ASHBOURNE CHURCH.ASHBOURNE CHURCH.
ASHBOURNE CHURCH.
Passing Eaton with its rich verdure and hanging woods, once part of Needwood Forest, we come to Doveridge, the Hall—the seat of Lord Hindlip—rising above the wooded ridge. If the house itself, because of its debased style of architecture, is not an attractive addition to the landscape, its situation, on the green heights above the valley of the Dove, with the rolling Staffordshire moorlands and the obtuse peaks of the Weaver Hills in the distance, is enchanting. The Dove winds in the rich pastoral “strath” below in the most capricious curvatures, and the eye follows the course of the wilful stream by meadow and upland, by deep dell and dusky slope, for many miles. Presently comes Uttoxeter, the spire of the church being a conspicuous feature in a landscape filled with sylvan beauty. The pronunciation of the word puzzles the visitor, and even the natives grow gentlydisputatious on the subject. A local bard, however, comes to the rescue of the stranger. In a fine patriotic outburst he declares:
“In all the country round there’s nothing neaterThan the pretty little town of Uttoxeter.”
“In all the country round there’s nothing neaterThan the pretty little town of Uttoxeter.”
“In all the country round there’s nothing neater
Than the pretty little town of Uttoxeter.”
Uttoxeter is a characteristic specimen of an old English market town, which neither the railway nor what Carlyle contemptuously calls “the age of gin and steam-hammers” has left unspoiled. It has many interesting literary and historical associations. Here Mary Howitt was born; and Dr. Johnson’s father, bookseller at Lichfield, kept a stall in the market-place. On one occasion he asked his son to attend the market in his place, but the future lexicographer’s stubborn pride led to insubordination. Fifty years afterwards, haunted by this disobedience of the paternal wish, Dr. Johnson made a pilgrimage to Uttoxeter market-place, and in inclement weather stood bare-headed for a considerable time on the spot where his father’s stall used to stand, exposed to a pelting rain and the flippant sneers of the bystanders. “In contrition,” he confesses, “I stood, and I hope the penance was expiatory.” The incident says much for Johnson’s character, and the scene may be commended to a painter in search of an historical theme.
THE STRAITS, DOVEDALE.THE STRAITS, DOVEDALE.
THE STRAITS, DOVEDALE.
At Uttoxeter the Dove is thirty-eight miles from its mountain home. It now winds past Sudbury, where it is crossed by a strikingly handsome bridge giving access to Lord Vernon’s domain, with its deer park of 600 acres and model dairy farm. The Hall is a red-brick mansion in the Elizabethan style, and was erected in the early part of the seventeenth century. This delightful retreat was the residence of the Dowager Queen Adelaide from 1840 to 1843. The church, which is within the park, is a large and venerable structure, grey with age, and green with glossy ivy.
Presently comes Tutbury, where the Dove is fifty miles from Axe Edge. It flows under the commanding castle hill, where the ruins of a building that existed before the Norman Conquest look down grim and gloomy upon the glad Dove, glancing up at its dismantled walls with their chequered history from the green plain to which she lends such grace. The three towers associated with John of Gaunt make a diversified sky-line. Tutbury Castle has all the credentials necessary to make thereputation of a respectable ruin. For fifteen years it was the prison-house of Mary Queen of Scots, and it suffered from the cannon of Cromwell. The west doorway of the Priory Church, with its “chevron” tracery, is a glorious specimen of Norman architecture. The village was notorious for its bull-baiting, and everybody has heard of “the fasting woman of Tutbury,” one Ann Moore, who professed to live without food. She added an assumption of piety to her imposture, and by this means collected £240. She was subsequently sent to prison for fraud. An interesting feature in connection with the history of the place should receive notice. In 1831 an extraordinary find of coins was made in the bed of the river, over 100,000 in number. People flocked from all parts to dig up the auriferous and argentiferous river-bed, until at last the Crown despatched a troop of soldiers to protect the rights of the Duchy of Lancaster. Still stands the notice-board on the bridge threatening prosecution to all trespassers. It is supposed that the coins formed part of the treasury of the Earl of Lancaster when he had taken up arms against Edward II., and that in the panic of retreat across the Dove the money chests were lost in the swollen river, at that time scarcely fordable.
The Dove valley downward from Tutbury past Marston, Rolleston, and Egginton, is full of quiet and stately beauty. At Newton Solney the stream, as crystal as it was in the limestone dales, is greeted by the Trent, its clear waters soon losing their shining transparency in the darker tinged tide of the larger river.
Edward Bradbury.
JOHN OF GAUNT’S GATEWAY, TUTBURY CASTLE.JOHN OF GAUNT’S GATEWAY, TUTBURY CASTLE.
JOHN OF GAUNT’S GATEWAY, TUTBURY CASTLE.
JUNCTION OF THE TRENT AND THE DOVE.JUNCTION OF THE TRENT AND THE DOVE.
JUNCTION OF THE TRENT AND THE DOVE.
Newton Solney—Repton: The School and the Church—Swarkestone: Its Bridge and its Church—Chellaston—Donington Park and Castle Donington—Cavendish Bridge.
T
Trulya pretty spot is the little village of Newton Solney, rising up the slope from a low scarp which overlooks the Trent, with its scattered houses, its small church spire, and the fine old trees around the hall. This indeed is a modern structure, and certainly not picturesque, but there has been a mansion on this site for many a year, for the De Sulneys had the estate full six centuries ago, and there is a fine monument to one of them in the interesting church. Trent sweeps on through the broad and level meadows, now become a strong full stream, which near Willington Station—where it is bridged—is about eighty yards wide. Here, in the valley indeed, but nearly a mile away from the actual margin of the river, is a little town of great antiquity and unusual interest. Repton, distinguished from afar by the slender and lofty spire of its church, is the Hreopandum of the Anglo-Saxon chronicle. Some suppose it to be the Roman Repandunum; certainly it was a place of importance more than twelve centuries since, for it was selected by Diuma, the first Bishop of Mercia, as the centre of his huge diocese, and here, about the year 658, he died and was buried. Soon after this a nunnery wasfounded, and before St. Chad removed the “bishop’s-stool” to Lichfield, St. Guthlac had started from Repton to float down the Trent, and to wander through the fenland of East Anglia till he settled down on the swampy island of Crowland. So many of the Princes of Mercia were buried here that the abbey is described by a Norman chronicler as “that most holy mausoleum of all the Kings of Mercia.” Hither, for instance, in the year 775, the body of Ethelbald was brought for burial from the fatal field of Secandun. No trace of his tomb, or indeed of that of any other Mercian King, now remains. Since those days changes have been so many that monuments have had little chance of escaping; but probably these and the monastery were alike destroyed when a horde of Danish plunderers swept through the Midlands of England, and Bathred of Mercia, in the year 874, had to fly before them. These unwelcome intruders spent the winter at Repington. At their hands Mercian monuments and monastic buildings would fare ill. Prior to this calamity the body of St. Wystan,a devout Prince, heir to the throne of Mercia, was laid here by the side of his mother Alfleda. On Whitsun-eve, 849, he was assassinated by a cousin, and before long miracles in plenty were wrought at his tomb. His relics, on the approach of the Danes, were transferred for safety to Evesham, and when the church was rebuilt, in the tenth century, the new structure was dedicated to his memory. Repton, at the time of Domesday Book, was a part of the Royal demesne; then we find it included in the estates of the Earls of Chester. The nunnery in some way or other had come to an end, for a widowed countess of this line founded on the site a priory of Black Canons in the year 1172, of which considerable remnants may still be seen.
REPTON.REPTON.
REPTON.
The little old-fashioned town occupies some gently rising ground. This is separated from the broad and level water-meadows by a step or craglet a few feet in height, the scarp of an old river terrace; nearest to this are the church and priory buildings, which occupy a considerable tract of land, and look down upon the remnants of the monks’ fishponds. The old trees that have here and there fixed their roots in the broken bank-side, the graceful steeple of the church, rising to an elevation of more than sixty yards, the great group of the school buildings—which occupy the site of the old priory, and in which new and old are mingled together in a picturesque confusion—offer, as we approach Repton from the railwaystation, along the flat and otherwise uninteresting valley, a series of pictures of no little beauty. The school owes its foundation to Sir John Porte, who in the year 1556 endowed it with lands, and assigned to it the buildings of the old priory. These had originally been granted to one Thomas Thacker, but, as is often the case with ill-gotten gains, had brought him little good. Fuller, the Church historian, tells a tale which shows him to have been a man not easily thwarted. At Repton St. Guthlac had a shrine, where was a wonder-working bell, a grand specific for the headache. Public gratitude had found expression in a fine church or chapel, and this was included in Thacker’s share of monastic plunder. He had heard that Queen Mary had set up the abbeys again, so he lost no time, but “upon a Sunday (belike the better day the better deed) called together the carpenters and masons of that county and pulled down in one day (church work is a cripple in going up but rides post in coming down) a most beautiful church belonging thereto, saying he would destroy the nest lest the birds should build again.”
THE “CROW TREES,” BARROW-ON-TRENT.THE “CROW TREES,” BARROW-ON-TRENT.
THE “CROW TREES,” BARROW-ON-TRENT.
The gateway of the priory, a fine pointed arch, still serves as the entrance to the school premises, and several parts of the buildings evidently carry us back to the days of the Black Canons, while others probably indicate the hands of Elizabethan workmen, when the ruined monastic buildings were converted into a school. Mingled with these are structures of later date, among which those of the present reign are conspicuous, owing to the growth of the school and the development of education in recent days. Thus the whole group, in which new and old are mingled, almost entangled, is always interesting and not seldom picturesque. The school chapel, which is modern, and has been further enlarged of late years in commemoration of the tercentenary of the foundation, stands at some little distance from the other buildings, and on the opposite side of the churchyard. The estate bestowed upon the foundation by Sir John Porte, by whom also a hospital was established and maintained at Etwall, a village some four miles away, has proved valuable, so that the endowment is considerable. The school from a very early period enjoyed a considerable local reputation, which has gradually extended, till at the present day it claims a place in the second group of the great schools of England, for some three hundred lads have replaced the Black Canons, a change which means a good deal for the little town. Among its scholars in olden time were Lightfoot the Hebraist and Stebbing Shaw the historian of Staffordshire, whom we have more than once quoted. The constitution of the school was materially altered by the results of the Endowed Schools Act, for it was originally founded simply as a Free Grammar School for Repton and Etwall.
The ample churchyard allows of a good view of the church and its slender spire. At the first glance it would be put down as a rather simple but pleasing structure, most of which would be assigned to some part of the fourteenth century. On entering the interior a diversity of dates would become more obvious; but the general impression made is of a large and well-proportioned rather than of a richly adornedor of a specially interesting church. Monuments also are fairly numerous, but these are in no way remarkable, except for some connection with local history. Repton Church, however, has one treasure, but this is almost hidden underground. Underneath the chancel, approached by a narrow staircase, is a crypt. It is small, for it is only some seventeen feet broad and long, but one would have to travel not a few miles in order to find another remnant of ancient days equally interesting. The roof is rudely vaulted, supported by four columns, which have a spiral ornament of peculiar character, and rather plain flat capitals; the corresponding piers are relieved by a shallow grooving. The work indicates the influence of Classic patterns, with much rudeness of execution. To assign its date is difficult; its style is certainly anterior to the Norman Conquest, and probably the actual date is the same. A recent authority (Dr. Cox) considers this crypt to have been part of the first church dedicated to St. Wystan, erected after the destruction of the older edifice by the Danes, probably in the reign of Edgar the Peaceable (958-975). This is most likely correct, for the work appears a little too highly finished for a date anterior to the tenth century. Dr. Cox, however, remarks that portions of the outer walls of the crypt have been proved to be of earlier date than the pillar-supported roof, and may thus be a remnant of the church in which the Mercian Kings were entombed.
THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.
THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.
There is in the crypt an alabaster tomb of a knight in armour, dating from the fifteenth century; and in front of the old gateway is another relic of ancient days. This is the base of a cross, which, to judge from the number of steps, must have been of considerable size, and probably indicated the original market-place; for its proximity to the church and the priory would enable the country folk to attend to the affairs of this world, while at the same time they did not entirely neglect the concerns of the other. One trace both of ancient name and ancient importance is still retained by Repton, for all Derbyshire south of the Trent is called the “Hundred of Repington.” This part of the river-course is about twenty-four miles in length. Previous to this it separates for a space Derbyshire from Staffordshire, and it leaves the former county at the junction of the Erewash, a stream from Sherwood Forest, which, for the greater part of its course, forms a parting from Nottinghamshire. Below Repton for several miles there is no place of special interest in the valley of the Trent, though some of the villages in or near it are of considerable antiquity. The sketch of the “Crow Trees,” now fewer than formerly, at Barrow, gives a good idea of the quiet butpleasant riverside scenery. At Swarkestone the river is crossed by a curious old bridge, the raised approaches across the water-meadows being about a mile in length. The bridge is assigned by the guide-books to the twelfth century, and is traditionally reported to have been the work of two maiden sisters, who spent upon it all their living. It was the cause of a smart struggle in the civil war of 1643, and was occupied by the advanced guard of the Jacobites in 1745. Chellaston, a short distance from the opposite bank, is a name familiar to geologists. There are extensive workings here for gypsum, and the occurrence of a number of minute fossils (foraminifera) in a deposit usually destitute of the remains of organic life has attracted especial attention to the locality. It is, however, now doubted whether these organisms have not been obtained from a deposit of later age. After Stanton-by-Dale and Weston-on-Trent comes Donington Park, with its ample lawns and shady groves extending around the mansion, which was the home of the Hastings family, of one of whom more than enough was heard some few years since. Behind the park the village of Castle Donington straggles down and along the high road leading from Ashby-de-la-Zouch towards the Trent. Here some remnants of a castle are to be seen, said to have been founded by John of Gaunt, and from which the village obtains its distinctive name. Beyond this are Ashton-on-Trent and Cavendish Bridge, which crosses the river a short distance above the confluence of the Derwent. This bridge obtains its name from the family of Cavendish, by members of which it was erected about the middle of the last century.
T. G. Bonney.
TRENT LOCKS.TRENT LOCKS.
TRENT LOCKS.
JUNCTION OF THE DERWENT AND THE TRENT.JUNCTION OF THE DERWENT AND THE TRENT.
JUNCTION OF THE DERWENT AND THE TRENT.
The Derwent in its Infancy—Derwent Chapel and Hall—Hathersage—Eyam—Grindleford Bridge—Chatsworth—The “Peacock” at Rowsley—Haddon Hall—The Wye and the Lathkill—Darley Dale and its Yew tree—The Sycamores of Oker Hill—The Matlocks and High Tor—Cromford and Willersley Castle—Ambergate—Belper—Derby—Elvaston.
I
Itmight be interesting to ask how many Englishmen have made the tour of the Derwent—a river so rich in pictorial beauty and historic interest. If the country were polled upon the subject, the result would probably not be gratifying to local patriotism. And yet no more romantic revelations of river scenery exist than those traversed by the Derwent from its source among the dusky moorland heights of the Peak to its junction with the Trent, sixty-three miles from its mountain home, after collecting the waters of 300,000 acres of country. Other streams there are, of course, of greater magnitude, with mountain surroundings more stupendous; but beauty is not to be measured by bulk, or rivers by their breadth and volume, nor is the artistic charm of hills ascertainable by an aneroid.
There are several English rivers of the name of Derwent, which is derived from the Britishdwr-gwent, the water of “Gwent,” or of the high lands, and theword is often locally pronounced “Darent.” There is Wordsworth’s Derwent in Lakeland; a Derwent which falls into the sea near Scarborough; and again a Derwent that is a tributary of the Yorkshire Ouse. But it is the Derbyshire Derwent that we now propose to trace down from its source. In the north-east corner of the Peak district, on the stern and austere Yorkshire borderlands, where the Langsett moors are most lonely and impressive, the stream spends its earliest infancy, and you hear its baby prattle in a rocky region, wild and desolate, where the Titans might have been hurling in space gigantic boulders to bring about chaos. The place where the river actually rises is called Barrow Stones. The traveller on the line from Sheffield to Manchester, when he is at Woodhead, with its dismal tunnel and long-linked reservoirs, passes as near as civilisation touches the spot. For some distance the river bubbles and babbles down a boulder-strewn valley, and is the line of demarcation between the counties of York and Derby. It is here a swift tawny streamlet, with effervescent cascades, and deep pools in which you can discern the pebbles at the bottom of the topaz-coloured water. Weather-worn masses of rock are strewn over this heathery wilderness—silvered with rare lichens, and cushioned with delicate mosses. Here and there picturesque little rills pour out their trickling tributaries from numerous mountain springs and musical ferny hollows. The only sound beside that of running water is the cry of the grouse, the blackcock, or the peewit. The Derwent cleaves its rocky way down the valley into Derwent Dale, past Slippery Stones, Rocking Stones, and Bull Clough and Cranberry Clough, with the Bradfield moors rolling away in petrified billowy waves to the horizon line. Before reaching Derwent Chapel it has received the Westend, a considerable stream, and the Abbey Brook, another important contributor, foaming down a deep rugged ravine, with gritstone ridges. In Derwent Dale alder-trees add a shade to the waterside, and the landscape, although still wild in its mountain beauty, is diversified by their green grace.
And now we are at the lonely little village of Derwent Chapel, with its grey scattered houses. The hamlet in the pre-Reformation times had four chapels belonging to the ancient Abbey of Welbeck. At Derwent Hall, charmingly placed by the river bridge, are preserved several relics of the monkish days. But the most interesting possessions are the old carved oak pieces of furniture. They form a unique collection, and are of historic value. Some of the cabinets and bedsteads are four hundred years old. The Hall, which formerly belonged to the Balguys, bears over the doorway the arms of that family and the date 1672. The Duke of Norfolk is the present proprietor, and has added a new wing at the expense of £30,000. The pack-horse bridge makes a pleasing picture, and the surrounding prospect is as fair as any that ever inspired poet’s pen or painter’s pencil. By leafy labyrinthian ways, in fascinating aquatic vagaries, our river, brown with peat-moss, ripples over the shallows or becomes demonstrative when obstructed by boulders on its way to Lady Bower and Ashopton, sentinelled by the bold peaks of Win Hill and Lose, so called from a sanguinary battle having been fought here betweentwo Saxon kings. The victorious army occupied Win Hill, and the vanquished the opposite height. There are other magnificently grouped hills all around. Ashopton is haunted by painters and anglers. Pleasant it is to lounge lazily over the time-stained bridge that spans the Derwent near its confluence with the Ashop, which has found its way down the “Woodlands” from Kinderscout—famous as the highest point in the Peak, 2,088 feet; while from the opposite side the Lady Bower brook adds its trouty current. Here we are tempted to make adétourto visit Castleton with its caverns, almost as wonderful as the famed Congo cavern in South Africa, the Elephanta cave in India, or the Mammoth cave of Kentucky; to climb up the crag to Peveril’s ruined castle; to explore the beautiful green basin suggestively called the Vale of Hope; and to penetrate the Edale pass until the frowning Kinderscout morosely blocks the way. But we must keep to Derwentside.
THE COURSE OF THE DERWENT.THE COURSE OF THE DERWENT.
THE COURSE OF THE DERWENT.
The river is now a large stream, and—passing Bamford—at Mytham Bridge it receives the greeting of the Noe. Here we strike the Dore and Chinley Railway, a branch line of the Midland system, at present in process of construction. It follows the course of the Derwent valley for some miles, and is not likely to add to the beauty of the scenery. The noisy puff of the locomotive in this Paradise seems a profanation. The line, however, will open out a new holiday ground, and will give the traveller an alternative route between Sheffield and Manchester, London and Liverpool. This railway extension is twenty miles in length. There are five miles of tunnelling under the mountainous moorland, and the cost will not be covered by an expenditure of less than one million sterling. One of the tunnels is three miles in length, and next to the Severn tunnel the longest in the United Kingdom. At Hathersage, moss-grown and still, and one of the prettiest of Peak villages, a station will be erected, and much of its old-world charm will then have gone for ever. In the churchyard on the hillside may be seen the grave of Robin Hood’s stalwart lieutenant, Little John. The resting-place of this romantic outlaw is marked by two stones which by their distance from each other would indicate that he was ten feet high.The famous Forester was born at Hathersage, and fought in the ranks of Simon de Montfort’s rebellious barons at Evesham in 1265. After the many vicissitudes of his adventurous life, he returned to his native village to die. Until recent years his cottage was pointed out to visitors, and at the beginning of the present Century Little John’s bow and green cap were suspended in the church. They were carried away to Cannon Hall, near Barnsley.
AT ASHOPTON, DERWENTDALE.AT ASHOPTON, DERWENTDALE.
AT ASHOPTON, DERWENTDALE.
Hathersage is surrounded with places of interest, and the Derwent is here thirteen miles from its source. Mention should be made of Padley Wood and the ruins of the Roman Catholic Chapel; Burbage Brook, another of the Derwent’s many feeders, that brawls through a defile as sweetly wooded as the Fairy Glen at Bettws-y-Coed; Longshaw Lodge, the shooting-box of the Duke of Rutland, with its pretty grounds and rockeries; Fox House, a famous moorland hostelry; Hu Gaer, a hoary rocky platform which is marked on the Ordnance map as a Druidical relic; Caelswark, an old British fort; the Toad’s Mouth, a huge and hoary block of gritstone bearing a curious resemblance to that unattractive reptile; Stoney Middleton, whose houses seem to hang dangerously from thebordering cliffs; and Eyam, the scene of the great plague of 1666, when out of a population of 350 no less than 260 were swept away by the pestilence. The infection was brought to the village in a box of clothes from London. The place is hallowed by the devotion of the saintly rector, the Rev. Wm. Mompesson. He never deserted his parishioners (although his wife was one of the first victims); and it was by his exertions that the plague was prevented from spreading far and wide.
CHATSWORTH.CHATSWORTH.
CHATSWORTH.
The ‘Peacock’ at Rowsley
But we are now at grey Grindleford Bridge. What a view there is down the richly wooded reaches of the river by Froggatt Edge, Stoke Hall, Curbar, Calver, and Bubnall to Baslow—the threshold of Chatsworth! The Derwent has here accomplished a distance of exactly twenty miles, and received numberless and nameless tributary outpourings from the moors on both the eastern and western sides. It is now a fine river, and lends additional beauty to the Duke of Devonshire’s magnificent park, surely the most glorious domain in the wide world. The river sweeps in front of the Palace of thePeak, with ancient trees reflecting soothing shadows in the shining water. So much has been written about Chatsworth—its great hall, its superb state apartments, its miracles of wood-carving, its unique sketch-gallery, its noble libraries, its priceless picture-gallery, its grand drawing-rooms, bed-rooms, and banqueting-rooms, its superb sculpture gallery, its gardens, terraces, conservatories, woods, and fountains—that little fresh can be said upon a subject so well worn. A well-known writer, when he was at Niagara, and was supposed to write a description of the scene, simply remarked, “There are some waterfalls hereabouts, which are said to be pretty.” In a similar manner the grandeur of Chatsworth may be summarily dismissed, we being content with the accounts of a thousand and one admirable authors. Enough to say that this treasure-house of art is apt to give the visitor a sense of general splendour on the brain. The house and park are open every week-day to the public, and many thousands of people each year avail themselves of the privileges so freely granted by the generous owner. Sightseers pour into the ducal palace, with its gilded casements and princely saloons, just as if the place belonged to them instead of to the Duke of Devonshire. It is open for them to enjoy, and all their pleasures are prepared for them. They can inspect the carvings by Grinling Gibbons, themasterpieces of Landseer, and Sir Joshua Reynolds’ picture of the beautiful Duchess; admire the work of Verrio and Laguerre, and the chisellings of Canova and Thorwaldsen; dwell upon rare tapestry and the choicest products of Sèvres and Dresden; pause at tables of malachite and porphyry, be delighted with the plants and orchids of tropical climes, including theVictoria Regia, and stand and watch the Emperor Fountain and all thegrandes eauxplaying. All this gratification belongs to the public without the slightest cost of maintenance or responsibility of possession, for the head of the illustrious house of Cavendish keeps these precious treasures for his fellow-men rather than for his own private enjoyment.
THE TERRACE, HADDON HALL.THE TERRACE, HADDON HALL.
THE TERRACE, HADDON HALL.
HADDON HALL, FROM THE WYE.HADDON HALL, FROM THE WYE.
HADDON HALL, FROM THE WYE.
There is a pleasant field-path through park and pasture, past Beeley, to Rowsley, three miles away. Just below the grey arches of the bridge at the sign of the Peacock—a quaint ivied Elizabethan building with many gables and battlements, an abundance of heavy-mullioned windows, and green lawns gently sloping down to the water—the Wye has its confluence with the Derwent. It is a pleasant Mesopotamia, the smaller stream issuing from the limestone dales transparent as glass, and so swift in motion as to at first push back the Derwent—flowing slow and strong and stately, the colour of cairngorm through its association with the moors. But the deeper river soon asserts its superior weight and strength, and the two streams—happy in their union—amalgamate in one undivided current, recalling—in, of course, a minor degree—the junction of the Thames and Medway, the alliance of the Rhone and Arve, the coalition of the Moselle and the Rhine. We are now in contact with the Midland Railway, whichcrosses and recrosses the Derwent by bridge or viaduct fifteen times during the remainder of its course. A short walk from the russet Peacock—half-way between Rowsley and the bonnie town of Bakewell—stands, on a wooded eminence, Haddon Hall. The Wye winds in many a graceful curve, overhung by gnarled trees, at the foot of the grey old pile. The antique appearance of the hostelry has assisted to subdue the contrast that must strike every observer between the comparative newness of Chatsworth (although it is 200 years old) and the venerable aspect of Haddon—a revelation of a bygone age, a memorial of ancient chivalry which is almost unique, for some portions of this perfect baronial castle date back to the twelfth century. Haddon, the property of the Duke of Rutland, is uninhabited, although it is not a ruin, and promises to remain intact for centuries to come. It has never suffered from the violence of war, stronghold as it is, but has always been the home of hospitality.
“Lightly falls the foot of Time,That only treads on flowers.”
“Lightly falls the foot of Time,That only treads on flowers.”
“Lightly falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flowers.”
“The kitchens and larders all look as if the domestics had only retired for a short time. We come to the dining, drawing, and ball-room, all clean and dry as when abandoned as a human habitation; and as we pace along this latter roomwith its polished floor, the hollow sounds of our footsteps lead us to the contemplation of the time when the gay Elizabeth, surrounded by her Court, honoured the Vernons with her presence, and made the rooms echo with shouts of merry laughter. A long day may be spent in wandering about the terraces, gardens, and shady walks; the door is pointed out to us through which eloped Dorothy Vernon with her faithful lover (Sir John Manners). Which route they took is left to the visitor’s imagination; perchance they crossed the remarkable stone foot-bridge. Suffice it to say the escape was perfected, and adds additional interest to the romance of Haddon Hall.”
DERWENT TERRACE, MATLOCK.DERWENT TERRACE, MATLOCK.
DERWENT TERRACE, MATLOCK.
The Wye is the most important feeder of the Derwent, and runs through scenery that is romantically beautiful. Its length from Axe Edge to its junction with the Derwent at Rowsley is twenty-two miles, although the distance as the crow flies is considerably less. But the little river winds about in capricious curvatures, and its serpentine wanderings add much to its peculiar charm. There are two distinct Wyes, uniting in the Buxton Gardens, to which pleasaunce they add attraction. The larger stream issues from the gritstone formation; the other comes from the limestone. The one is coloured by the peat of the mosses; the other is of pellucid purity. The limestone water has its birthplace in the gloomy recesses of Poole’s Cavern, and you may hear it fretting in the chill darkness, as if it were impatient to greet the glad sunlight. In Ashwood Dale, just below the Lovers’ Leap, and a mile from the fashionable watering-place, the character of the scenery withwhich the Wye is for the most part associated begins. Limestone tors, of great height and beautifully wooded, rise above a contracted valley along which the stream pursues its lively course. The river leaves Topley Pike abruptly to the right, and enters Chee Dale. Nature here is in the imperative mood. Chee Tor soars to a height of 300 feet sheer above the water—a solemn limestone headland, its gaping fissures here and there clothed with a pendent tree. It is convex in shape, and is faced by a corresponding bastion, concave in form. In the narrow channel between these bold walls of rock the Wye forces its way through the pent-up space, making a tumult over the obstructing boulders. A scanty footpath is carried over the abyss, making a passage of unequivocal sublimity, for the defile has no superior and few equals in all Derbyshire. Miller’s Dale afterwards opens out its picturesque features, although its idyllic charm is marred by the screaming railway junction and by the quarrying operations that are toppling bastions of rock—ancient landmarks—into lime-kilns. Two miles from Miller’s Dale is Tideswell, with its grand old church—“the Cathedral of the Peak”—its secluded valleys and immemorial hills. Litton Dale and Cressbrook Dale follow—both wild glens that will repay lovers of rocks, ferns, and flowers. At Monsal Dale the scenery is no longer savage as it was at Chee Tor, but is of winsome loveliness. The Wye winds in green meadows below wooded heights, with here and there a rocky pinnacle jutting out like a spire; “lepping” stones cross the stream, and rustic cottages, with blue filmy smoke curling from their chimneys, stand just where an artist would have placed them. Well might Eliza Cook sing—
“And Monsal, thou mine of Arcadian treasure,Need we seek for Greek islands and spice-laden gales,While a Temple like thee, of enchantment and pleasure,May be found in our native Derbyshire Dales?”
“And Monsal, thou mine of Arcadian treasure,Need we seek for Greek islands and spice-laden gales,While a Temple like thee, of enchantment and pleasure,May be found in our native Derbyshire Dales?”
“And Monsal, thou mine of Arcadian treasure,
Need we seek for Greek islands and spice-laden gales,
While a Temple like thee, of enchantment and pleasure,
May be found in our native Derbyshire Dales?”
Close by is Taddington, an abode of miners, which contests with Chelmerton the claim of being the highest village in England. There is a quaint church, and in the churchyard an ancient cross which archæological authorities argue is the work of the monks of Lindisfarne, who introduced Christianity into Derbyshire. The Peakrels, in their caustic humour, gravely furnish the visitor to Taddington with the information that “only blind, deaf, and dumb persons, and those who do not live in the parish, are buried in the churchyard.”
Past Demon’s Dale, and we are at the pleasant village of Ashford-in-the-Water, celebrated for its inlaid marble manufactures. In the old church are hung five paper garlands. They are the relics of the obsolete custom of carrying garlands before the corpses of maidens in the funeral procession, and subsequently suspending them in the church. The custom is alluded to by Shakespeare. These garlands are Ophelia’s “virgin crants” inHamlet. The Priest tells Laertes that but for “just command” Ophelia would have been buried—as a suicide—in“ground unsanctified,” and “shards, flints, and pebbles” only would have been “thrown on her”—
“Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,Her maiden strewments, and the bringing homeOf bell and burial.”
“Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,Her maiden strewments, and the bringing homeOf bell and burial.”
“Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial.”
The innocent observance lingered longer in Derbyshire than anywhere else, and was not abandoned at Ashford-in-the-Water until 1820. The Wye at this point spreads out its waters, turning weedy wheels, and wandering through lush meadow-lands, finely timbered. At Bakewell the stream is of considerable width, and is spanned by a handsome old bridge evidently the work of an architect of imagination. The town itself is of considerable antiquity, and the church, one of the oldest and finest in the county, stands on a commanding hill, and is a picturesque feature in a glorious landscape. Time has made furrow and wrinkle on the grey old fabric, but
“Still points the tower and pleads the bell,The solemn arches breathe in stone;Window and walls have lips to tellThe mighty faith of days unknown.”
“Still points the tower and pleads the bell,The solemn arches breathe in stone;Window and walls have lips to tellThe mighty faith of days unknown.”
“Still points the tower and pleads the bell,
The solemn arches breathe in stone;
Window and walls have lips to tell
The mighty faith of days unknown.”
Bakewell is the Paradise of anglers, and wonderful stories are told of the trophies captured when the May-fly is on the water. The river now narrows, and winds in many a tortuous curve through the Haddon pastures. Below Haddon Hall, at Fillyford Bridge, it receives the limpid Lathkill, a stream to-day as clear as when Charles Cotton described it to “Viator” in “The Compleat Angler” as “by many degrees the purest and most transparent stream that I ever yet saw, either at home or abroad, and breeding the reddest and best trouts in England.”
THE HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.THE HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.
THE HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.
After it has welcomed the meandering Wye, the Derwent spreads through an open verdant country of contemplative beauty, with rounded wooded hills in the distance. This spacious golden-green strath is Darley Dale. Lord John Manners (now the Duke of Rutland), viewing this scene from Stanton Woodhouse, a wooded knoll close by, with weather-beaten tors, lofty hunting tower, and Druidical remains, was inspired to crystallise in verse the deep impressionthat the pastoral scene and its mountain surroundings had made upon his mind:—
“Up Darley Dale the wanton windIn careless measure sweeps,And stirs the twinkling Derwent’s tides,Its shallows and its deeps.“From many an ancient upland grange,Wherein old English feelingStill lives and thrives, in faint blue wreathsThe smoke is skywards stealing.“The simple cheer that erst sustainedThe Patriarch Seers of old,Still in these pastoral valleys feedsA race of ancient mould.“And should fell faction rear againHer front on English ground,Here will the latest resting-placeOf loyalty be found.”
“Up Darley Dale the wanton windIn careless measure sweeps,And stirs the twinkling Derwent’s tides,Its shallows and its deeps.“From many an ancient upland grange,Wherein old English feelingStill lives and thrives, in faint blue wreathsThe smoke is skywards stealing.“The simple cheer that erst sustainedThe Patriarch Seers of old,Still in these pastoral valleys feedsA race of ancient mould.“And should fell faction rear againHer front on English ground,Here will the latest resting-placeOf loyalty be found.”
“Up Darley Dale the wanton windIn careless measure sweeps,And stirs the twinkling Derwent’s tides,Its shallows and its deeps.
“Up Darley Dale the wanton wind
In careless measure sweeps,
And stirs the twinkling Derwent’s tides,
Its shallows and its deeps.
“From many an ancient upland grange,Wherein old English feelingStill lives and thrives, in faint blue wreathsThe smoke is skywards stealing.
“From many an ancient upland grange,
Wherein old English feeling
Still lives and thrives, in faint blue wreaths
The smoke is skywards stealing.
“The simple cheer that erst sustainedThe Patriarch Seers of old,Still in these pastoral valleys feedsA race of ancient mould.
“The simple cheer that erst sustained
The Patriarch Seers of old,
Still in these pastoral valleys feeds
A race of ancient mould.
“And should fell faction rear againHer front on English ground,Here will the latest resting-placeOf loyalty be found.”
“And should fell faction rear again
Her front on English ground,
Here will the latest resting-place
Of loyalty be found.”
In the churchyard at Darley Dale is the most venerable yew-tree in the world. Many authorities claim for it a fabulous age, making it as much as 3,000 years old. It is thirty-three feet in girth, but its trunk has suffered not a little from the modern Goths and Vandals who have carved their names in the bark, and employed other methods of mutilation. The tree is now fenced round to save it from further insult; and “whatever may be its precise age,” says the Rev. Dr. John Charles Cox, “there can be little doubt that this grand old tree has given shelter to the early Britons when planning the construction of the dwellings that they erected not many yards to the west of its trunk; to the Romans who built up the funeral pyre for their slain comrades just clear of its branches; to the Saxons, converted, perchance, to the true faith by the preaching of Bishop Diuma beneath its pleasant shade; to the Norman masons chiselling their quaint sculptures to form the first stone house of prayer erected in its vicinity; and to the host of Christian worshippers who, from that day to this, have been borne under its hoary limbs in women’s arms to the baptismal font, and then on men’s shoulders to their last sleeping-place in the soil that gave it birth.”
On the left bank of the Derwent, amid rocks and plantations, is the royal residence of the late Sir Joseph Whitworth; and on the opposite side rises, sharply defined, Oker Hill—a green isolated eminence that was once an important Roman station. Growing on the summit of this lofty peak are two sycamores. A legend is attached to the planting of these trees, which Wordsworth has recited in his tender sonnet:—
“’Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hillTwo brothers clomb; and turning face from faceNor one look more exchanging, grief to stillOr feed, each planted on that lofty placeA chosen tree. Then eager to fulfilTheir courses, like two new-born rivers theyIn opposite directions urged their wayDown from the far-seen mount. No blast might killOr blight the fond memorial. The trees grew,And now entwine their arms; but ne’er againEmbraced those brothers upon earth’s wide plain,Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew,Until their spirits mingled in the seaThat to itself takes all—Eternity.”
“’Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hillTwo brothers clomb; and turning face from faceNor one look more exchanging, grief to stillOr feed, each planted on that lofty placeA chosen tree. Then eager to fulfilTheir courses, like two new-born rivers theyIn opposite directions urged their wayDown from the far-seen mount. No blast might killOr blight the fond memorial. The trees grew,And now entwine their arms; but ne’er againEmbraced those brothers upon earth’s wide plain,Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew,Until their spirits mingled in the seaThat to itself takes all—Eternity.”
“’Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill
Two brothers clomb; and turning face from face
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still
Or feed, each planted on that lofty place
A chosen tree. Then eager to fulfil
Their courses, like two new-born rivers they
In opposite directions urged their way
Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight the fond memorial. The trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne’er again
Embraced those brothers upon earth’s wide plain,
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew,
Until their spirits mingled in the sea
That to itself takes all—Eternity.”
The trout and grayling fishing in the Derwent here is of excellent quality, the water being stocked and preserved by zealous local angling societies, supported by the Trent Conservancy Board.
MATLOCK BATH.MATLOCK BATH.
MATLOCK BATH.
After leaving Darley the wooded banks contract, and the hills press forward, and at Matlock, nine-and-twenty miles from Barrow Stones, the stream runs through a deep gorge, where limestone precipices, festooned with foliage, rise sheer from the water’s edge. This romantic ravine, overtopped by higher hills, extends for about three miles. Matlock is a misleading title. The little town is only a small watering-place, but it is split up into several principalities, governed by two Local Boards, and known as Matlock Bath, Matlock Bridge, Matlock Bank, Matlock Town, Matlock Cliff, and Matlock Green. There are two railway stations, the Bridge and the Bath, a mile apart; but passengers wishful to get to the one place find themselves alighting at the other, and the divisions and sub-divisions are most confusing. Matlock Bank (for which the Bridge is the station, distant a quarter of a mile) is given up to hydropathic establishments, of which there is a colony. Here John Smedley introduced the cold-water treatment many years ago, and the building devoted to his system of cure has developed into one of colossal proportions. Between Matlock Bridge and Matlock Bath the High Tor intervenes, occupying nearly the whole distance. It is a most impressive example of rock scenery, rising in one perpendicular face of grim grey limestone, 400 feet above the Derwent, which brawls angrily over the rocky bed at its stupendous base. The Midland main line perforates this mighty mass, and the dull roar of the trains may be heard reverberating in the gloomy tunnel with strange echoing resonance. There are natural fissures in the rock abounding in dog-tooth crystals, fluor-spar, lead-ore, and other minerals, and at the summit of the giddy cliff are pleasure-grounds. More than one disastrous accident has occurred through people venturing too near the edge and falling into the abyss beneath. Matlock Bath is a continuation of the poetic gorge, the Derwent being almost enclosed on the right by the towering Heights of Masson (commonly called the “Heights of Abraham”), and on the left by the Lovers’ Walks. For about a mile the stream is deep and stately, and lends itself admirably to boating. Matlock Bath is a favourite resort of cheap trippers, who find innocent enjoyment in climbing the hills, exploring the caverns, investing their coppers at the petrifying wells, and driving to the Via Gellia, a charming valley within easy distance. The Pavilion is a largemodern building standing on a terrace under the Dungeon Tors, and commanding panoramic views of great extent and variety. The Bath is also a much-frequented resort, and contains hotels that favourably compare with the caravansaries of other fashionable watering-places. The New Bath Hotel stands on the site of the old hotel, where Lord Byron met Mary Chaworth, and the lime-tree under which the poet sat with the proud beauty still flourishes. This tree has weathered the storms of more than three hundred winters, and is a marvel of arboreal growth, its wide-spreading branches covering an area of 350 square feet. Byron was a frequent visitor to Matlock, and in one of his letters to Thomas Moore he declares “there are prospects in Derbyshire as noble as in Greece or Switzerland.” Mr. Ruskin visits the New Bath Hotel, and the author of “Modern Painters” writes in a characteristic manner:—“Speaking still wholly for myself, as an Epicurean Anchorite and Monastic Misanthrope, I pray leave to submit, as a deeply oppressed and afflicted Brother of that Order, that I can’t find anything like Derbyshire anywhere else. ‘J’ai beau,’ as our polite neighbours untranslateably express it, to scale the precipices of the Wengern Alp with Manfred, to penetrate with Faust the defiles of the Brocken—the painlessly accessible turrets of Matlock High Tor, the guiltlessly traceable Lovers’ Walks by the Derwent, have for me still more attractive peril and a dearer witchery. Looking back to my past life I find, though not without surprise, that it owes more to the Via Gellia than the Via Mala, to the dripping wells of Matlock than the dust-rain of Lauterbrunnen.”
Leaving Matlock Bath, the Derwent is utilised for commercial purposes by the Arkwrights, in connection with their mill machinery, and a very dangerous weir is thebête noirof the oarsman. Cromford, the cradle of the cotton manufacture, follows. Here are the immense but cleanly factories founded by Sir Richard Arkwright, the Preston barber’s apprentice; and here is Willersley Castle, the seat of the family whose fortunes he made, looking down from a natural rocky plateau, embowered in trees, upon the windings of the river. Cromford bridge is a curious old structure. The arches on one side are pointed Gothic in style, and on the other side they are of a semicircular character. The same incongruity in architecture is to be observed in the bridges at Matlock Town and Darley. This is to be accounted for by the fact that they were once pack-saddle structures, and have been widened with no regard to the preservation of uniformity.