on,
He flept as weary man will;

But light was his fleep, and broken his rest,
And fad his fore-dread of ill.

Thus restless he lay, and at early dawn
He dreamt that he fell amain,
Down-down an abyfs of fathomless depth,
Loud fhrieking for help in vain.

He woke up at once with a fudden fhock,
And threw out his arms widespread ;
Good heavens! he gasped, what ill-omen is this?
Where am I-with quick or dead?

Right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream—
That ftill he was fafe and found:

With the last shades of night, fear passed away,
And joy once again came round.

The morning was calm, and the storm was hushed,
Nor wind, nor rain fwept the fky;

And betimes he arofe, for bound was he

To Bakewell that day to hie.

Old Hugh brought his horse to the garden gate,
And faw him all fafe aftride;

Good bye! quoth the Parfon; quoth Hugh, good bye!
I wish you a pleasant ride!

Forth rode he across the lone tracklefs moor,

His thoughts on his errand bent;

And hoped he right foon to come back again
The very fame way he went.

The journey to Bakewell he fafely made
A little before mid-day:

But Vicar and people were all at church, (a)
Where they were oft wont to pray.

(a) At the Friday morning's service.

I'll put up my beast, quoth the Parson, here,
At the White Horfe hoftlery; (b)

And go up to Church, that when prayers are done,
The Vicar I there may fee.

But ere he could reach the Old Newark door, (0)
Both Priest and people were gone ;

And the Vicar to foothe a dying man,

To Over Haddon sped on.

'Twas three paft noon when the Vicar came back,

The Parfon he asked to dine,

And time ftole a march on the heedless guest,

Six ftruck as he fat at wine.

Up rofe he from table and took his leave,
Quite ftartled to find it late;

He called for his horse at the hoftlery,
And homeward was foon agate.

As he rode up the hill, past All Saints' Church,
The moon just one glance bestowed,

And the wierd-like form of the old Stone Cross,(a)
In the Church-yard, dimly shewed.

Still higher and higher he climbed the hill,
Yet more and more dark it grew;

The drizzling rain became fleet as he climbed,
And the wind more keenly blew.

Ah! thick was the mift on the moor that night,
Poor night, he had loft his way!

The north-eaft wind blowing ftrong on his right,
To the left had made him stray.

And now he was clofe to lone Haddon Grove,
Bewildered upon the moor;

Slow leading his horse that followed behind,
Himself groping on before.

Still onward and leeward, at last he came
To the edge of Harlow Dale;

From his cave (e) the Lathkil a warning roared,
But louder then howled the gale.

(b) Now called the Rutland Arms.

(c) The door in the south transept, locally called the Newark Door.
(d) A very ancient Stone Cross, adorned with scroll-work ornaments.

(e) The Lathkil issues from a cavern in the limestone rock, right opposite the Parson's Torr.

On the brink of Fox Torr the doomed man stood,
And tugged the bridle in vain ;

His horfe would not move-then quick started back,
And, fnap, went each bridle-rein!

Then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff,
He fhrieked, and sank in the gloom;
Down-down to the bottom he fwiftly sped,
And death was his dreadful doom.

The dead-man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks-
The darkness did him enfhroud ;—

And the owls high up in the ivy-clad Torr,"
Bewailed him all night full loud.

O little thought they in the old thatched cot,
Hard by the Parfonage gate;

Their mafter they never again should see,
Nor ope to him foon nor late!

This night is no better than laft, quoth Hugh,
And mafter has not come back;

I hope he is hale and safe houfed with friends,
And has of good cheer no lack.

Quoth Betty, I liked not his morning ride-
I fear he's in evil plight—

A Friday's venture's, no luck! I've heard say,
God help him if out this night.

At dawn of next day, old Betty went forth
To milk the cow in the fhed ;-

And faw him fitting upon a large stone,
All pale, and mute-with bare head.

But a moment fhe turned her eyes away,
A fall fhe heard and a groan;

She looked again, but, no Parfon was there,
He'd vanished from off the stone!

Soon spread the dread tale through Monyash town-
They made a great hue and cry;

And fome off to this place—and some to that,
To feek the loft man did hie.

(f) The Parson's Torr is overgrown with ivy, and two stuffed specimens of the owls that formerly roosted in it, may be seen at Mrs. Walwyn's, in whose farm the Torr is situated.