INGESTRE HALL.INGESTRE HALL.
INGESTRE HALL.
The wild cattle, of which it is not generally easy, and, at certain seasons, not always safe, to obtain a near view are, according to Shaw, the historian of Staffordshire, “in colour invariably white, muzzles and ears black, and hornswhite, fine-tipped with black.” If a black calf be born it is promptly destroyed, not only because it might alter the constancy of the breed, but also because it is deemed an evil omen, for its birth, so folk believe, is followed by the death of a member of the family.
WOLSELEY BRIDGE. / SHUGBOROUGH.WOLSELEY BRIDGE. / SHUGBOROUGH.
WOLSELEY BRIDGE. / SHUGBOROUGH.
Some distance away, on the opposite bank of the Trent, just where the ground begins to rise from the level of the valley, stands one of the most picturesque, and formerly one of the most interesting, mansions along the whole course of the river. This is Ingestre, the home of the Chetwynd-Talbots, now Earls of Shrewsbury. Formerly it was a perfect specimen of an Elizabethan mansion, but in the year 1882 it was reduced by fire to a mere shell of masonry, and many family relics of interest were destroyed. It has, however, been rebuilt, and as in many places the old walls had remained uninjured, the external appearance is little changed. The plate in Plot’s “Staffordshire” represents a formal garden and courtyard in front, with the church close at hand, near the eastern endof the house, to which some additions have been subsequently made. The other features, though they can still be traced in part, have been modified in compliance with the less formal taste of later ages; but the church is unaltered—a grey stone structure of little architectural beauty, erected in the latter part of the seventeenth century by the owner of the estates in place of one which occupied a less convenient situation, and was in a dilapidated condition. This is the history of its consecration, as it is given by Plot, who tells us that milled shillings, halfpence, and farthings “coyn’d that year (1673) were put into hollow places cut for that purpose in the larger corner-stone of the steeple.” Afterwards he continues, “The church being thus finisht at the sole charge of the said Walter Chetwynd, in August An. 1677 it was solemnly consecrated by the right Reverend Father in God Thomas Lord Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield; the Dean of Lichfield preaching the Sermon, and some others of the most eminent Clergy reading prayers; baptizing a Child; Churching a woman; joyning a couple in Matrimony and burying another; all which offices were also there performed the same day. The pious and generous Founder and Patron offering upon the Altar the tithes of Hopton a village hard by, to the value of fifty poundsper Annum, as an addition to the Rectory for ever: presenting the Bishop and Dean at the same time, each with a piece of plate double guilt, as a gratefull acknowledgment of their service: and entertaining the Nobility, Clergy, and Gentry, both Men and Women, of the whole County in a manner, which came that day to see the solemnity performed, with a most splendid dinner at his house near adjoyning.”
The owners of Ingestre were descendants of the great Talbot family which fills so large a space in English history during the middle ages. The titles of Earl Talbot and Viscount Ingestre were conferred in the eighteenth century, and in the year 1856, in the lifetime of the third earl, the great law-suit was begun to establish his right to the earldom of Shrewsbury, and the large estates covered by the entail. For at least a century and a half the Earls of Shrewsbury had been Roman Catholics, and during all that time the title had not gone by direct descent, so it had become a saying in the county that so long as a Romanist held the title, no heir would be born to him. Thus, on the death of Earl Bertram, while still a young man and unmarried, great doubt existed as to the succession. The suit “involved two separate questions, namely, who was really the next-of-kin, and whether the estates were separable from the earldom. These had been entailed by an Act of Parliament obtained by the Duke of Shrewsbury, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, but it was doubtful whether the entail did not expire in the person of the young Earl Bertram. He was of opinion that it did, and being an ardent Roman Catholic, left the estates and all the art treasures contained in Alton Towers (the principal seat of his ancestors) to the Duke of Norfolk, so that they might still be owned by an obedient son of the Pope of Rome. It was, however, contended that the entail was yet valid and the estates were inseparable from the title. For the latter two claimants appeared, the one Earl Talbot ofIngestre in Staffordshire, the other Major Talbot of Castle Talbot, county Wexford. The former claimed as descendant of a son of the second wife of a certain Sir John Talbot of Albrighton, grandson of the second Earl of Shrewsbury; the latter as a descendant of a son of the first wife of the same person. If Major Talbot could have proved his pedigree, obviously he would have succeeded. This, however, he failed to do to the satisfaction of the House of Lords, who decided that Henry John Chetwynd, the Earl of Talbot, had made out his claim. He accordingly took the oath and his seat as eighteenth earl, June 10th, 1858. The important suit about the estates was not decided till 1860, when the Court of Exchequer pronounced the will of the late Earl Bertram, as far as concerned the entailed property, to be invalid.”[2]
Neither the winner, nor his son and successor, lived long to enjoy their victory, and the title devolved upon the present earl when he was still a boy. However, the charm seems broken, and the popular belief has been confirmed, for the earldom has already twice descended in the direct line.
Beautiful as is Ingestre Hall, its situation is hardly less attractive. The ground swells up from the old-fashioned garden into low hills, carpeted with grass, and shaded by fine old trees and clustering copses, which at last sink down into the rich meadows, through which the Trent winds slowly on. Rather below Ingestre it receives its first important affluent, which bears the prosaic name of the Sow. It is a stream of hardly less magnitude, but of less beauty and interest, which comes down a broad and well-marked valley from Stafford; this, though the chief town of the county, possesses little to interest the traveller; it is, however, an important railway junction, and is, besides, busied in shoemaking. The Sow also, before reaching the Trent, receives an affluent which is hardly less than itself. This is the Penk, which rises on the edge of the industrial district of South Staffordshire, and follows a northerly course through pleasant scenery on the western border of Cannock Chase until it meets the Sow.
Between the latter river and the Trent lies the estate of Tixall, once the property of the Astons and then of the Cliffords, but purchased some forty years since by the Talbots. The house, which stands nearer to the Sow, is a comparatively modern stone structure, plain and heavy in style, very inferior to the picturesque old dwelling which is represented by Plot, and of which he remarks that “the windows, though very numerous, are scarce two alike;” but the grey and ivy-clad old gateway “a curious piece of stone-work,” built in 1589, though dismantled, still remains much as it was when his plate was engraved. It stands just at the foot of the slope, where the low hills die away to the river plain, which here is perhaps half a mile in width; fine old trees cluster thickly in the neighbourhood of the house and around the little village, almost masking its cottages and its tiny church. Down the valley we see the woods of Shugborough closing the view and clothing the opposite slope beyond the union ofthe two rivers, and above them rises a triumphal arch, a memorial of a former owner of the hall, who was a man of note in his day and generation.
RUGELEY, FROM THE STONE QUARRY.RUGELEY, FROM THE STONE QUARRY.
RUGELEY, FROM THE STONE QUARRY.
The Trent, after it has taken large tribute from the Sow, flows through the park of the Earls of Lichfield, which is certainly not the least beautiful of those on its banks. The house, indeed, is not well situated, for it is built on the valley plain near the river, and is an uninteresting structure in the plainest Hanoverian style, but the scenery of the park is no less varied than beautiful. Here are broad and level meadows, shaded by groups of aged trees, and extending to the margin of the river; the plain gradually breaking into picturesque undulations as it approaches either border of the valley. On the left bank this is quickly reached. Here the slopes descend steeply to the river; on the opposite side, at a greater distance, the park begins to climb the outlying moorlands of Cannock Chase, on which, at intervals, cultivation wholly ceases.
The ancestors of the present earl have resided on this estate since the reign of James I., but the first to reach the peerage was Admiral George Anson, who, in 1740, began a protracted voyage, during which he circumnavigated the globe, and inflicted great injuries on the Spanish settlements in the New World. Afterwards he defeated the French in a naval engagement. As a reward for these and other services he was created Baron Anson, but the title expired with him. A nephew, however, who succeeded to his estate, was ultimately created Viscount Anson, and the earldom of Lichfield dates from 1831.
Shortly below its junction with the Sow the Trent is crossed by a curious old bridge, which, if only for its view of the valley, is worth a visit. Just above it the stream is divided by a wooded island and the western branch tumbles over a tiny weir: then the united waters, after passing beneath the bridge, contract as they flow between banks overhung by trees; these are backed on the left by the steep slopes already mentioned, but on the right stretch away till the wooded plain mounts to the uplands of Cannock Chase. The Essex Bridge, as it is called, from some connection with the family of Devereux, once owners of Chartley, even now consists of fourteen arches, but, according to the old county histories, was formerly of greater length. It is, however, difficult to see on which side the bridge has been cut short; but possibly the road across the valley may have been continued by a causeway, which was included with the bridge. This is a singularly picturesque old structure of grey sandstone, only about four feet in width, with an angle of refuge for foot passengers at every one of the piers—a convenience which will be appreciated by the traveller even if he encounter only a tricycle in crossing.
CANNOCK CHASE, FROM THE TRENT.CANNOCK CHASE, FROM THE TRENT.
CANNOCK CHASE, FROM THE TRENT.
In the park of Shugborough, and for a short distance below this, Trent approaches nearest to the edge of Cannock Chase. Indeed, for rather more than a mile above Wolseley Bridge, opposite the villages of Great Heywood and Colwich, a walk of a furlong, through a mere belt of cultivated land, leads on to an open moor which in some directions extends without a break for miles. The Chase is an undulating upland rising some three or four hundred feet above the valley of the Trent, and often not far from six hundred feet above sea level, a plateau consisting of rolling hills and narrow valleys with steeply shelving sides, composed almost wholly of the “pebble beds”—thick masses of a rather hard and sandy gravel containing pebbles which often are three or four inches in diameter. There is practically no surface soil, and thus the moors offers little temptation to the “land-grabbers.” Of late years indeed its area has been diminished, and its beauties not augmented, by considerable enclosures in the neighbourhood ofRugeley and Hednesford, and by the opening of collieries near the latter place. But the new fields do not seem likely to do much more than pay interest on the first expenditure, and the collieries have not been so uniformly successful as to cause apprehensions that, at any rate in the present generation, the moorland will become a “Black Country.” Another danger has lately threatened its solitudes, for a tract of Cannock Chase was one of the sites proposed for the meeting of the National Rifle Association in succession to Wimbledon Common. Bisley has been preferred, but there is still a possibility that this tract may be used as a practice ground for the Volunteers of the Midland and Northern counties, in which case the charm of another large segment of the Chase will quickly vanish.
At present, notwithstanding the occasional prospect of distant collieries, there are few districts in the Midlands which offer more attractions than Cannock Chase. The contour of the ground, it is true, does not exhibit much variety. It is, as has been said, an undulating plateau from which fairly well-marked valleys, gradually deepening, descend towards the lowlands, but there is much diversity in the minor details. Here sturdy oaks are scattered or graceful birches cluster close on slope or valley. Here only some weather-beaten sentinel of either tree, or a wind-worn thorn breaks the barrenness of the hill, or a few Scotch firs crown its crest. Almost everywhere the bracken flourishes, and heath or ling grows thick on the stony soil. So, in the late summer, the Chase for miles glows with the crimson bloom of the heath, or is flushed with the tender pink of the ling, while as autumn draws on the fern turns to gold on the slopes, and on the barer brows the bilberry leaf changes to scarlet, and the moor, soon to don the russet hue of its winter garb, seems to reflect the rich tints of the sunset sky. But this is not all. Among its many charms is the contrast of scenery: one moment you may be quite shut in by the undulations of the moorland—sweeps of fern and heath and ling bounding the view on every side—seemingly as far from the haunts of man as among the Sutherland Hills; but the next, on gaining the crest of some rounded ridge, many a mile of fertile lowland spreads out before your eyes—many a league of the rich vales of the Trent and the Sow, one vast and varied tapestry of woodland and cornfield and pasture, while beyond and above, rise, in this direction, the Wrekin dome and the Caradoc peaks, in that the great rounded uplands of Derbyshire, and in that the more broken outlines of the Charnwood Forest Hills. Deer once were common, black-game and grouse abundant, the snipe and even the woodcock made their nests in the valleys, and other rare birds were to be seen. But now the deer are few and the game is scanty. Cannock Chase, like the rest of Great Britain, suffers from the congestion of humanity.
But we must return to the Trent, from which we have wandered away into the moors. For a few miles, after leaving Shugborough Park, though it affords much pretty scenery, there is no place of special beauty or of historical interest near its banks. It passes under a new bridge, close to one of the approaches tothe Chase; it leaves on the left the village of Colwich and its neat church, on the right Oakedge Park, from which the residence has now disappeared. This, more than a century since, was the scene of a local scandal—a fascinating widow, a midnight marriage, and a verification of the old proverb about haste and leisure in regard to that bond. Then the river glides beneath the three arches of Wolseley Bridge—deservedly held in repute for its graceful though simple design—and passes at the back of Wolseley Hall. The estate has been owned by Wolseleys from before the Norman Conquest—but the house is comparatively modern, is of little interest, and is placed too near the water. Of this family Viscount Wolseley is a member, tracing back his descent to a younger son of a former baronet, and is thus a distant cousin of Sir Charles Wolseley, the present owner of the estate.
About half a mile from the Trent, and almost at the foot of the uplands of Cannock Chase, lies Rugeley, a small market town, the chief industry of which is a tannery. This place some thirty years ago acquired an unenviable notoriety as the scene of a case of poisoning, which attracted much attention and presented points of legal interest. The chief railway station is near the river, and so at some distance from the town, of which little is seen. The slender spire which rises above its houses is that of the Roman Catholic Church; the Anglican Church is at the nearer entrance of the town. It was built early in the century, and if ugliness were a merit might claim the first rank, but on the opposite side of the road are the tower and some portions of the old church, which are not without a certain picturesqueness. The tall chimneys on the hill slopes, a mile or more beyond the town, indicate the northern boundary of the South Staffordshire coalfield. Here the escarpment of the moorlands is not very far away from a fault by which the coal measures are thrown down for so many hundred feet that no attempt has yet been made to sink shafts in the valley of the Trent.
FROM THE MEADOWS NEAR ALREWAS. / ARMITAGE.FROM THE MEADOWS NEAR ALREWAS. / ARMITAGE.
FROM THE MEADOWS NEAR ALREWAS. / ARMITAGE.
Also on the uplands, and rather further away from Rugeley, is another of the great houses which are the chief interest of this part of the Trent. This is Beaudesert. Once a country seat of the Bishops of Lichfield, it passed into the hands of the Pagets in the reign of Henry VIII. A peerage has been long in the family, but the first Marquis of Anglesey was a dashing officer, who highly distinguished himself in the great war with France, and lost his leg at the battle of Waterloo, where he commanded the cavalry. The house, which stands in a commanding position high up on the slope of the uplands, is built of brick, and not a little of it dates from the reign of Elizabeth, though it is not a striking example of the architecture of that era. Several small villages are dotted over the lowlands near Trent side, each offering some little bit of antiquity or fragment of history, such as Armitage, with its church looking down on canal and river, or Mavesyn Ridware, with some tombs of interest in its highly restored Trinity aisle, and its story of a feud between Mavesyn de Ridware and Sir William of Handsacre; though over these we must not linger, but follow the Trent as it pursues its course throughgrassy meadows in a widening valley, leaving the old cathedral town of Lichfield some four miles away amidst the undulating ground on its southern bank. It glides by various small villages, and receives the tributary stream of the Blyth, which traverses one of the prettiest districts of Staffordshire, coming down by the park of the Bagots, and the remnant of the ancient forest of Needwood, where many a grand oak still flourishes. By the water side are many fair pictures—pleasant groupings of trees, and reeds, with wide straths of grass and glimpses of scattered farmhouses, or grey towers of village churches—each with its little cluster of memories, sometimes of more than local interest. Of these perhaps the most noteworthy is Alrewas, once famed for its eels. Excerpts from its registers are quoted by Shaw, and make interesting reading. Here they tell of a murder, there of a suicide, now of a death by drowning in Trent or Tame, now of heat, or drought, or frost. Fires and storms also figure in the record, even an earthquake, but the strangest tale of all is the following: “This 21st day of December, anno 1581, was the water of Trent dryed up and sodenly fallen so ebb that I, John Falkner, vicar, went over into the hall meddow, in a low peare of showes, about 4 of the clocke in the afternoone: and so it was never in the remembrance of any man then living in the droughtest yeare that any man had knownen, and the same water in the morning before was banke full, which was very strange.”
BURTON-UPON-TRENT.BURTON-UPON-TRENT.
BURTON-UPON-TRENT.
The Tame, which joins the Trent near Alrewas, coming down by “Tamworth tower and town,” nearly doubles the volume of the latter, which afterwards flows towards the north, that is in prolongation of the course of the former river. The valley widens yet more between the low hills of Leicestershire and the upland which formed part of Needwood Forest—that region “richly placed,” as Drayton says, “’twixt Trent and battening Dove,” which, though curtailed of its ancient extent by enclosure, still exhibits more than one grand old oak, and many a choice nook of forest scenery, while the views from the hilly district between the Blyth and the Dove are often of singular variety and beauty.
But now chimneys begin to bristle from the river-plain, and smoke to dim the brightness of the air. Is it fancy, or does a pleasant odour of brewing mingle with the scent of meadow-sweet and riverside herbs? It may well be, for we are approaching Burton-upon-Trent, the metropolis of beer. The description written of it for other pages may be given here:—“If the visitor to Burton care neither to drink of beer nor think of beer, he will not find much to detain him there. Though an old place, it possesses little of antiquity; nor is there any picturesqueness either in its houses or in its streets. It gives one the idea of a typical Staffordshire town—that is to say, a very uninteresting one—which during the last half century has developed into an important mercantile centre. There is thus a certain air of incompleteness about it. Homely buildings of the times of our grandfathers are mixed with handsome modern structures; a fine church, school, or institute rises among dwellings of the most ordinary type; one shop is appropriate to the quiet country town of the last generation, another to the bustling country town of the present. But there is one dominant characteristic—Burton is wholly given over to beer. The great breweries occupy whole districts of the town, and are intersected by the streets; these are traversed again and again by rails; and locomotives, dragging laden wagons—trains of beer—pass and repass in a way unprecedented in any other English town. Great piles of barrels—the Pyramids of the Valley of the Trent—greet the traveller’s eye as he halts at the station, and the air is redolent with the fumes of brewing.”[3]
The development of this industry is comparatively of late date, though the ale of Burton has long enjoyed a local reputation. Even the monks of its abbey were noted for the excellence of their beer; but Leland and Camden speak only of its alabaster works. “But in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, beer from the district—which, probably, was in part brewed at Burton—was introduced into London. This, however, bore the name of Derby ale, and by that name is favourably spoken of by Camden. He, however, states that there were diversities of opinion, for a Norman poet had termed it ‘a strange drink, so like the Stygian lake.’” The original Burton ale was, however, very different from that for which it is generally celebrated, for it was a strong drink, the India pale ale dating only from the present century. “In the year 1822, one Hodgson, a London brewer who hadsettled at Burton, brewed something like the present bitter ale, which he accomplished in a teapot in his counting-house, and called it ‘Bombay beer.’ A retired East India captain named Chapman improved on this, and Burton ale soon attained the celebrity that has made the names of Bass and Allsopp household words all over the world.” The heads of each of these firms (now converted into limited companies) have mounted on steps of barrels to the peerage; but there are other firms of slightly younger standing though of hardly less importance.
One noteworthy fact in the later history of Burton is the liberality of these its leading citizens. Not a few of the principal public buildings—churches, schools, baths, and other institutions—are gifts from members of this or that firm; the latest is a suspension bridge for foot passengers over the Trent, at the southern end of the town, which is the gift of Lord Burton. Previous to this the river was only bridged in one place. At this spot a bridge has existed for several centuries; but the present structure is quite modern. It is far more commodious, but to the artist less attractive, than its predecessor. That was narrow, built on a curve, consisting of thirty-six arches, hardly any two of which were alike; this is wide, uniform, and strikes straight across the broad valley from bank to bank. Like most old bridges, the former had above its piers the usual nooks for the retreat of passengers, and few who remember it will not feel some regret at the change. But this was inevitable; the old bridge was totally inadequate for the needs of the new Burton, which had become a very different place from the little town pictured by Shaw at the end of the last century, and sentiment was obliged to yield to utility. As might be supposed, the old bridge, in early days, was the scene of more than one conflict.
But the history of Burton Town goes back earlier than that of Burton Bridge, even if this, as some have asserted, dated from the reign of William the Norman. Full a thousand years ago there dwelt at Bureton, or Buryton, a noted lady of Irish birth, Modwena by name, who, for curing Alfred, son of Ethelwolfe, of some disease, received a grant of land. Her home for some years was the island between the two branches of the Trent, and the well from which she had been wont to drink sympathetically retained healing virtues, being in repute, as Plot tells us, with those who suffered from the “king’s evil.” A monastery was afterwards founded by Ulfric Spot, Earl of Mercia, to which her body was translated, and which endured till the suppression of such institutions. The church which was attached to it has been rebuilt, and only some fragments of the conventual buildings remain about the house, which still bears the name of Burton Abbey.
The arms of the Trent unite below Burton, and the right bank of the river affords some varied and pleasant scenery, the ground sloping rapidly down to the level water-meadows, with scattered houses, hamlets, and groves of trees. A castellated mansion of pretentious aspect stands on the hill above fine old trees; beyond, on lower ground, embosomed in yet larger and not less ancient groves, is Newton Hall, near the village, called for distinction Newton Solney, which stands nearly opposite to the junction of the Dove with the Trent.
T. G. Bonney.
DOVE HEAD.DOVE HEAD.
DOVE HEAD.
What’s in the Name—Axe Edge and Dove Head—The Monogram—Glutton Mill—Hartington—Beresford Dale—Pike Pool—Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton—Beresford Hall—Dove Dale—Its Associations—Ilam—The Manifold—Ashbourne—Doveridge— Uttoxeter—Sudbury—Tutbury—The Confluence.
T
Thereare two rivers bearing the beautiful name of the Dove—a name derived from “the shimmering gleam of water, corresponding to the lustre of the dove’s white wing.” There are also two Dove Dales. In Longfellow’s “Poems of Places,” Wordsworth’s tender verses beginning—
“She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,”
“She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,”
“She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,”
are often ascribed to the Derbyshire river, which is more than worthy of such a dedication. But the Dove which the venerable recluse of Rydal Mount referred to is the wayward mountain streamlet of his own beloved Lakeland; and the Dove Dale of that district, in its romantic beauty and historic associations, is but a wayside dell in comparison with the enchanting glen where Izaak Walton discoursed upon philanthropy and fishing, and the gallant Charles Cotton alternately entertained the ancient angler, and hid himself in caves to escape the polite attentions of unpleasant creditors. The phrase, however—
“A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye,”
“A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye,”
“A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,”
aptly, if unconsciously, describes Dove Head, where the Derbyshire Dove escapes from the morose moorlands of Axe Edge, the mountain cradle of four other rivers—the Wye, the Dane, the Goyt, and the Manifold.
MAP OF THE DOVE.MAP OF THE DOVE.
MAP OF THE DOVE.
Axe Edge is a wild heathery table-land, in which the counties of Derby, Stafford, and Cheshire meet in a savage solitude. The loneliness of this region is impressive, although fashionable Buxton, the spa of the Peak, is only three miles away. There are whisperings of water everywhere on these breezy highlands, now purple under a passing cloud, now a vivid green in the slanting sunlight, as shadow and shine succeed each other over the rugged slopes. They are mere liquid lispings. Their articulations are not so loud as the crow of the blackcock, the clamour of the peewit, or the call of the grouse. But the imperceptible tinkling, the mere tracery of moisture among the rank grass and ebony peat, grow until the rill has become a rivulet; and now we are at Dove Head. There is an isolated farmstead, the whitewashed buildings of which stand out in strong relief from the sombre moorland background. Over the doorway of this solitary old farmhouse are carved the words “Dove Head.” Exactly opposite to this house is a moss-grown trough with bubbling water, clear and cold, not topaz-coloured like most streams that have their origin in mountain mosses. On the slab the initials of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton are entwined in cypher, after the manner of the monogram in the fishing-house in Beresford Dale. This spot indicates the county boundary. Staffordshire claims one side of the Dove, but Derby has greater pretensions to the ownership of the river, for both its head and its foot are in the latter county.
Dove Head is one of the view points of the “Peake Countrie.” The panoramic prospect over bleak height and verdant dale is one to transport the landscape painter. Yet it is too near Buxton, with Manchester only forty minutes’ railway ride away, to tempt the English artist. There exist, in a relative sense and with due respect to proportion, few wilder or more picturesque “bits” of scenery than are comprised in the ramble from Dove Head to Glutton Mill. For three or four miles the river, a mere brook, passes through a gritstone gorge, with rocky escarpments above, boulders below, and a paradise of ferns around. At Glutton Mill the character of the scenery changes with the geological nature of thecountry. The limestone now crops up, and there are peculiar volcanic upheavals, such as Chrome Hill and Parker Hill. The rocky glen has widened suddenly into a green and spacious valley, and the harsh and hungry stone walls give place to park-like pastures and hawthorn hedgerows. Chrome Hill and Parker Hill rise steep between the “Princess Dove” in her infancy and her maidenhood; while green High Wheeldon and austere Hollins Clough are the sentinels of two jealous counties. Glutton Mill, with its red-tiled roof, idyllic surroundings, and sleepy atmosphere, might have inspired the Laureate when he confessed—
“I loved the brimming wave that swamThrough quiet meadows round the mill,The sleepy pool above the dam,The pool beneath it never still,The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor,The dark round of the dripping wheel,The very air about the doorMade misty with the floating meal.”
“I loved the brimming wave that swamThrough quiet meadows round the mill,The sleepy pool above the dam,The pool beneath it never still,The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor,The dark round of the dripping wheel,The very air about the doorMade misty with the floating meal.”
“I loved the brimming wave that swam
Through quiet meadows round the mill,
The sleepy pool above the dam,
The pool beneath it never still,
The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor,
The dark round of the dripping wheel,
The very air about the door
Made misty with the floating meal.”
Glutton Dale, a rocky gorge, gives access to the odd, old-world village of Sterndale, with a tavern the sign of which is “The Silent Woman.” It is a pictorial sign in the most pronounced Van Daub style; but the designer must have been a satirical humourist, for the lady depicted is without a head!
The Dove for the next few miles loses its wild features. There are no deep gorges or rocky chasms. The walk now is through lush meadows, and the progress of the stream, so swift and tumultuous in its upper reaches, is in comparison almost sluggish. It ripples with soothing murmur over pebbly shallows, or reflects patches of blue sky in deep and glassy pools. Here and there a water-thread from either the Staffordshire or the Derbyshire side, is welcomed, and trout and grayling invite the angler. Past Beggar’s Bridge, Crowdecote Bridge, Pilsbury, Broad Meadow Hall, and a fertile country dotted with dairy farms, and we are at the patrician village of Hartington, with its Elizabethan hall on the hill, and its venerable church with pinnacled tower, dating back to the first part of the thirteenth century,temp.Henry III. Hartington, which gives the Marquises their title, is eleven miles from Dove Head, and the length of the river from its source to its junction with the Trent is exactly fifty-six picturesque unpolluted miles, without an uninteresting point along the entire course. A riverside path brings us to Beresford Dale, perhaps the most secluded portion of the valley, for the Dove Dale tourist and the “cheap tripper” rarely penetrate so far up the zigzag windings of the river. Here the stream resumes its romantic features. Limestone tors embroidered with foliage shut it out from the world. There is a strip of white cloud above, and a gleam of liquid light below. Pellucid pools reflect wooded height and gleaming crag. All around is the sense of solitude and the rapture of repose, broken only by the soliloquy of the stream and the song of the wild birds.
At Pike Pool (there are no pike), alluded to in the “Compleat Angler,”rises from the centre of the Dove a pinnacle of weather-beaten limestone forty feet high. Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton indulge in a characteristic colloquy concerning this isolated needle, “one of the oddest sights.” The intimacy of the reckless young squire who penned the indecencies of “Virgil Travestie,” and the rigid moralist who wrote the Lives of Hooker and George Herbert, is one of the curiosities of famous friendships. It can only be accounted for by the conclusion that true love is like the law of magnetism—the attraction of opposites. Here, however, “Piscator” and “Viator” cease to be abstractions, for, behold! this is the classic Fishing House, wherein “my dear son Charles” entertained his “most affectionate father and friend.” Externally it is the same as when Izaak and Charles smoked their morning pipe, which was “commonly their breakfast,” and discoursed of the joys and contentment of country life. The little temple is built on a green peninsula at a pretty bend of the river, with the swing of trees above and the song of the stream below. “It is”—says the author of “Pictures of the Peak”—“a one-storied building, toned with the touch of time. In shape it is a perfect cube of eighteen feet, with a pyramidal stone roof, from which springs a stone pillar and hip knob. There are lattice windows and shutters on all sides. The doorway, with its three moss-grown steps, faces the dale, and over it is a square panel with the inscription—
PiscatoribusSacrum1674.
A monogram, similar to the one at Dove Head, declares the affinity between the two old-world fishermen!” Formerly the oak wainscoting was covered with paintings of riverside scenes, and the portraits of the “father” and his “adopted son” decorated the panels of the buffet. The old fireplace, the marble table, and the carved oak chairs, however, remain intact.
THE MONOGRAM AT DOVE HEAD.THE MONOGRAM AT DOVE HEAD.
THE MONOGRAM AT DOVE HEAD.
Not far from this fishing house stood Beresford Hall, the ancestral home of Charles Cotton. It was pulled down some years ago, when it was condemned as being structurally unsafe. But the owner (the late Mr. Beresford Hope) had all the stones carefully numbered and marked with a view to their re-erection somewhat after the old style. They now lie in an adjacent meadow. Beresford Hall in Charles Cotton’s days was a noble building. It stood in plantations among the rocks with woodland vistas opening out to the windings of the water. The hall was wainscoted in oak. It was rich in old carved furniture, ebony coffers, and trophies of the chase. The most prized possession, surrounded with arms and armour, hunting horns and falcons’ hoods and bells, antlers and fowling-pieces, was the fishing rod presented to Charles Cotton by old Izaak, whose bed-chamber, “with sheets laidup in lavender,” was one of the choicest apartments of the house. There were figured patterns over the chimney-piece, and angels’ heads stamped in relief on the ceiling. On the rocks above the site of the hall are to be seen vestiges of the Prospect Tower, the basement of which was Cotton’s study, and the summit a beacon where flambeaux were lit by his wife to guide her husband home in the darkness, even as Hero’s watch-fires brought her beloved Leander to her bosom. Cotton himself called this observatory “Hero’s Tower,” and in a poetic epistle, describing his journey from London to Basford Hall, he thus alludes to the building:—
“Tuesday at noon at Lichfield town we baited,But there some friends, who long that hour had waited,So long detain’d me, that my charioteerCould drive that night but to Uttoxeter.And there, the Wednesday being market-day,I was constrain’d with some kind lads to stay,Tippling till afternoon, which made it night,When from my Hero’s Tower I saw the lightOf her flambeaux, and fancied, as we drave,Each rising hillock was a swelling wave,And that I swimming was, in Neptune’s spight,To my long long’d for harbour of delight.”
“Tuesday at noon at Lichfield town we baited,But there some friends, who long that hour had waited,So long detain’d me, that my charioteerCould drive that night but to Uttoxeter.And there, the Wednesday being market-day,I was constrain’d with some kind lads to stay,Tippling till afternoon, which made it night,When from my Hero’s Tower I saw the lightOf her flambeaux, and fancied, as we drave,Each rising hillock was a swelling wave,And that I swimming was, in Neptune’s spight,To my long long’d for harbour of delight.”
“Tuesday at noon at Lichfield town we baited,
But there some friends, who long that hour had waited,
So long detain’d me, that my charioteer
Could drive that night but to Uttoxeter.
And there, the Wednesday being market-day,
I was constrain’d with some kind lads to stay,
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night,
When from my Hero’s Tower I saw the light
Of her flambeaux, and fancied, as we drave,
Each rising hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was, in Neptune’s spight,
To my long long’d for harbour of delight.”
Dissipated Charles! devoted wife!
THE BANKS OF THE DOVE.THE BANKS OF THE DOVE.
THE BANKS OF THE DOVE.
Leaving Beresford Dale, we come to many enticing passages on the Dove, troutful and leafy, where rock and water and woodland make combinations that are the despair of artists. Wolfscote Ravine, Narrow Dale, Cold Eaton, Alstonfield, Load Mill, and Mill Dale are but topographical expressions, but to those who know the Dove they cease to be words, and become scenes of enchantment. And now we are in the Dove Dale of the tourists and the trippers, the painters and the picnic parties, the fly-fishermen and the amateur photographers.The guide-books have done Dove Dale grievous injustice by “heaping Ossa upon Pelion” with such misleading epithets as “grand,” “majestic,” “stupendous,” “terrific,” “awful,” etc.,ad nauseam. Dove Dale is only imposing by its surpassing loveliness, its perfect beauty. A romantic glen three miles long, narrow and winding, it is a dream of pretty scenery. Limestone cliffs close in the clear and voiceful water. Their precipitous sides are draped to the sky-line with a wealth and wonder of foliage, the white tors shining through the green gloom. The wooded slopes, rich with wild flowers, ferns, and mosses, just admit of a pathway by the water, which is now white and wavy with cascades, and now a dreamy calm in reflective pools. Each turn in this romantic valley has its surprise in scenery. A revelation awaits each step.
ILAM HALL.ILAM HALL.
ILAM HALL.
Some of the impending crags have such an individual character that they are known by particular names, such as Sharplow Point, the Twelve Apostles, Tissington Spires, the Lion’s Head, the Watch Box, the Straits, the Sugar Loaf, the Church Rock, etc.; whilst perforations in the rock forming natural arches and caverns are entitled Dove Holes, Dove Dale Church, Grey Mare’s Stable, Reynard’sCave, Reynard’s Kitchen, the Crescent, the Arched Gateway, the Amphitheatre, the Abbey, and so on. These limestone tors, standing out from their green setting, assume castellated shapes. Here they suggest a bastion, there a spire; now an assemblage of towers, anon a convent church.
Dove Dale possesses many literary associations apart from those attached to Izaak Walton and his “adopted son” Charles. Surly Samuel Johnson frequently visited his friend Dr. Taylor, the Ashbourne divine who made his will in favour of the Fleet Street philosopher, but who lived to preach his funeral sermon in Westminster Abbey. In Dove Dale Dr. Johnson discovered the Happy Valley of “Rasselas.” Morbid Jean Jacques Rousseau found a hospitable asylum at David Hume’s house at Wootton Hall. It was another sort of “asylum” to which he should have been admitted, for he quarrelled with his benefactor. In Dove Dale he wandered scattering the seeds of rare plants that still flourish, and pondering over his “Confessions,” the most introspective of autobiographies. Thomas Moore lived by the banks of the Dove, and his letters to Lord Byron abound with references to the “beauty spots” of the neighbourhood. He rented a little cottage at Mayfield, where he passed the early years of his married life, buried his first-born, wrote most of “Lalla Rookh,” and in “Those Evening Bells” swung into undying music the metallic chimes of Ashbourne Church. Congreve wrote several of his comedies at Ilam. Canning was one of Dove Dale’s devotees, and the reader will remember his political squib beginning—
“So down thy slope, romantic Ashbourne, glidesThe Derby Dilly, carrying six insides.”
“So down thy slope, romantic Ashbourne, glidesThe Derby Dilly, carrying six insides.”
“So down thy slope, romantic Ashbourne, glides
The Derby Dilly, carrying six insides.”
The law of association links the Dove with other illustrious names: with Alfred Butler, the novelist, author of “Elphinstone,” “The Herberts,” and other works of fiction famous in their day; with Michael Thomas Sadler, author of the “Law of Population;” with Ward, the author of “Tremaine;” with Richard Graves, who wrote the “Spiritual Quixote,” and whose portrait Wilkie painted; with Hobbes, the philosopher of Malmesbury; with Wright of Derby; and Edwards, the author of the “Tour of the Dove.”
Dove Dale proper is at its extremity guarded by two imposing hills—Thorpe Cloud, a cone-shaped eminence of 900 feet, and burly Bunster, less conspicuous, but considerably higher. Passing these portals we come to the Izaak Walton Hotel, with the Walton and Cotton monogram of 1660 over its lichened gateway. The house is even older, and it serves to introduce us to the delightful village of Ilam, with its trim Gothic cottages, its magnificent Hall, its elegant Cross and Fountain, and its pretty church. In the church is Sir Francis Chantrey’s masterpiece. It represents David Pike Watts on his death-bed taking leave for ever of his wife and children. The scene is an affecting one, and the composition one of pathetic beauty. It is a sermon in stone, and insensible to all feeling must be the man who can gaze upon this touching group without emotion. In the grounds ofIlam Hall the Manifold joins the Dove. Both rivers had their birthplace on Axe Edge, and throughout their course have never been far apart, although not within actual sight of each other. They have kept a “respectful distance,” and not been on “speaking terms.” The two rivers might have cherished a mutual aversion, if you can imagine such a repugnance. Before the Manifold emerges into the larger stream it has pursued a subterranean course for several miles. It bursts into daylight from a cave in the limestone rock, and at once plunges into the pure and placid waters of the Dove.
After leaving Ilam, the Dove again assumes a pastoral character. It flows with graceful curves through a rich and reposeful landscape, where green woods cover gentle slopes. Passing Okeover and Mappleton, it just avoids Ashbourne, that only needed its silvery, shimmering waters to complete the charm of its dreamy old-world streets, as drowsy and quaint now as they were in the days of the ’45, when Prince Charlie raised his standard in the market-place, and the ancient gables framed a Highland picture of targets and claymores and dirks, of unkempt, wild-haired clansmen in bonnet and kilt, ready to face any foe or endure any danger in the cause of the young Chevalier, whom they proclaimed King of England. A local tradition states that the Ashbourne men caught a Highlander, killed him, and found his skin so tough that it was tanned, and made most excellent leather! The church is the pride and glory of Ashbourne, and it is, indeed, a possession worthy of its fascinating surroundings and historic associations. It was dedicated in 1241; its tower and spire attain a height of 212 feet. The long series of Cockayne monuments, dating from the middle of the twelfth century to the end of the sixteenth, are worthy of a volume to themselves. In the chancel is Banks’ pathetic monument to the memory of Penelope Boothby. The portrait of this sweet child was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. One of the illustrated papers has reproduced the picture, and made the innocent little face familiar in every home. Sympathetic inscriptions in English, French, Latin, and Italian on pedestal and slab vainly express Sir Brooke Boothby’s poignant grief over his great loss. One of these inscriptions reads:—“She was in form and intellect most exquisite. The unfortunate parents ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was total.” One of the legends of art is that Chantrey stole into the church to study this poem in marble, and that it gave him the idea for his “Sleeping Children” in Lichfield Cathedral, which he designed in an Ashbourne hostelry while the inspiration was fresh upon him.
After leaving Ashbourne, the Dove, alder-fringed and willowed over, broadening through sweet-smelling pastures and passing prosperous farmsteads, makes its first acquaintance with a railway. The North Staffordshire line and the river play at hide-and-seek all the way down to the Trent, and the traveller has many gratifying glimpses—carriage-window pictures—of the glancing stream. The Dove is now not quite half-way on its journey to the strong and stately Trent. The scenery is very much like that of the Upper Thames, and should tempt some of our bright open-airschool of painters. In succession follow Hanging Bridge and Mayfield, associated with the genius of Tom Moore; Church Mayfield, Clifton, Colwich Abbey, and Norbury, with its grand old church glorious in old stained glass, perfect of its kind, and its manor-house rebuilt in 1267. Then comes Rocester, inviting alike the artist, the angler, and the archæologist. The Dove here receives the rippling waters of the Churnet that flows past Alton Towers, and at Marston Montgomery it is joined by the Tean Brook, a tributary of considerable volume.