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[Illustration: THE WYE NEAR CRESSBROOK DALE]


THE PEAK DISTRICT

Text by R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

Pictures by E. W. HASLEHUST


[Illustration]






Blackie & Son Limited
London and Glasgow

Blackie & Son Limited
50 Old Bailey, London
17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow

Blackie & Son (India) Limited
Warwick House, Fort Street, Bombay

Blackie & Son (Canada) Limited
Toronto

      *      *      *      *      *      *

BEAUTIFUL ENGLAND

    The Heart of London.
    Dartmoor.
    Canterbury.
    Oxford.
    Bath and Wells.
    In London’s By-ways.
    The Peak District.
    Winchester.
    The Thames.
    The Cornish Riviera.
    Shakespeare-land.
    Cambridge.
    York.
    The English Lakes.


BEAUTIFUL SCOTLAND

    Loch Lomond and the Trossachs.
    Edinburgh.
    The Scott Country.
    The Shores of Fife.

      *      *      *      *      *      *


Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                      Facing
                                                        Page

    The Wye near Cressbrook Dale      _Frontispiece_

    High Tor, Matlock                                      5

    Bakewell, South Church Street                         12

    Monsal Dale                                           16

    Queen Mary’s Bower, Chatsworth                        21

    Haddon Hall                                           28

    Dorothy Vernon’s Bridge, Haddon                       33

    Miller’s Dale                                         37

    Lathkil Dale                                          44

    Dovedale                                              48

    Peak Cavern Gorge, Castleton                          53

    Mam Tor                                               60




[Illustration: HIGH TOR, MATLOCK]




[Illustration: THE PEAK DISTRICT]




FROM SPA TO SPA


In Peakland one marvels most at the strange variety of
scenery--illustrations of all English inland beauty seem to have been
grouped there for man’s delight. There are tender meadows, streams such
as must have meandered through Arcady, fantastical hillocks, mountains
that cut the skyline with dog-tooth edges, moors that change colour
every day of the year; there are two of the most notable houses in
existence--houses famous all over the civilized world--and two spas
unlike each other and unlike any spas in England.

The folk are genial and ever willing to pass the time o’ day; they show
themselves, as in the days of Philip Kinder, the eighteenth-century
historiographer, “courteous and ready to show the ways and help a
passenger. The women are sober and very diligent in their huswifery;
they hate idleness, and obey their husband.”

Kinder also asserts that they are much given to “dance after the
bagpipe, and almost every town hath a bagpipe in it”. To-day the
Peaklanders are as fond of dancing as ever, and although no piper
produces eerie music, at feast times they can still make a very
pretty show. The hill country has endowed the youths and maidens with
suppleness and they trip it with exceeding grace.

Peaklanders are shrewd, lovable, and unspoilt, somewhat distrustful of
foreigners--all unrelated folk who dwell on the farther side of the
moors are foreigners--yet quite as hospitable as the more reserved
natives of Yorkshire. Old customs are tenaciously preserved--in some
places the wells are dressed with flowers for the festival of the
patron saint, and in one of the most remote villages every Royal Oak
Day a quaint and pretty pageant enlivens the irregular grey streets. At
such times the kin from far-distant towns return to the old home and
spend a few hours of happy merrymaking.

To my thinking the most satisfactory entrance to the Peak Country is by
way of Scarthin Nick, a gap through which the old London-to-Manchester
coaching road passes on its way to Matlock Bath. Throughout the year
this valley never fails to suggest a foreign country: in the blackness
of mid-winter one might believe oneself in Norway; in spring and summer
one is curiously reminded of Switzerland; in autumn, when the foliage
glows marvellously, one might be looking upon some fanciful picture
done by a southern painter with a passion for vivid colour. To the
right flows the Derwent, with clear waters tranquil before the crossing
of a white weir, or churning merrily between great boulders.

From the Black Rocks near by may be seen one of the finest views in all
Peakland--the Matlock Dale with its High Tor and its quaintly named
Heights of Abraham, its grotesque sham mediæval castle, its pleasantly
situated mansion of Willersley, which was built by one of Derbyshire’s
best-famed men, Sir Richard Arkwright. Farther away lie Dethick--with
a quaint church that was built by the grandfather of Mary Stuart’s
Anthony Babington--and Lea Hurst, the Peakland home of Miss Florence
Nightingale. The Via Gellia, a narrow valley, well-wooded, opens not
far from the old posting house; in May the traveller is assailed there
by rustic children who offer bunches of greenish lilies of the valley.

Matlock is crowded with holiday-makers in summer-time, and progress
along the road becomes somewhat difficult; nevertheless it is
impossible even then to deny the strange beauty of the place. There
is an air of pleasant freedom; life moves briskly; the valley might be
threaded by a great highway. No watering-place has a greater wealth
of lovers’ walks, of caves, of petrifying wells, and other objects of
interest well-calculated to amuse and delight the tripper. The visitor
is happy, albeit feverish, and there is to be seen little aping of the
manners of fine society.

Onward through Darley Dale one sees to the left Oker Hill, with its
solitary tree--the survivor of two planted by the brothers Shore,
collateral ancestors of the Lady of the Lamp. Wordsworth wrote a
pathetic sonnet concerning the separation of these young men. In Darley
churchyard is one of the most famous yews still existent. Centuries
ago much of the land about here was owned by the Dakeyne family, whose
motto--“Stryke, Dakyns, the Devil’s in the Hempe!” still puzzles the
student of heraldry. Sir Joseph Whitworth’s Institute--surely a boon
to the young countryfolk--rises near the road, as does his Cottage
Hospital, and, farther, his house, Stancliffe Hall, now shorn of much
of its dignity by rough quarries.

Just beyond Rowsley Bridge may be seen the old Peacock Hotel, perhaps
the most picturesque hostelry in all England. Above the porch of this
gabled, creeper-covered house stands a stone peacock in his pride.
This bird is the badge of the Rutland family--one finds inns bearing
the name in many Derbyshire villages. The sheltered garden is well
worth seeing; it might be the glory of some ancient well-beloved
mansion. Quaint flowers thrive there, and beside the Derwent
stretches a pleasant well-screened walk, where one may rest with some
“well-chosen book or friend”, and hear the tranquil susurrus of the
smoothly gliding stream.

Then, beyond Fillyford Bridge over the Wye, which joins the Derwent
not far from the inn, debouches one of the strangest and most
beautiful vales of Peakland. To the left of this is the village of
Winster, with a fine old mansion that was once occupied by Llewellyn
Jewitt, the well-known Derbyshire antiquarian, and a singular Market
Hall with walled-up windows. The place lies in a backwater. One
expects to see naught modern at Winster; the inhabitants should wear
eighteenth-century garments, and should carry lanterns and pattens to
their tea parties. Near by are the grotesque Rowtor Rocks, Robin Hood’s
Stride, and Cratcliff Tor. One is continually reminded of the weird
and charming Vivares engravings that may be found embellishing the
coffee-rooms of conservative inns.

Then Haddon is passed, and the old story--ill-founded to be sure--that
Mrs. Radcliffe sought inspiration there for her glowing romances comes
to mind. Even in the richest sunlight the wonderful house suggests
mystery and romance. The Wye glides, clear as morning dew, almost level
with the green surface of the water meadows. There is, within a stone’s
throw of the white road, a little footbridge of the kind that one
crosses in happy dreams.

Bakewell, which owes part of its fame to the luxurious pastry known
as “Bakewell Pudding”, has perhaps the most beautiful situation of
any Peakland town. It is eminently quaint, there is an aristocratic
air about the place, and the principal streets are kept wonderfully
clean. At fair times may be seen crowds of booths reaching from the
“Rutland Arms”, to the post office--booths where are sold gaudy pots
from Staffordshire, gingerbread flat and curly, fried fish, and the
sticky sweetmeats beloved by children of country and of town. In the
marketplace are galloping horses, swings, shooting galleries, and
everything that from long usage appeals to the innocent rustic mind.

There are many handsome old houses here, but the finest, Holme Hall,
is not visible from the highway. The church is a graceful building,
admirably placed, with a tall slender spire, which looks its best when
pricking through a golden December mist. Near the porch is a curious
epitaph: “Know, posterity! That on the 8th of April in the year of
grace, 1757, the rambling remains of John Dale were, in the 86th year
of his pilgrimage, laid upon his two wives.

    “This thing in life might cause some jealousy,
    Here all three lye together lovingly;
    But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
    Alike are here all human joys and woes;
    Here Sarah’s chiding John no longer hears,
    And old John’s rambling Sarah no more fears;
    A period’s come to all their toylesome lives,
    The good man’s quiet, still are both his wives.”

The interior of the church is of great interest, since here is the
richly coloured Vernon Chapel, where lie the famous Dorothy and her
husband Sir John Manners, also the lady’s ancestor, Sir George Vernon,
King of the Peak, and Sir Thomas de Wendesley, who fell at Shrewsbury.
Some of the effigies are strangely realistic, with appropriate
inscriptions culled from Holy Writ. Perhaps the most interesting to
the antiquarian is that of Sir Godfrey Foljambe, the founder of the
Chantrey of the Holy Cross, and of his wife Dame Avena. These figures,
represented from the waist upwards, are carved in alabaster, under
a canopy with two shields, the one displaying escallops, the other
fleurs-de-lis.

From Bakewell Bridge may be had one of the most beautiful glimpses
of the Wye, which divides there to encircle a green eyot. Against the
brown bed of the shallow stream, sleepy fish lie with scarce a tremor.
The grass of the banks hardly loses colour in the heart of winter.

After leaving the town, the Buxton road soon reaches the village of
Ashford-in-the-Water, a strange old place with a picturesque mill. In
the park of Ashford Hall the Wye is artificial but charming, its waters
spreading into emerald-green reaches. The church of Ashford contains
some of those funeral adornments known as “maidens’ garlands”, cages
of cut paper which were carried at the funerals of such girls as died
unmarried.

A mile or two beyond this sleepy hamlet, Monsal Dale opens to the
right. On one hand are osier beds, rich in colour at every season; on
the other the Wye rushes happily over a stony bed. Beyond Monsal the
well-wooded valley contracts, and the road climbs to the grey village
of Taddington, in whose churchyard may be seen one of the oldest
crosses in Derbyshire. Taddington is devoid of interest; one leaves
it without regret, and, after crossing some miles of bleak uplands,
begins to descend to Ashwood Dale. There the road has several sharp
curves, and travellers of all kinds must go warily. Nearer Buxton the
Wye glides smoothly in an ugly concrete channel, suggestive of a
gutter. To the left, a mile or so before reaching the town, a wonderful
little ravine, known as Sherbrook Dell, with a Lover’s Leap Rock,
abruptly cleaves the hillside. Except in times of drought this opening
has a fascinating appearance; it is like the scene of some old story of
gnomes and fairies.

[Illustration: BAKEWELL, SOUTH CHURCH STREET]

Buxton itself is interesting--if unpicturesque. Throughout the year
it has a swept-and-garnished appearance. The shops are excellent, as
befits a watering-place frequented by fashionable folk, ailing and
sound. There are several hotels to which the vulgar word palatial may
be applied, there are hydropathic establishments and boarding houses in
plenty, and there is a fine hospital of widespread fame, with a dome
that enjoys the distinction of being greater in diameter than that of
St. Peter’s at Rome.

The most striking feature of the town is the Crescent, a fine
half-circle of brown stonework that was erected in the eighteenth
century. It is three stories high, with an arcade that extends from
end to end. Formerly it consisted of hotels and one private boarding
house, and the lower-floor rooms were used as shops; but now it is
occupied entirely by two hotels, the “St. Anne’s” and the “Crescent”.
In the latter may be seen one of the finest Adam rooms in the country.
This was formerly known as the “Assembly Room”, and has been scarcely
altered since the day of opening. The length is 75-1/2 feet, the width
30 feet, and the height 30 feet. There is an air of old-time dignity
about the place, and it is easy for the imaginative to repeople it with
the stately folk of Georgian days.

Buxton, notwithstanding its fame of old, has but few antiquities.
Before 1570 the Earl of Shrewsbury erected a great house for the
accommodation of visitors. It was probably in this place that Mary
Stuart rested during her cure, and wrote with a diamond upon glass:

    “Buxtona, quæ calidæ celebrabere nomine lymphæ,
    Forte mihi posthac non adeunda, vale”;

in translation:

    “Buxton, whose fame thy milk-warm waters tell,
    Whom I, perhaps, no more shall see, farewell”.

A hundred years later the hall was taken down and a “most commodious
edifice” raised by the Earl of Devonshire, Bess of Hardwick’s
great-grandson. In old maps may be found a picture of the former
building, which is thus described by Doctor Jones, in 1572, in his
treatise on the Buxton waters:--

     “A very goodly house, foure-square, foure storeys high, so well
    compacte with houses of office beneath and above and round about,
    with a great chambre and other goodly lodgings to the number of
    30: that it is and will be a bewty to behold, and very notable for
    the honourable and worshipful that shall need to repaire thither,
    as also for other. Yea, the poorest shall have lodgings and beds
    hard by for their uses only.... A phisicion to be placed there
    continually, that might not only counsyle them how the better to
    use God’s benefyte, but also adapt their bodies making artificial
    baths, by using thereof as the case shall require, with many other
    profitable devyses, having all things for that use or any other, in
    a rediness for all the degrees as before it bee longe it shall be
    the scene of the noble earle’s own performing.”

For the gentlemen Doctor Jones recommends the diverting exercises of
bowling, shooting at butts, and tossing the wind-ball. The ladies may
enjoy the calmer pleasures of walking in the galleries, and “if the
weather be not agreeable to their expectacion, they may have in the
ende of a benche eleven holes made, into the which to trowle pummets
or bowles of lead, bigge, little, or meane, or also of copper, tynne,
woode, eyther vyolent or softe, after their own discretion, the pastime
Trowle Madame is termed. Likewise men feeble, the same may also
practise in another gallery of the new buildings.”

Even in those days men of note came here to take the waters--the lords
Leicester and Burleigh amongst others. In the Harleian MSS. one may see
a letter to the Earl of Essex, in which the latter writes:--

     “Your Lordship, I think, desyreth to heare of my estate, which is
    this: I cum hither on Sunday last at night, took a small solutive
    on Monday, began on Tuesday, yesterday I drynk of the waters to
    the quantity of 3 pynts at 6 draughts; this day I have added 2
    draughts, and I drynk 4 pynts, and to-morrow am determyned to
    drynk 5 pynts, and mixt with sugar I fynd it potable with pleasure
    even as whey. I mean not to bath these 8 dayes, but wyll contynew
    drynking 10 dayes.”

The Earl of Essex himself writes, several years later: “The water I
have drunke liberally, begynning with 3 pynts, and so encreasing dayly
a pynt I come to 8 pynts, and from thence descendyng dayly a pynt till
I shall ageyne return to 3 pynts, wch wil be on Thursday next, and then
I make an ende”.

The church of St. Ann is singularly small, and uninviting of exterior
aspect. Inside, however, one may see ancient ceiling beams and a
quaintly illuminated altar. The only person of any note buried in the
dreary little graveyard was one John Kane, a comedian, who in 1799 died
because he mistook monkshood for horse-radish.

One of the wonders of the Peak is Poole’s Hole, a cavern situated
less than a mile to the west of the Crescent. The Wye threads its way
through this, its waters strongly impregnated with lime. There are
various more or less appropriately christened stalactites, and the
cavern, being smooth of path and well-lighted with gas, is without
terrors even for the most nervous. Mary Stuart is said to have visited
the place, and we are shown a stalactite which bears her name.

[Illustration: MONSAL DALE]

Perhaps the chief interest in Buxton consists of the Grounds, a
pleasaunce embellished by the Wye, whose water here is of a sickly
yellow. There of a sunny afternoon may be seen those who are taking
the cure, some in bath chairs, some leaning heavily upon stout
sticks, but the majority looking in the best of health. The band
discourses pleasant music; nevertheless the gaiety of Buxton is always
chastened--not even on a Bank Holiday have I seen ought approaching
rowdiness.

In the neighbourhood are many excellent walks and drives, the most
popular being to the “Cat and Fiddle”, a hostelry on the Macclesfield
road. This enjoys the distinction of being the second highest inn in
England. Quaint enough are the surmises concerning the origin of the
name, and much is perennially written thereon in the local newspapers.

Buxton often enjoys brilliant sunlight when the rest of Peakland is
plunged in gloom. It is bracing and supremely healthy; but its sister
spa of Matlock has a less shrewd atmosphere. At Matlock, for all its
beauty, one wishes to leave the valley for the hilltop, whilst at
Buxton one usually idles and spends the days in watching other folk
take their pleasure with becoming sobriety.




CHATSWORTH


It would be impossible to find two houses more dissimilar than
Chatsworth and Haddon. Chatsworth is--although the building was begun
as far back as 1687--comparatively modern of aspect; none would guess
its age as more than fifty years. The stone is lightly coloured, the
window frames are gilded, and in certain lights the Palace of the Peak
suggests a well-preserved matron who intends always to guard carefully
against any signs of the oncoming of age. It is tranquil and perhaps
somnolent, a house where one cannot believe that anything of real note
has ever happened. Somewhere there is a picture, dim and faded, of
the house built by Sir William Cavendish, second husband of Bess of
Hardwick; this is stern, forbidding, and one is glad that it stands no
longer in this happy valley.

Old Chatsworth, however, was not without its admirers. Charles Cotton
wrote:--

    “Cross the court, thro’ a fine portico,
    Into the body of the house you go:
    But here I may not dare to go about,
    To give account of everything throughout.
    The lofty hall, staircases, galleries,
    Lodgments, apartments, closets, offices,
    And rooms of state, for should I undertake,
    To show what ’tis doth them so glorious make,
    The pictures, sculptures, carving, graving, gilding,
    ’Twould be as long in writing, as in building.”

There dwelt Thomas Hobbes, as favoured by my lord the earl and my
lady the countess as was Samuel Johnson by the brewer Thrale and
his vivacious Hester. Probably the _Leviathan_ was written there,
stimulated by the ten or twelve pipes of tobacco that Doctor Kennet
tells about.

Bess of Hardwick had more magnificent taste than Sir William. Hardwick
Hall, the Duke of Devonshire’s seat near the Nottinghamshire border,
is one of the finest Elizabethan mansions in the country, a place of
great bays with latticed panes that turn into gold when the sun creeps
westward. Her ladyship must have loved the daylight--there is still
extant a distich:

    “Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall”.

Some biographers of this remarkable woman--perhaps the most striking
female genius ever born in Derbyshire--express surprise that the
daughter of a simple country squire should have attained such a lofty
position; but all who have seen the old house in which Bess was born
will understand that her sire must have been a person of considerable
importance. The ruins still stand not far from the stately palace she
commanded, and in some respects the old house is more interesting than
the inhabited one. One wonders why her ambition prompted her to raise
another so near; possibly it was because of the prophecy that she would
live as long as she continued to build.

Her first spouse was one Robert Barley, of Barlow, a little hamlet
about six miles from Chatsworth. Both were of tender years, and he died
very soon, leaving her mistress of his estates. After him she wedded
Sir William Cavendish, by whom she had several children. Her third
husband was Sir William St. Lo, a south-country knight; and her fourth
George, Earl of Shrewsbury, the unhappy jailer of Mary Queen of Scots.
Before accepting the offer of the last, she stipulated for the marriage
of two of her Cavendish children with two of his young Talbots.

[Illustration: QUEEN MARY’S BOWER, CHATSWORTH]

At first Lord Shrewsbury doted on his shrewd and comely wife, but as
the years passed honey turned to gall, and finally both agreed to part.
The countess was no mate for a peace-loving old man, and, moreover, she
boasted a bitter tongue and a cruel pen. She was coarse and vulgar--as
probably were all the great ladies of her time--she professed to be
jealous of the royal captive, she well-nigh lost her husband the favour
of Elizabeth by arranging the marriage of Darnley’s brother with her
step-daughter, from which union resulted Arabella Stuart. None the
less she was a woman with a heart, and in her letters may be found
one or two profoundly touching expressions. She won her way through
life; she trampled on the weak, and possibly her only real happiness
proceeded from the knowledge of realized ambition. She lived to a
great age, and only died because a frost interfered with her building
operations. Several dukes now living claim her as ancestress, and owe
much to her splendid business ability. Somehow one associates her more
closely with the Cavendish family, since she had no offspring save by
the master of Chatsworth.

In the park the two most interesting features are the “Stand”, a tower
on the hilltop whence in Elizabethan days the ladies of the family were
wont to watch their squires hunting; and the moated flowerless garden
which to-day bears the name of “Queen Mary’s Bower”. The ceilings of
some of the rooms in the “Stand” are quaintly pargeted, and from the
highest windows there is a magnificent view of Longstone Edge and Eyam
Moor. At the back stretches a peacock-haunted woodland where lie the
lakes that feed the fountains of the great house. To descend the hill
there is a narrow path with many stone steps, beside which rushes a
merry little stream.

“Queen Mary’s Bower”, which is said to have been used as an airing
place by the unfortunate prisoner, rises from a moat near Derwent bank.
It resembles a dwarfish heavy-balustraded keep, filled with rich soil
in which grow ancient trees. A broad staircase crosses the moat, rising
to a locked wicket gate, through which may be seen the melancholy
little enclosure. According to local tradition a secret passage
descended from here to the old house. One may easily imagine the
captive sitting here amidst her ladies and working with her everlasting
needle.

The bridge near by, crossing the river which for the nonce is deep
and sullen, was copied from one of Michael Angelo’s designs, and the
uncouth figures in the niches were wrought by Theophilus Cibber, the
Georgian poet-laureate’s father. On the farther bank roam herds of
red and fallow deer--the former descendants of those that ran wild
in the forgotten Forest of the Peak. On a misty day, when house, and
bridge, and bower are all veiled, these magnificent animals have a
most impressive appearance--they move slowly then--there are no wild
flights--they scorn man and are lords of the whole park.

Notwithstanding its great natural beauty the park somehow conveys an
impression of monotony. There are few of those sudden tantalizing
glimpses that one expects in such a place, and the neatness is perhaps
too apparent. Some of the trees are of great age, but none are
comparable with the giants of Sherwood Forest, twenty miles away. The
atmosphere is too tranquil--it is hard to believe that this pleasaunce
is haunted with the memories of noted folk. Mary the Queen and Bess the
Countess might never have wrangled and made friends in this beautiful
valley.

Chatsworth is filled with wonderful treasures. There may be seen the
rosary used by Henry the Eighth before he became Defender of the Faith,
masterpieces by the greatest painters, priceless tapestries from the
French looms, books of almost incredible value. It is a house of cedar
and rock amethyst and variegated alabaster and gilding is everywhere
lavishly displayed. The most ancient piece of furniture appears as well
preserved as though it had been fashioned in our own time. There must
be some charm about Chatsworth--naught there can ever fade or decay.

Many marvellously delicate carvings, attributed to Grinling Gibbons,
but more probably the work of a local genius called Watson, adorn the
walls, notably a delicate cravat in lime-wood, which might have been
wrought by some old Chinese craftsman.

Verrio, and Laguerre, and Thornhill painted the frescoes. In one,
Verrio, who had quarrelled with the housekeeper, immortalized the
luckless woman as the ugliest of the Fates. Verrio had a somewhat
childish wit--on one door he painted a violin, with the intention of
deceiving a fellow painter. To-day one would not attempt to remove it
from the hook.

It cannot be denied that the present house has something of the
aspect of a museum. It contains so many rich treasures that one’s
sense of proportion becomes mazed, and one is almost relieved to
pass out-of-doors again by way of the Sculpture Gallery, where the
masterpieces date chiefly from the earlier half of the nineteenth
century.

The Gardens are as stiffly beautiful and as artificial as the house.
One is reminded of the _Roi Soleil_ when one sees the little temple
with its long flight of stairs down which on state occasions water
flows, or the canals and basins with their slender fountains, the chief
of which, known as the “Emperor”, rises to a height of 267 feet. In one
place is to be seen a weeping-willow tree--of copper--and much mirth
is excited when visitors, passing to the recess behind, are playfully
drenched by a too-willing gardener.

In late spring the rhododendrons glow splendidly here--perhaps the best
view may be obtained from the steep road on the farther bank of the
river.

The Great Conservatory, designed by Sir Joseph Paxton, before the Great
Exhibition, is enjoyable for such as wish to be transported to the
tropics, and to breathe an oppressively perfumed air.

The road over the bridge leads to the model village of Edensor,
in whose church may be seen the tomb of two of Bess of Hardwick’s
sons, who died in James the First’s days. It is gaudily coloured and
morbidly suggestive. On one side is the carved suit of armour of Henry
Cavendish, on the other the coronet and robes of William, first Earl of
Devonshire. Between, under an altar slab, are the figures of a corpse
in winding sheet and a skeleton. It is all very ugly and grotesque, but
none the less interesting as an instance of the decorations beloved by
mourning Jacobeans.

A more important memorial of the past is the brass to John Beton,
Comptroller of the captive Queen’s household, who died at Chatsworth
in 1570. The Latin inscription tells how, with others, he bravely
liberated his mistress from Loch Leven Castle. He died young, and was
probably deeply regretted by the mimic Court.

The graveyard contains the resting places of the more recent members of
the Cavendish family, simple and with no affectation of pomp. Perhaps
the one that excites most interest to-day is that of Lord Frederick,
whose assassination in Phoenix Park filled the whole country with
dismay.




HADDON HALL


The best view of Haddon is to be gained from the road that runs from
Rowsley to Bakewell. Shortly after crossing Fillyford Bridge one sees
the towers rising above the tree-tops, harmonizing so well with their
green setting that it is hard not to believe the house old as the
landscape itself. The stonework is of a wonderful colour--a grey that
changes with the seasons. It is warm and cheerful in summer; in winter
I have seen it greenish as though covered with a thin moss.

There is an ancient dove-house near the road--a square building with no
pretension to architectural charm; one wishes that its narrow ledges
might still be dappled with proud birds, since then it would be easy
to believe that Haddon was once again a house of living folk. The Wye
glides between; crossing the bridge one comes to a quaint house with
a formal garden, where may be seen crests in topiary of the boar’s
head and the peacock. Thence a steep incline rises to the great oaken
doorway that opens to the first court. In the wall high above are three
grotesquely carved gargoyles which bear the name of the “Three Muses”.
A small entrance wicket opens, and one passes through the archway,
turning to examine the chaplain’s room with its unclerical jack-boots
and pewter dishes. It matters little to whom this retreat was dedicated
in olden times; at Haddon one is in love with illusions and will
sacrifice none.

The chapel where the Vernons and the Manners listened to their priest
stands in the south-west corner of the courtyard. In spite of the
fact that long ago the rich heraldic glass of the west window was
stolen, it is still a place of warm colour. Near the entrance is a
short flight of stairs which leads to a dark balcony, used formerly,
according to Doctor Cox, the distinguished antiquarian, as an
organ-loft. The general public, however, prefer to believe that this
was the confessional. On the walls are some ancient frescoes, and there
is a gigantic oak chest which once contained the vestments of the
officiating cleric.

Haddon has not been used as a residence since the reign of Anne,
although the furniture was not removed to Belvoir Castle until about
the year 1760. The first Duke of Rutland was the last occupant; he
lived there in great state and kept open house “like an old courtier
of the Queen’s”. Lysons tells us that between 1660 and 1670, although
Belvoir was then the principal seat, every year were killed and
consumed at Haddon “between 30 and 40 beeves, between 400 and 500
sheep, and 8 or 10 swine”!

Notwithstanding that the place is deserted, all the rooms are
scrupulously clean, perhaps cleaner than in the days when the floors
were strewn with rushes. The two courtyards are kept in perfect order,
and such flowers as grow there may be the same as flourished in
Tudor times. On a hot day a strong and pleasant aroma comes from the
dignified old yews in the Winter Garden.

The Banqueting Hall and the Kitchens, more than anything else in the
place, carry the mind back to those warm-hued times. Horace Walpole, in
1760, wrote that “the abandoned old castle of the Rutlands never could
have composed a tolerable dwelling”, and modern folk, although filled
with admiration for the state apartments, cry out upon the servants’
quarters, forgetting that, lighted with roaring logs in the vast open
fireplaces, and always dim with a mist of roasted meats and spiced
breads, they must have presented an appearance of very comfortable
cheer. It is easy to repopulate them with merry scullions and buxom
wenches. Doubtless their laughter echoed along the dark passage and
reached the ears of my lord and his family, as they sat together at the
long table on the dais. But that must only have been when the musicians
who sat in the Minstrels’ Gallery were silent for the masters of
Haddon loved to listen at mealtimes to “sounds and sweet airs that give
delight and hurt not”.

[Illustration: HADDON HALL]

Here are one or two old paintings, and beside the entrance is an iron
ring which was attached to the wrist of such as shirked his ale, the
scorned liquor being poured down his sleeve. The Dining-Room near by
is panelled with oak, and the ceiling, whence the whitewashing has
been removed, shows remains of ancient frescoes. Above the fireplace
is the Vernons’ fine motto: “Drede God and honor the Kyng”. The most
interesting things in this room are the carved heads of Henry the
Seventh and his Queen, and the Court Jester, Will Somers--to be found
in the frieze of a dainty oriel.

There are no paintings of any value at Haddon, but such canvases as are
seen--the clearings of the Belvoir Castle lumber-rooms--seem altogether
in keeping with the house. Marvellous tapestries adorn many of the
rooms, notably the Withdrawing-Room, which is immediately above the
Dining-Room. They are of a kind to haunt one’s dreams; they might be
used as background for a thousand old romances. In one of the smaller
rooms not shown nowadays to the ordinary visitor, hangs a startling
panel of a king or knight, evidently designed by a master.

But one cannot particularize all the charms of this wonderful house.
Of late one or two harpsichords have appeared in the state chambers;
somehow one resents the introduction of the eighteenth century into so
ancient a building. The instruments displayed here should be the lute,
the virginals, the viola da gamba.

Haddon stands unevenly, owing to the slope on which it is built, and
the inner court is considerably higher than the first. There is only
one third-floor room, in what is known as the Eagle Tower. Many of the
smaller rooms, despite their cleanliness, have an oppressive air of
desolation, and there is one, dark and ill-odoured, that seems given
over entirely to the bats.

After the Withdrawing-Room, where there is a dainty recessed window
from which may be seen a lovely view of the gardens and the river, one
passes to the Long Gallery--the chief glory of Haddon. To reach the
doorway one ascends a semicircular staircase of solid oak, cut from the
root of a single tree whose trunk and arms are said to have furnished
the planks for the floor of this great chamber. On entering, such as
do not know Haddon are silent for a moment, as though not quite sure
whether they are in presence of someone worthy of vast respect. Whether
it be because of the ghosts of those who danced lavoltas and pavans
and sarabands, I cannot say, but I have never seen a crowd of men and
women there who did not at first speak with bated breath.

The colouring here is rich and warm, the panelling with its carved
boars’ heads, and peacocks, and crescents has darkened until it
resembles walnut. Originally the pargeting was painted and gilt. Traces
of this decoration still remain. The windows are excellently designed;
the central bay is as large as an ordinary-sized room.

The dominating spirit here must surely be that of Lady Grace Manners,
whose death mask hangs in a glass case under the great east window. It
is the face of a sad and worn-out lady, with the bitterness of death
upon her lips. None the less she appears to have enjoyed a pleasant
enough life, since in Bakewell Church we read that she “bore to her
husband four sons and five daughters, and lived with him in holy
wedlock thirty years. She caused him to be buried with his forefathers,
and then placed this monument at her own expense, as a perpetual
memorial of their conjugal faith, and she joined the figure of his body
with hers, having vowed their ashes and bones should be laid together.”

From the Long Gallery is entered the Lord’s Parlour, called in the
seventeenth century the Orange Parlour. Here is something that
is viewed with the greatest interest by sentimentalists old and
young--the doorway through which the heroine of Haddon is said to have
passed on the night of her elopement. There are folk who profess to
believe that Mistress Dorothy Vernon wedded Sir John Manners in quite
a humdrum fashion, and that the pretty tradition only dates from the
beginning of the nineteenth century. But Haddon is such an admirable
setting for romance, that one prefers to believe the story.

In the State Bedroom stands one of those magnificent draped bedsteads
beloved by quality folk in olden time. It is over fourteen feet high, a
curious and weird four-poster hung with rich green embroidered velvet,
and is supposed to date from the fifteenth century. The last person who
slept in it was the Regent, during a visit to Belvoir Castle. This room
contains a remarkable old washing-tally with revolving disks of ivory,
whereon one may read of “Ruffes, Bandes, Boote Hose, Pillowberes”,
and other strange personal and domestic articles. Near the window is
a dim mirror with a lacquered frame. Tradition holds that this was
once the property of the Virgin Queen. A very quaint and daintily made
spinet stands near the farther doorway; some of its wires still respond
janglingly to the pressed key.

[Illustration: DOROTHY VERNON’S BRIDGE, HADDON]

The fireplace is surmounted by an alto-relievo of plaster, representing
Orpheus in the very act of charming the beasts. This is grotesque
and out of keeping with the solemn dignity of the house. From the State
Bedroom one soon reaches a corkscrew staircase that climbs the Peveril
Tower, whence a singular view may be had of the roofs and courtyards
and the green Haddon meadows. Fuller, in his _History of the Worthies
of England_, observes concerning the richness of this pasture land,
that “one profferred to surround it with shillings to purchase it,
which, because to set sideways, not edgeways, was refused”.

The Gardens with their lichened balustrades and staircases are perhaps
as famous as any in our country. From the upper one is to be gained
an extraordinarily fine view of the principal façade. They are formal
gardens but formal without embarrassment; the yews, which must be
almost as old as the house itself, seem to diffuse a pleasant calm. In
the narrow borders grew ancient roses with loose petals--roses such as
were used in still-rooms by the high-born dames who loved to prepare
their own simples and sweet extracts. The Lower Garden is terraced
down the hillside, and across the river stretches a wonderful old
footbridge, somewhat similar to those reared in pack-horse days in the
remoter part of Peakland. Fond legend declares that Dorothy Vernon
crossed this on the night of her elopement.




THE ATHENS OF THE PEAK


Eyam, known years ago as “the Athens of the Peak”, surpasses in
literary interest any other part of the Peak Country. There, in the
days of her youth, before it was her duty to “rock the cradle of her
aged nursling”, as she piously calls her father, dwelt the bluestocking
Anna Seward, who in later years won for herself the title of “Swan
of Lichfield”. She was the rector’s daughter, and even in childhood
must have been singularly wordy. Most readers will remember Scott’s
confusion upon learning that she had made him her literary executor.
An interesting figure was Anna Seward, and not devoid of charm. She
occupied a certain position in the literary history of the eighteenth
century as the acquaintance--but not the friend--of Drs. Johnson and
Darwin. Glimpses of her are to be found in Boswell’s Life. She always
impresses one as despising those who without private means devoted
themselves to the profession of letters. Her compliments were paid
from a superior height, and she never descended to the level of the
paid scribe. She loved to patronize, and in those days the humble,
with some notable exceptions, were not averse from patronage. It is
easy enough to imagine her moving in the quaint rectory, filled with
inordinate share of intellectual pride. After her maturity she lived
on terms of some intimacy with other bluestockings of the period, and
doubtless had she chosen might have told some very piquant stories.
Unfortunately, however, she had not the gift of conciseness, and all
that she describes is viewed through a dull mist.

William and Mary Howitt are connected more popularly with Eyam, since
they sang, in banal rhyme, the story of its great catastrophe. For
Eyam, in the seventeenth century, was visited by the Great Plague, and
the whole village well-nigh brought to ruin. A box of clothes had been
sent by a wretched London tailor, and, when this was opened, one by
one the countryfolk sickened, until in little over a twelvemonth only
ninety-one survivors were left out of a population of three hundred and
fifty. Many weird stories are told of that time of terror, and old men
still love to speak of bones turned up by the ploughshare.

It was due to the rector, Mompesson, and to a dispossessed clergyman
named Stanley, that the frightful disease was kept within a certain
area. Both these men worked nobly, and their names are still revered.
Mompesson’s wife, whom he loved dearly, fell ill and died. It is
said that before the signs of sickness were apparent with the lady,
she commented to her husband on the sweetness of the evening air,
and thereby convinced him that she was already infected. Her tomb, a
coffer-like construction carved with cherubs and crossbones, stands not
far from the porch.

On a Sunday the devoted Mompesson preached to his flock from a natural
archway in Cucklet Dell, the pleasaunce afront the Hall. It was
considered advisable that, since the air was poisoned, the villagers
should no longer meet in the church. A strange sight the little valley
must have presented in those days. One sees again the anguished faces
of the men and women who have lost those they loved best; and every
time they gathered together more and more were missing. It must have
seemed that one and all were doomed, and after so long an ordeal
probably all wished for death.

Several interesting relics of that time still remain. Beside the field
path that descends to Stoney Middleton, where the wild gilliflowers
grow, an old fellow once showed me a flat stone in which were cut
several round holes. There, said he, the Eyam folk had dropped their
coins in vinegar for disinfecting purposes, and the inhabitants of the
surrounding country had exchanged them for provisions. High on Eyam
Edge, near a grim deserted mine, is a water trough with a carved hood,
which, according to tradition, was used for a similar purpose.

[Illustration: MILLER’S DALE]

A pleasant if somewhat melancholy half-hour may be spent in the
churchyard, where are to be found several curious epitaphs, the most
striking being on a worn stone near the south chancel.

    “Here lith the body of Ann Sellars
    Buried by this stone--who
    Dyed on Jan 15th day, 1731.
    Likewise here lise dear Isaac
    Sellars, my husband and my right,
    Who was buried on that same day come
    Seven years, 1738. In seven years
    Time there comes a change--
    Observe, & here you’ll see
    On that same day come
    Seven years my husband’s
    Laid by me.”

Another epitaph, on a slab fastened to the tower, tells of an old
inhabitant who must have loved his Shakespeare.

    “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
    Nor the furious winter’s rages,
    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
    Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.”

There is a fine scrolled cross with age-worn figures of the Virgin
and Child, which owes its present position to the antiquarian zeal of
Howard the philanthropist. But perhaps the most suggestive object
in this beautiful resting place is a chapel-shaped tomb with grated
windows and without roof--the lead having been sold about a century
ago by the descendants of those who lay there. It is certainly a place
whence a ghost might rise o’ nights; one wonders that the villagers
have no weird legends concerning its past.

Beside the church is a small gabled cottage with a forecourt proudly
embellished with oldfashioned flowers. This is the “Plague House”.
Tradition insists that the tailor’s box was opened in one of its rooms.
A little farther, lying behind a terraced garden, stands Eyam Hall,
perhaps the most beautiful of the minor Peakland houses. Semicircular
steps rise to a fantastical white gate with carved stone posts, and one
may look upon a soft green lawn and a Jacobean façade whereon grows the
Virginian Creeper. The latticed panes glimmer; the stonework is richly
coloured. In autumn the sight of the gorgeous foliage is worth a day’s
journey.

This district abounds with old stories--it is with regret that one
finds the younger generation careless of the traditions cherished by
their fore-elders. In the days when Prince Charlie marched towards
London, Eyam folk were greatly scared, and their cattle were driven to
a little valley known as Bretton Clough, and hidden till the tremor
had passed. One used to hear old dames boasting of their grandfathers’
clocks, which in those long-past days had been lowered for safety down
mine shafts. A grandfather’s clock and a corner cupboard may still be
found in almost every cottage. The natives of Eyam are well-read and
kindly--it is possible that the influence of the “Swan of Lichfield”
has not yet entirely faded.

On the little green near the hall still stand the two posts of the
stocks--it is easy enough to picture the penitent drunkard enduring
neighbourly abuse, and bowing his head under a shower of rotten eggs.
But at Eyam one may be sure that no lasting harm was ever wrought upon
those who loved their cups unwisely.

On the moor that reaches to the “Edge” are several cairns, and a
druidical circle of minor importance. From the summit of the Sir
William Hill is what was described to me as a “perfect horizon”. There
may be enjoyed one of the most striking views in Peakland--in one
direction one glimpses the wild hills of Kinderscout, in another the
rich woods and towers of Chatsworth. And sometimes may be seen the
“Emperor Fountain”, rising high and quivering like a white plume in the
breeze.




THE DALES


Perhaps the most startling view in all Peakland is that from “Headstone
Edge”--as oldfashioned countrymen call the place--at the curve of
Monsal Dale. There, after leaving the dusty road and crossing a few
yards of grassy waste, one looks down into the great valley, where the
Wye runs tranquilly between broken-edged meadows, with abrupt hills on
either side. A viaduct crosses the stream; to the left is a smooth lake
with gleaming surface. A narrow path descends and runs alongside the
bank until the Ashford road is reached.

The uplands above Monsal Dale are dull and uninspiring. No hedgerows
are to be seen; the fields are surrounded by walls of loosely built
limestone that fall in gaps during every rough storm. A considerable
portion of the small farmer’s time must be devoted to their repair. The
stone is of a greyish white, and in winter is embellished with orange
lichen. The scattered trees that have attained a shrivelled maturity
are almost invariably lopsided. Thorns are the most common; sometimes
one finds thereon puny flowers long after the passing of mid-summer.

Here and there are broken chimneys and sheds of deserted lead mines;
those familiar with the country find these not unpicturesque. The
masonry still retains its startling whiteness, and neither fern nor
moss grows in the interstices. From the distance they resemble castle
ruins, and, where the machinery and rotting beams remain, recall to
mind Browning’s poem of “Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came”. Young
folk are fascinated by the precincts of these mines--there are dwarf
plantations, deep holes full of discoloured water, and mounds of yellow
and white debris, on which bloom in summer wild pansies, golden, pale
blue, and richest purple.

Centuries ago this district was the haunt of wolves. Camden writes
that in his time “there is no danger of them in these places, though
formerly infested by them, for the taking of which some persons held
lands here at Wormhill, from whence the persons were called Wolve-hunt,
as is manifest from the Records of the Tower”. It is easy enough to
picture the red deer being pursued across the waste, and climbing for
safety to the rocks that overhang the swiftly flowing Wye.

Despite its railway, Monsal Dale is the Arcady of Peakland, a happy
restful place where one never wearies of looking upon the tender green
meadows and the clear, winding stream. The cottages seem as though
they must be inhabited by a people apart who have little in common
with to-day. It is a fitting background for pastorals, dainty and
mirth-provoking as Gay’s _Shepherd’s Week_. When evening falls, the
valley takes on an aspect of some grandeur; the hills grow steeper, the
trees become stouter of bole and denser of foliage; there is no sound
save the comfortable lapping of the stream. At times a hollow rumble
sounds in the far distance, increases and increases, and the lighted
train flies across the viaduct, and, passing the little station,
disappears in the farther tunnel. But for this connection with modern
life Monsal Dale would belong altogether to the distant past.

Beyond the Ashford road stretches a weird little ravine known as
Demon’s Dale; a dark and narrow place where one would scarce care to
go o’ nights. It has a fantastically unreal appearance; it might be a
robber’s haunt in some oldfashioned melodrama.

Cressbrook Dale opens to the right, near a cotton mill which is less
unpicturesque than most of its kind. This valley is scarce known to
the ordinary tourist, and yet there is no denying its peculiar beauty.
Not far from the mill stand some melancholy cottages which a shrewd
local wit christened “Bury-me-wick”. At the farther end, near Wardlow
Mires, where was the last instance of gibbeting in England, rises a
curious rock, in shape not unlike a cottage loaf, which bears the name
of “Peter’s Stone”, probably given in the days when the High Peak was a
Catholic country.

The trees of Cressbrook Dale are notably fine, and in autumn offer
a grand blaze of colour. Old-time writers described the place as a
“Dovedale in miniature”, but much allowance must be made for the
imagination of those who loved to squander epithets. Cressbrook has
in truth no resemblance to Dovedale, and, comparison being out of
the question, one may agree it is as well deserving of a pilgrimage.
There are some fine crags, a waterfall, and pools bright with cresses;
the hartstongue may still be found in the less-accessible nooks, and
botanists delight in its rare flora. Cressbrook is always beautiful,
but most wonderful at sunset in winter, when the frozen valley is
filled with crimson haze.

Nearer Buxton the Wye glides through Miller’s Dale, which of itself is
somewhat uninteresting, although where the banks draw together and the
stream becomes a rapid there are some exquisite glimpses of miniature
cañons. A road climbs steeply up to Tideswell, where stands the
handsomest of Peakland churches, or to Litton, where, centuries ago,
dwelt the ancestors of the famous author of _The Caxtons_.

Still higher up the river is the horseshoe-shaped Chee Dale, which is
classed amongst our finest instances of limestone scenery. The river
and path there are confined between rocky, well-wooded banks. Chee Tor,
the great overhanging cliff, is about three hundred feet in height.
The beauty of this valley varies greatly according to the season, but
throughout the year is seen to perfection on the nights when the moon
is at the full.

[Illustration: LATHKIL DALE]

The Derwent valley is perhaps the most interesting, since it has
so many fine traditions of the ancient Peakland families. There
are several halls of considerable dignity, mostly in very secluded
situations, and nowadays used as farmhouses. North Lees, near
Hathersage, which bears a striking likeness to an ecclesiastical
edifice, is well worth a visit to see the remains of pargeting and
the corkscrew staircase. Highlow, too, built by the same family and
about the same period, still preserves much of its old state--the
staircase is singularly handsome, and one of the ceilings is coved
with massive timbers. At Nether Padley, two miles away, may be seen a
chapel, which is used nowadays as a barn, and also other slight remains
of the ancient home of the Fitzherberts. A yearly pilgrimage is made
to this place in memory of two seminary priests, by name Garlick and
Ludlam, who in Elizabeth’s days were secreted here, discovered,
taken to Derby, and, with another, Richard Sympson, hanged, drawn, and
quartered. A contemporary ballad describes the last scene.

    “When Garlick did the ladder kiss
      And Sympson after hie,
    Methought that then St. Andrew was
      Desirous for to die.

    *       *       *       *       *

    “When Ludlam looked smilingly,
      And joyful did remain,
    It seemed St. Steven was standing by
      For to be stoned again.”

There is a tradition that these unfortunate men were secreted at Padley
in the chimneys of the old chapel; but such as see the place will agree
with Doctor Cox that it is more probable that their hiding place was in
the hall itself.

Hathersage’s best claim to fame lies in the fact that Robin Hood’s
best henchman, Little John, lies in the churchyard. Moorseats Hall,
a hillside grange scarcely visible from the valley roads, was used
by Charlotte Brontë as the background of the least-interesting part
of _Jane Eyre_. It was there that Jane’s cousins, the Rivers family,
dwelt, and the impossible but none the less admirably imagined St. John
was presumably vicar of that graceful church. Hathersage is rapidly
losing its old charm; rows of genteel “villa residences” are being
built, and the place is becoming nothing more than a suburb of the
great manufacturing town beyond the hill.

Farther down the valley a strange eighteenth-century house stands on a
thickly wooded bank of the river. This is Stoke Hall, once the Peakland
home of the Earls of Bradford. The neighbouring folk in former years
used to tell a weird story of a skull that haunted the upper story, and
one may be sure that they feared to pass alone after “edge o’ dark”.
Although Stoke has no pretensions to architectural beauty, its position
suggests romance and mystery. In the wood near by stands a renaissance
statue known as “Fair Flora”, a gift from the “long-armed” Duke of
Devonshire to a member of the Bridgman family, but by popular belief
a monument raised to the memory of a young lady who was murdered by a
jealous lover.

The Arkwrights once occupied Stoke, and as a child I remember
hearing, from an old gaffer, stories of Stephen Kemble--Mrs. Robert
Arkwright’s father--who was so corpulent that his calves slipped over
his shoe-tops! Perhaps it was at Stoke that the lady set to music
Campbell’s song of the brave Roland who expired at Ronceval, a romance
beloved by the contraltos of our grandsires’ days.

After Stoke, the Derwent, crossing a great weir, runs over a stony bed
to Calver, then through green meadows to Baslow, from whose steep
bridge there is a view almost as beautiful as that at Bakewell. Close
by stands the little church, disfigured with a grotesque “Jubilee”
clock dial. In the vestry may be seen a dog-whip, with which in less
civilized times the verger drove out the offending animals. The Derwent
has no gorges like the Wye and the Dove. It suggests a comfortable
placidity, whilst the others seem young, more vivacious, and reckless.

Dovedale is generally regarded as the most picturesque of the Peakland
valleys, and indeed I know no lovelier stretch in spring and in autumn
than the two miles between the conical hill of Thorp Cloud and the
Dove Holes caverns. It is impossible to travel either in vehicle or
on horseback--to see Dovedale one must make use of “Shanks’s Mare”.
Sometimes the path runs along the very margin of the stream, sometimes
it climbs toy bluffs, whence one may look down mimic precipices. Each
salient feature is named--there are to be found on the Staffordshire
bank limestone crags known as the “Twelve Apostles”, and on the
Derbyshire bank pinnacles which bear the name of “Tissington Spires”.
There is also a recess called “Dovedale Church”, and a great cave
dedicated to Reynard the Fox. The “Straits” must be passed--sometimes
after heavy rain the path is flooded; then one sees the “Lion’s Head”
and the “Watch Box”, after which all is green and grey monotony.

Ashbourne is within easy walking distance. In one of the principal
streets stands the “Green Man”, a fine old inn with a striking
signboard that overhangs the cartway. The eighteenth-century landlady
here was described by Boswell as a “mighty civil gentlewoman”. Samuel
Johnson often visited his friend Dr. Taylor at a house still existent.
A more important memory is that in the Marketplace the Young Pretender
was proclaimed as King of Great Britain.

The chief beauty of Ashbourne is the fine old church of St.
Oswald’s, with its well-preserved tombs of the Cokayne and Boothby
families--those of the former commencing in 1372. The pride of the
church is, however, the marble monument of little Penelope Boothby,
who died in 1791. The sculptor, Thomas Banks, achieved a masterpiece
of pathos in this simple figure of a tired child resting happily. The
English inscription--there are also inscriptions in French and Italian
and Latin--tells us that the parents, Sir Brooke and Dame Susanna,
“ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was final”.

[Illustration: DOVEDALE]

Beresford Dale, a few miles from Dovedale, although only a quarter of a
mile in length, is almost equally beautiful, and, moreover, is famous
as having once been the property of Charles Cotton, Isaac Walton’s
bosom friend. In _The Compleat Angler_ one reads of the “Pike Pool”
with its upstanding limestone pillar which _Viator_ describes as
“the oddest sight I ever saw”. The little fishing house used by the
two happy men still stands beside the stream, but to-day one is not
permitted to examine closely this shrine of pleasant memories.

Beyond the dreary upland the Lathkil gathers itself together in
mysterious underground passages, and appears suddenly as a fair-sized
stream. It runs down a narrow, well-wooded dale to the pretty village
of Alport, mingles there with the Bradford, and enters the Wye near
Fillyford Bridge, within sight of Haddon Hall. Of all Peakland rivers
the Lathkil is the purest; its waters have the clearness and lustre of
rock crystal. A lordly pleasure for a lazy man is to rest beside the
pools and to watch the stealthy glidings of the great trout between the
waving weeds.

The streams from the limestone are invariably cold-looking. A sight of
the little brook that runs through Middleton Dale is vastly refreshing
on a hot summer’s day. The rocks here, castellated in outline, rise
to a considerable height, and in May the valley is scented with the
yellow gilliflowers that grow in every crevice. Something of the beauty
is disappearing; quarrymen have been at work for years, and at the
entrance to Eyam Dale the hillside is losing its rugged grandeur. There
is a “Lover’s Leap”, with a better-authenticated history than that in
the neighbourhood of Buxton, since it is well known that an amorous
maiden, many years ago, threw herself from the edge high above and, as
she wore a crinoline, reached the bottom without very serious hurt. A
small inn marks the site of her escapade. There is also a cave known
as Carl Wark, notorious in the district since the body of a murdered
pedlar was found there and only identified by his shoe buckles. At the
upper end of the dale, on the green platform near where the stream
rises from the earth, more often than not are to be seen the vans of
gipsies more or less unclean.

Stoney Middleton village is desolate but interesting. There is an
ancient mill dam of greenish water, and at one end an octagonal
toll house bestrides the entering stream. The village reminds one
of Devonshire, save that it is squalid and cold of hue. A quaint
middle-aged hall, the property of Lord Denman, rises beside the church,
and nearby is a bath, now but little frequented, the heat of whose
waters is two degrees higher than that of Matlock’s warmest springs.
This is supposed to have been constructed by the Romans; according to
old writers many of their coins have been found in the neighbourhood.

Until the nineteenth century the only road through the valley was a
pack-horse track--vehicles climbing the steep hill of Middleton Moor.
In 1664 the Sheriff of Derbyshire, who dwelt in this isolated place,
was asked by the judge why he kept no coach, and replied: “There was
no such thing as having a coach where he lived, for ye town stood on
one end!” The best impression of Stoney Middleton is gained from the
highway that runs from Grindleford to Eyam; thence one looks down upon
an irregular cluster of roofs, with a veil of light, drifting smoke.

The Delf, a pretty clough with many tall trees, opens at some little
distance from the quaint colour-washed inn, and climbs up to Eyam,
which, from its historical and literary associations, may be regarded
as Peakland’s most interesting village. There, from a gloomy ravine
called the “Salt Box”, a rillock creeps and soon loses itself in the
grass.




THE CASTLE AND THE CAVES


Sir Walter Scott never visited Peakland; therefore his descriptions
are devoid of topographical value. In the period which he has chosen
for his _Peveril of the Peak_ the chief families of the district had
degenerated into small squires who probably never stirred more than
twenty miles from home in their lives.

Castleton is oddly situated at the end of the Hope valley, where the
great hills seem to bar all farther progress. Of old the only way of
crossing these hills was by the “Winnats”, a romantic pass that starts
impressively but soon becomes dull and uninteresting. The “Winnats”
would be greatly improved by a brawling stream; as it is, the very
sight of the place in summer excites one’s thirst. Long ago a romantic
tragedy occurred here: two young eloping lovers were murdered by
ruffians who hid amongst the rocks. I remember as a child seeing the
blood-stained pillion from which they fell.

Peveril’s Castle surmounts a steep hill, which one climbs by a rough,
curving path. Nothing of much interest remains--there is a buttressed
keep and a broken wall--architecturally it is inferior to many a Border
peel; but its situation is amazingly well-chosen. On one side is the
precipice descending to the “Devil’s Cave”; on the other the deep and
narrow ravine of Cave Dale, a parched and solitary place not devoid of
a certain charm. Little is known of the castle’s history, and in all
likelihood it was from the first a stronghold of very minor importance.

[Illustration: PEAK CAVERN GORGE, CASTLETON]

But in bygone days the country, if tradition may be believed, was
once covered with forest so dense that a squirrel might travel twelve
miles without once descending to the ground. Now there are very few
trees, and none of any great size. The hamlet of Peak Forest itself is
exceedingly bleak and desolate--a small tract of woodland there gives a
faint impression of how the country appeared in long-past centuries.

Castleton is famous for a pageant which is performed every Royal Oak
Day. Then gaily-dressed children dance what survives of the morris,
and the village band plays its best; whilst King Charles and his lady
wife, acted by two Peaklanders of the sterner sex, ride in state
through the quaint streets. His Majesty, in cavalier costume, has the
upper part of his body covered with a gorgeous bouquet, in shape not
unlike a beehive, which, towards evening, is drawn up to the top of the
church tower, and left to wither upon a pinnacle. The play dates from
Restoration times, and on the twenty-ninth of May Castleton is seen at
its best.

On the way from the castle one may visit, after paying a penny, the
Russet Well, a spring of singularly clear water, whose surroundings
might easily be made more picturesque. This is reputed to produce
4000 gallons of water every minute, and never to vary in quantity.
Thence the path passes some ancient cottages, where may be purchased
postcards and souvenirs of blue-john or of spar, and one rises beside
the stream to the magnificent portal of the Devil’s Cave.

The first impression is one of curious weirdness, since for hundreds
of years the archway has been used as a ropewalk, and along one side
are mysterious drums, and poles that bear a mysterious resemblance
to gibbets. The light is pale and sad; one can scarce believe that
one is looking upon an English curiosity. There is a suggestion of
Salvator Rosa--in the design but not in the colour. The place might
be a brigand’s cave; one almost expects to hear the clamour of angry
voices. Through many generations the gipsies of England met here year
after year; in those times the cave must have had fitting inhabitants.
The name alone suggests fire and smoke. At the farther end a little
doorway admits to a narrow passage, and, provided with candle-ends,
visitors are conducted through several strangely named caverns.
Occasionally it is necessary to bend almost double, and thereby avoid
knocking against the low roof. At one time a boat was used to convey
tourists under the lowest arch, but nowadays a cutting has made the
journey less embarrassing. The guide--it cannot be denied that the
guides of Peakland are of a high order of intelligence--draws attention
to the divers peculiarities of the place, whilst firing, every other
minute, pieces of magnesium wire. The series of caverns is undeniably
fascinating; but there is a curious sense of depression, and it is
pleasant to see again the broad light of day.

An entirely different sensation is provided by the inspection of the
Speedwell Mine, whose entry is at the foot of the Winnats. There one
descends a long and rough staircase, and enters a heavy-looking boat
which, moved by the guide, who places his hand against the wall on
either side, glides smoothly for half a mile through an artificial
tunnel, at whose end lies the Grand Cavern. Stubs of lighted tallow
candle are stuck here and there--looking back one sees a strange vista
of smooth black water reflecting yellow flames. Travelled folk are
reminded of a canal in Venice. The voice echoes as in the crypt of some
cathedral. The Grand Cavern is not a little impressive, and when the
trap is raised, and the water leaps down into the Bottomless Pit, one
is pleasantly stirred by comfortable terror.

To reach the Blue John Mine one may ascend the Winnats, then turn
to the left across some barren fields. This is equal in interest
to the others, and moreover is still being worked for the sake of
its famous amethystine spar, which, since it is growing exceedingly
scarce, increases in value year by year. Stalactites and fossils are
to be found there, and there is one cavern--known as the “Variegated
Cavern”--which might well be the home of gnomes.

Near by is Mam Tor, or the “Shivering Mountain”, so called because the
scaly side is always crumbling in winter. In one of the old Annual
Registers is the story of a hare pursued by a greyhound on the heights
above. The quarry leaped over the precipice, the pursuer followed, and
both were found dead hundreds of feet below. On the top of Mam Tor are
to be found the remains of an ancient entrenchment, interesting enough
but not comparable in point of preservation with those at Carl Wark,
about seven miles away.

Gaffers who repeat what their fathers have told them insist that a
battle was won on Win Hill, and that another was lost on Lose Hill,
two of the skyline features of the valley. But by whom this victory
was enjoyed or this defeat suffered it is impossible to acquire any
reliable information. As a rule they are attributed to the Romans and
to Oliver Cromwell.

At Bradwell, a somewhat drab village a mile or two from Castleton, is
a lesser-known but equally interesting cavern. Poets have first seen
the light at Bradwell, and the names of the various curiosities were
evidently bestowed by a well-read local genius. One may see there, not
only Calypso’s Cave, but the Straits of Gibraltar and Lot’s Wife.

Such as enjoy weird tremors and love to imagine tales of oldfashioned
sensationalism will find Castleton vividly interesting. There, in spite
of the new life brought of late years by the railway, it is still
possible to believe oneself in the brave old days of romance.




THE HILLS AND MOORS


Kinderscout, which rises to a height of 2088 feet, is the loftiest
Peakland mountain. This is best approached by way of the Ashop valley,
a deep green hollow, sparsely wooded, that starts from the junction
of the Ashop and the Derwent. On the hillsides are to be seen grey
farmsteads as remotely situated as Wuthering Heights, and only reached
by rough stony field tracks. In some places sledges are used instead
of carts for the transport of hay and bracken. An old Roman road runs
along the ridge to the left, and descends into the Edale valley south
of a stone guide post that was reared in 1737.

The Ashop cannot be described as beautiful; it is a wild little river,
shallow in summer but after storms flowing in high flood. The water
is stained sherry-brown with the peat from the uplands. There is a
bleak inn called the “Snake” just before the road rises for its steep
climb in the direction of Glossop. This and the “Cat and Fiddle”, near
Buxton, are the loneliest houses of refreshment in the district.

Half a mile beyond the “Snake” a path leads from the highway, descends
to the stream, and then rises to the heart of the moors. The scenery is
impressively grand, but not lovely; although in winter, when the snow
wreaths are curled and twisted mysteriously, there is an indescribable,
awe-inspiring charm. In certain lights the moors are even weirder than
the winding caves of Castleton. There, when dusk of evening falls,
one can readily forget the stress of modern life, and believe oneself
in the days when metal was unknown and men slew men with weapons of
stone. The last cries of grouse and snipe sound hollow and uncanny; the
heavy beating of eagle’s wings would cause no surprise. At the approach
of human footsteps, sheep glide from the shadows, gather together in
little bands, and stampede into the farther darkness.

Even on a warm summer’s day the silence and the solitude are strangely
disconcerting. The earth seems blacker than elsewhere, the rank grass
less fresh and green. The tracks thread mosses of extreme danger--I
myself have seen a brave man well-nigh swallowed by the thick and
evil-smelling mud. Doubtless through the centuries Kinderscout has
been the scene of many unknown tragedies.

There is a famous cataract, known as the Kinder Downfall, which after
heavy rain is visible from a distance of ten miles. This is best
visited after a month of frost, glittering in the sunlight like molten
silver. Of a cavern not far away are told several curious and thrilling
stories.

On the “edges” are seen fantastical rocks. As one walks down the Ashop
valley one catches a glimpse of the “Coach and Horses” high above--a
singular group that appears to move and move and pass out of sight.
Above the neighbouring valley of the upper Derwent are others with
homelier names, such as the “Cakes of Bread”, the “Salt Cellar”, and
the “Lost Lad”. The old folk who christened these landmarks had a just
sense of comparison. Another of these isolated masses of stone is the
“Eagle Stone”, a great pile not unlike a cornstack, that stands in
dignified solitude. There is a tradition that, centuries ago, no lad
of Baslow, the nearest village, was permitted to marry until he had
climbed to the top.

Twenty miles away to the south-west are the finest rock ridges of the
Peak--the “Roches” that dominate the moorlands above Leek. There is
a narrow ravine known as “Ludchurch”, which is said to have been a
Lollard’s hiding place. The view from the sharply descending road
is very fine. In the distance lies the manufacturing town, nowise
unpleasing to the eye even when more closely approached. Usually one
sees it lightly covered with a haze of bluish smoke.

As a moorland vignette I know of no place more perfect than the valley
of the Burbage, a brown lively stream that gathers together on the
uplands between Sheffield and Hathersage. At some slight distance is
Longshaw Lodge, the shooting box of the Duke of Rutland, which boasts
perhaps the best situation of any house in the district. With its heavy
background of trees this quaint irregular place scarce seems real--one
might be looking upon some strange old woodcut. Within a stone’s throw
of Longshaw stands “Fox House”, a hostelry which, built in the early
part of the nineteenth century, might have come down to us unaltered
from the days of Elizabeth. The stonework is grey and massive; the
windows are of diamond lattice. Thence the road slopes down to the
stream, curving abruptly at the one-arched bridge just before the
grotesque block of gritstone aptly christened the “Toad’s Mouth”.
Winter and summer alike this valley is full of restful beauty. High
above are to be seen the ridge of Higgar Tor, where the daylight creeps
through the arched stones, and the ancient stronghold of Carl Wark,
an oblong enclosure covering several acres. These heights are seldom
visited, the moorland here being strictly preserved. From the heathy
banks to the right of the road descend little springs of surpassing
clearness. The waters of these are sweet and refreshing; but if one
drinks of the Burbage a bitter taste remains.

[Illustration: MAM TOR]

A mile or so beyond the “Toad’s Mouth” the road reaches Millstone Edge
Nick, a gap between rough gritstone rocks, where one looks down upon
what is regarded as one of the finest views in England. Far below
glides the Derwent, only visible here and there--notably at the bridge
of Leadmill. In the distance is the Hope valley, with Win Hill and Lose
Hill and Mam Tor. The dale of the young Derwent, that descends from the
heart of the moorland country, opens to the right; one sees along the
skyline the ridges of Bamford Edge. Hathersage lies tranquilly in a
hollow, its fine spire dominating the ancient grey-roofed houses.

To the left, near at hand, is an immense quarry, a place of rich
colouring, which although it has mutilated the hillside has taken but
little from its beauty. Far below one sees toy trains running upon
lines no bigger than spiders’ threads. For some mysterious reason the
noise of whistling and the sight of escaping steam do not effect one’s
enjoyment in this prospect--perhaps because the contours are too fine
to be affected by utilitarianism.

Above Grindleford the straight line of the Sir William road climbs
to the summit of Eyam Moor, with its neighbouring mine chimneys of
Ladywash and New Engine for striking landmarks. Once an important
highway, this road is no longer frequented save by farmers. It
is sandy, deep-rutted; on the green banks grow wild thyme and
many-coloured pansies. There also may be found the curious little
moonwort, of which Culpeper writes that it is “an herb which will open
locks and unshoe such horses as tread upon it. This some laugh to
scorn, and these no small fools neither; but country people, that I
know, call it Unshoe the Horse.”

Eyam Moor has none of the depressing grandeur of the Kinderscout
region; its beauty is softer and more ingratiating. A place to walk
over in the still hours of a summer’s night, when the grey paths are
only faintly visible, and there is no sound save the whirring of the
goatsucker’s wings. And at dawn one hears the cold singing of the larks
overhead, as they welcome the rising sun, as yet unseen by mortal folk.
Of an evening, too, in winter, one sees the clouds gathering over the
uplands of Middleton Moor, like goblins making their way towards some
monstrous ark.

Farther down the valley uprises Froggatt Edge, with a magnificent range
of nutbrown rocks. The rowan grows luxuriantly upon the steep slopes,
and in autumn there is a glorious display of fox-coloured bracken.
Far below, the river moves sleepily between loamy banks, forced into
servitude for the Calver mill. After the weir it dances, like a child
released from tedious school, through pleasant meadow, past St. Mary’s
Nook, past the hall of Bubnell, which is mentioned in _The Compleat
Angler_, and soon, quiet and dignified, glides within a bowshot of the
great house of Chatsworth.

The Barbrook, which rises on the moors beyond Curbar Edge, is one of
the shortest and prettiest of the Peakland streams. Near the lately
constructed reservoir, which has all the appearance of a natural lake,
it passes down a heathery little clough, at whose end is to be seen a
scattered grove of silver birch and larch, then, dipping under a rough
bridge, runs along a green stretch by the road to an old mill dam.
After leaving this it gambols through a ravine that might have been
stolen from the Highlands, and soon reaches the Nether End of Baslow,
where it enters the park, to mingle unperceived with the Derwent.

The heights of Longstone Edge are mournful and suggestive. A long
cutting, called the “Deep Rake”, made by the mining folk of old
time, stretches here, its scarred sides steep and coldly coloured. At
intervals are pools of great depth and sinister aspect, and in a grove
that crowns the summit stands a farmhouse with tragical memories.
Across this upland an ancient bridle track, but little used nowadays,
crosses from Middleton Dale to the tranquil fields of Hassop, one of
the most interesting estates in the whole of Peakland.

Perhaps the dreariest moorland of all stretches along the hilltop
above Beeley and Chatsworth. This is intolerably bleak, and only in
late autumn seems to warm into life. It is criss-crossed with rough
sandy roads--roads with worn pillars for milestones, whereon are carved
ghastly skeleton hands and ill-spelt names of towns. All is silent save
for the wail of peewits and the harrowing whistle of curlews. Here
and there stand small farmsteads, the gritstone blackened with age.
Unlike the village folk, the inhabitants of this remote country are not
house-proud; apparently they trouble little about the outer or inner
embellishment of their homes. It is in such out-of-the-way places that
one hears the dialect to perfection, and learns, if one is so minded,
much strange wisdom acquired by many generations spent in isolation
from the living world.




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Transcriber’s note:

    Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

    Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.