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morning ride, in a postchaise, from Sheffield, through Edenson and the adjacent region to Chatsworth, under a pure autumnal sky, was intensely beautiful. We were scarcely prepared for the display of taste and magnificence that burst upon us at the last-named princely establishment of the Duke of Devonshire. It seemed a hollow square of nearly two hundred feet, boldly terraced, and was approached over gradually rising grounds. From an eminence towards the east, the old Hunting Tower held forth a streaming flag, as an announcement that the master of this unrivalled mansion was at home. Immediately after entering the central gate, by the porter's lodge, we paused to admire a fine weeping ash, whose rich, dark foliage, drooping to the ground, forms within its circumference an arch of exceeding beauty. It was removed hither from Derby, about ten years since, at an expense of £1,000; and though it had attained the age of forty years ere its transplantation, flourishes unchanged in its new home. Large flocks and herds luxuriate in the pastures, and deer, so fat as to forfeit a portion of