THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 *4fCf 
 
 Itwn
 
 IN THE 
 
 DERBYSHIRE 
 
 HIGHWAYS, BYEWAYS, AND 
 
 MY WAYS IN 
 THE PEAKE COUNTRIE. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD BRADBURY. 
 
 (" STREPHON.") 
 
 AUTHOR OF " PILGRIMAGES IN THE PEAK," &c., &c. 
 
 BUXTON: J. C. BATES. 
 
 LONDON AND DERBY: BEMROSE AND SONS; 
 
 SHEFFIELD: PAWSON AND BRAILSFORD | 
 
 CHESTERFIELD: WILFRED EDMUNDS. 
 
 1881. 
 
 [All Bights Beserved.]
 
 70 
 
 gflaxk, 
 
 of 
 
 Qocietq in tlje 
 
 
 
 of 
 
 Qitevatuve, 
 
 807666
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. ROUND BY THE ROACHES, WITH 
 
 A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH . . 1 
 
 II. THE VALLEY or THE GOYT . . 32 
 
 III. CLIMBING COOMBS Moss ... 48 
 
 IV. AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD . 65 
 
 V. A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY IN THE 
 
 SPRING TIME 77 
 
 VI. AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. ... 92 
 
 VII. OVER THE SIGH PEAK RAILWAY 104 
 
 VIII. IN THE KlNDERSCOUT COUNTRY 121
 
 VI. CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 IX. BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. . 161 
 
 X. CHATSWOETH AS A TEEASUEE- 
 
 HOUSE OF AET 188 
 
 XI. HADDON HALL: AN AUTUMNAL 
 
 VIGNETTE 221 
 
 XII. HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK . 227 
 
 XIII. A CEUISE ROUND CASTLETON . 239
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 THE majority of the papers in the present 
 volume appeared in the Derbyshire Times 
 under the title of "Undiscovered Derbyshire." 
 The exceptions are the articles on Chatsworth 
 and Haddon Hall, which are republished from 
 The Magazine of Art, with the kind consent 
 of Messrs. Cassell & Co. The public favour 
 which followed the appearance of the " Un- 
 discovered Derbyshire " series has been a 
 sufficient inducement for their transfer from 
 newspaper columns to these pages. " Undis- 
 covered Derbyshire" was meant to be, as the 
 title portended, an index to the less known 
 and little explored ' beauty-spots ' of the Peake 
 district the sweet dells, and hidden nooks, 
 and moorland wilds which lie just off the 
 beaten road, and which, though so remote, 
 are quite near to the tourist path. Most of
 
 Till. PREFACE. 
 
 tke places described therein are within the 
 proverbial stone's-throw of Buxton ; some, 
 indeed, are only an idle afternoon's excursion 
 from the Crescent. 
 
 To the Genius of the Guide Book these 
 modest touch-and-go sketches have no pre- 
 tence; yet sufficient accuracy and attention 
 to detail are observed to enable the reader 
 to follow with facility the footsteps of the 
 writer. 
 
 In anticipation of shrewd criticism hinting, 
 with a nudge of superior wisdom, that several 
 of the places mentioned in these pages are 
 not in Derbyshire at all, but belong to 
 Staffordshire or Cheshire, the author would 
 submit beforehand that the Peake Countrie 
 should not be called upon to scrupulously toe 
 an arbitrary topographical line ; and he would 
 meekly suggest that when the wayward 
 wanderings of a mountain stream, or the 
 curves of a lonely valley, take the reader on
 
 PREFACE. IX. 
 
 to the borderlands, he need not dispute the 
 landmark of county demarcation, like an 
 ordnance surveyor, a litigious landowner, or 
 a haggling Highway Board. 
 
 But these "tiny travels" off the beaten 
 track are not likely to send mankind into 
 convulsions of controversy; and, perhaps, so 
 small a volume scarcely required so large a 
 preface. 
 
 STREPHON. 
 DERBY, 1881,
 
 BOUND BY THE BOCHES, 
 
 WITH A LOOK AT 
 
 LUDCHUKCH. 
 
 Come, let us to the Mils ! ivhere none but God 
 
 Can overlook us ; for I hate to breatJie 
 
 The breaths and think the thoughts of other men 
 
 In close and crowded cities, where the ski/ 
 
 Frowns like an angry father mournfully. 
 
 I love hills and I love loneliness, 
 
 And oh! I love the woods, those natural fan&s 
 
 Wliose very air is holy; and we breathe 
 
 Of Ood; for He doth come in special place. 
 
 And, while we worship, He is therefor us. 
 
 FESTUS. 
 
 " FIFTY, fifty-seven ; fifty-two, fifty-seven ! " It is 
 a tournament under the gas-light. The combatants 
 have their coats off, and are tilting with pointed 
 lances, which they ever and anon render deadly with 
 chalk. The spectators sit on seats raised above the 
 cloth of green. There is no Queen of Beauty, but an 
 automatic. herald, in the evening dress indispensable 
 to the successful waiter, proclaims the issues : 
 " Fifty-nine, fifty-three."
 
 2 BOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 The scene is the billiard-room of a Buxton hotel 
 where " Kalmat" and myself have been driven by 
 stress of rain, which is making the Spa of the Peak 
 more than ever a "watering-place." The weather 
 does not look auspicious for a Pilgrimage in the Peak 
 to Ludchurch and the Roches, which we have planned 
 for to-morrow. The pluvian deities seem to have 
 set their faces against "Kalmat" a wanderer in 
 many lands seeing a little of the neglected scenery 
 of his own country. " Kalmat" had never heard of 
 Ludchurch. He asked whether it belonged to the 
 Anglican Establishment, and his ignorance of the 
 Roches is as dense as a London fog. Buxton is 
 crowded with visitors. The " season" is at its height. 
 How many of the people educated Englishmen 
 visiting the North Midland Spa, I wonder, have ever 
 heard of our shrine ? Were Buxton threatened with 
 the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the condition 
 of deliverance that peradventure ten men should be 
 found who knew Ludchurch and the Roches, the 
 fashionable sanatorium would be doomed to the con- 
 dign destruction of the wicked cities of the plain. 
 There is no part of England less known than the 
 heathery highlands half-a-dozen miles from Buxton, 
 where Staffordshire and Cheshire and Derbyshire 
 meet in a wild solitude whose scenery haunts the 
 senses like a spell. These highlands of England
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH. 3 
 
 have yet to be discovered. They are very near civili- 
 sation, and still very far from it. They are not on 
 the beaten track. They are off the rail. The guide- 
 books know them not. The Royal Engineers could 
 not find Ludchurch. You may scrutinise the ord- 
 nance map in vain to find indication of that solemn 
 temple. We know more of the sources of the Nile, 
 and of the North Pole, than of this " backbone of 
 England." Unexplored Derbyshire is as far away 
 from the ordinary Englishman as the terra incog- 
 nita of equatorial Africa. We are wonderfully inti- 
 mate with lands thousands of miles away, but we 
 are strangely ignorant, and scandalously neglectful, 
 of the " beauty-spots" in our very midst, next door 
 to us, in the same parish, so to speak. The nearest 
 to us is the most remote. What is easily reached is 
 lightly prized. The accessible is not attractive ; the 
 nearest is not always the dearest. Scenery, like the 
 prophet, hath no honour in its own country. " Why 
 Ludchurch is only eight miles from Buxton !" ex- 
 claimed the late Duke of Westminster to one of 
 many parties he was driving from Eaton Hall to 
 Ludchurch, and he spoke with the suddenness 
 accompanying a startling discovery. 
 
 Over supper our prospects for the morrow seem 
 damp and dubious, and a certain Potentate in Petti- 
 coats, who will not be able to accompany us, throws
 
 4 BOUND BY THE EOCHES, 
 
 even more cold water on the scheme 
 
 But lo ! this morning there is a radiance in the air ;. 
 the sky has a blueness that might have been borrowed 
 from Italy ; the sun lights tip the landscape. Mornings 
 of such brilliant promise are often disappointing 
 as they grow older. The glory is too great to last. 
 Like the majority of Senior Wranglers, such days put 
 forth all their brightness into their early history. 
 The maturity is common place ; the eventide even 
 mournful. But to-day the promise of the morning 
 will be fulfilled throughout, for behold ! the cattle 
 are grazing on the tops of the hills, outlined forms 
 sketched against the sky, surest sign of continued 
 fineness, as the farmers, who know nothing about 
 meteorology, but a great deal about the weather, will 
 tell you. 
 
 The breakfast bells are ringing at Buxton, as we 
 are driving out of the town. There is a sweet strong 
 air that has kissed the heather ; a thin, buoyant 
 atmosphere that laces the nerves like a " pick-me- 
 up." Up hill and past Burbage, where the lime- 
 burners until recently lived in burrows, like ancient 
 cave-men, and then all that tells of man and mammon 
 all that is connected with the selfish gain and greed 
 aud care, and " gin and steam-hammers," of the 
 nineteenth century is left behind. We are driving 
 on the Leek-road. It winds along the purple slopes
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH. 5 
 
 of Axe Edge. The moors encompass us. On the 
 hill-side are two rustic bilberry gatherers. A study 
 for Birkett Foster that bare headed boy with the blue 
 eyes and flaxen curls, and frank fresh face, and cor- 
 duroy trousers, patched at the knee, that button on 
 to his long-sleeved waistcoat ; with his earnest little 
 sister, whose brown hands are stained with the juice 
 of the jet-beaded fruit. A picture in herself, this 
 little mountain maiden, in her rude rush hat, 
 unribboned save by the sunlit wind-blown tresses of 
 her hair, and the red roses of her bonny cheeks. 
 
 In front, lying in a world of silence and solitude, 
 rise a company of peaked hills : some with the sun 
 catching their grassy slopes and touching them with 
 a tenderer green ; others with a gray veil of mist 
 hanging down their shoulders, a pugaree to keep the 
 sun from their necks. That pyramidical mountain 
 is Croom Peak ; the hill whose shape suggests a 
 sugar-loaf is Parker's Hill ; the elevated ridge on the 
 left of the blade-like contour of Axe Edge is Wild 
 Boar Clough, where the last wild boar in England was 
 hunted to the death ; the peak that keeps it company 
 is Shutlings Low. One or two white farmhouses, 
 with a blue film rising from their chimneys, the very 
 poetry of smoke, are scattered in the grey gritstone 
 hollows. Vivid patches of green among the dark 
 lieath show where a crop of late hay has been
 
 6 BOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 gathered. It is " high farming " in these parts ; but 
 not the scientific agriculture of Mr. Mechi. Kather 
 the farming of Virgil's time. Steam and phosphates 
 are as remote from the mind of the Hodges of these 
 highlands as they were from Triptolemus, with his 
 primitive plough and yoke of bullocks. This stub- 
 born land in niggard spaces reclaimed from the 
 moors, is not exactly the earth that Jerrold described 
 which, when tickled with a hoe, laughed with a 
 harvest. Still I have heard of farmers in these 
 lonely latitudes obtaining two crops of oats in one 
 year ; one in January and one in October. It was 
 because the oats of the September of one year were 
 not harvested until the January of the next year. 
 " Wild oats," indeed. " Kalmat " is opposed to any 
 attempt being made to reclaim the moors. He says 
 the heath retains moisture, and that the moors are 
 the natural watersheds of the country, and that 
 cultivation would cut off the water-supply. But 
 remember " Kalmat" is a sportsman. 
 
 A strong light lies on the nearer moorland, 
 bringing out an opulency of purple, save where 
 a passing argosy of pearly cloud sails in soft slow 
 advancement of shade over the pronounced bright- 
 ness ; but far away in the silent loneliness, where 
 the wide distant sea of heather melts into the sky, 
 there is a sunny haze of delicate tints, amethysts,.
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH. 7 
 
 opals, and tender greys, blended in a dream of 
 colour. And all around is the spell of silence, the 
 sense of space, the scent of thyme and heather. 
 Once or twice there is the sudden whir-r-r of a 
 grouse ; once or twice the reverberating ping of the 
 breechloader is heard, and sportsman and smoking 
 tube of steel are seen in relief against the sky, a 
 sharp silhouette. 
 
 Pause awhile charioteer at this isolated group of 
 white, wayside cottages. This is Dove Head. Close 
 by the roadside is the spring of the river Dove, rising 
 from the great water-shed of Axe Edge. A lichened 
 stone bears the initials of Izaak Walton and Charles 
 Cotton, entwined in a moss-grown monogram. The 
 two Piscators often tasted the water of their beloved 
 stream at this spot. The water is as pure and sweet 
 now as when the two classic brothers of the angle 
 walked these dales, fishing through all the stormy 
 troubles of the Civil War, and caring as little for 
 King or Commonwealth as Canning's needy knife- 
 grinder cared for politics. Thanks for the cup of 
 your pocket flask. And now, Sir, my service to you. 
 One of the most enchanting walks of these islands is 
 to keep company with the "princess Dove" from 
 this spring ; to woo her in all her winsome, wayward 
 course ; to listen to her song amid the rocky romance 
 of Dove Dale, and to linger by her side through great
 
 8 BOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 breadths of green until the sheeny river flies to the 
 broad bosom of the Trent. Someday, Kalmat, we 
 will make the excursion. 
 
 It is not far from Dove Head to Flash. Whoever 
 heard of Flash ? Yet this grey, gritstone village, lost 
 among the moors, has given the English language 
 an expressive synonym. Spurious coin in the "good 
 old days" was minted here ; the people were as un- 
 couth as the country ; and the inaccessible village 
 was the scene of many pugilistic encounters. Flash 
 is, in fact, the debatable land that borders equally 
 upon Staffordshire, Derbyshire, and Cheshire. So it 
 was easy for members of the P.E. to laugh at the 
 law by stepping from the jurisdiction of one county 
 into that of another, should the constabulary of one 
 district interfere with their fistic art. There is, in- 
 deed, a story told of a worthy J.P. of a past decade 
 being apprised of a great battle-royal between the 
 Burslem Bruiser and the Preston Pet. Coming down 
 with some friends to see the fray, he found the ring 
 pitched within his own magisterial boundaries. He 
 sternly ordered the fighting fraternity off the ground. 
 They obediently moved a few yards further on the 
 moor, passing over the frontier of another county. 
 In their fresh location the stern Nemesis of the law, 
 became the enthusiastic Mectenas of the ring, for 
 both the magistrate and his party remained to see
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LtTDCHURCH. 
 
 the fight, and contributed towards the subscription. 
 The present Flash is peaceable enough. It is more 
 interested in farming than forgery, and the rowdy 
 pugilism has given way to a pastoral quiet that is 
 like an idyll of Theocritus. 
 
 Now, with the sweet caress of the wind in our faces, 
 we bowl merrily along a valley between the moors. 
 Those gritstone posts that keep repeating them- 
 selves out of the moor are the " Duke of Argyle's 
 monuments," but they are intended for cattle and not 
 for kilted Scotchmen. The J shaped stone struc- 
 tures, which would no doubt have caused much anxious 
 speculation to the antiquarian members of the 
 Pickwick Club, are cattle shelters, where cattle may 
 seek protection from the hungry wind that in winter 
 wails over these moors. Keeping us company is 
 a burn that is a tributary of the Dane. It is a 
 limpid mountain maiden whose life has increased 
 from fretful infancy at our side. We heard the first 
 note of her baby prattle among the rocks and ferns 
 of the brae. She was fed by freshets and sung to by 
 the wind, and then came the careless, lisping chatter 
 of the growing girl. Now it is the musical song of 
 the damsel of sweet seventeen, with a necklace of 
 white water- crowfoot trembh'ng on her breast, 
 coquetting with hanging tree and fern and flower, as 
 she skips from rock to rock in all the fervour of
 
 10 BOUND BY THE BOCHES, 
 
 health and hope and youth and beauty. " Kalmat's " 
 affectionate nature is in love with the singing stream. 
 He finds meanings and modulations in its voice. 
 
 Here is Quarnford, with door-ways, windows, 
 and dados, wearing blue facings of lime- wash 
 Poor cottages, but as clean and comely aa 
 those of the boasting village of Brock. There is 
 poverty, but not squalor ; and the children are 
 characterised by that cleanliness which is the 
 elegance of the poor. There is a Wesleyan chapel 
 by the wayside. Wheresoever in the Peake countrie 
 there happens to be a cluster of grey houses, hud- 
 dling together as if for warmth, there is sure to be a 
 little Bethel. The National Church at one time 
 neglected the wilds of Derbyshire. The people grew 
 up as savage as the country. But the fiery fervour 
 of Wesley, and the fierce fanaticism of Whitfield, 
 reached the heathen of these highlands, and the 
 preaching of Methodism was as the introduction of 
 Christianity to the benighted aborigines. Depend 
 upon it the High Peak owes more to Wesleyan 
 zeal than some of us imagine. 
 
 The next hamlet is Gradbach. Now our 
 exploration must be made on foot. So our charioteer 
 is sent away to meet us across the country some 
 miles hence, at a hostelry among the hills called the 
 Royal Cottage. We shall see him again in three or
 
 WITH A LOOK A.T LTJDCHUBCH. 11 
 
 four hours hence. So we say. Au reroir, then, son 
 of Phaeton. We are left alone amidst an amphi- 
 theatre of hill and fell, over which the sun ever and 
 anon sends tidal waves of light, turning sober greys 
 into intense greens, and browns into burning golds. 
 Here purple moorland, a vast undulating breadth, a 
 sea of waves rolling away to an ocean line on the 
 horizon; there a clearing and a patch of ripening 
 wheat ; anon a dash of white that might be snow, 
 but it is lime spread over the heath by the farmer 
 persistent to kill the heather and reclaim a few acres 
 for husbandry. Everywhere is the sound of water, 
 the music of eager water-threads stealing out of the 
 bank past an old farm-house, with a heap of moss- 
 grown stones at the gate, (a horse-block for the safe 
 mounting of fat farmer or dowdy dowager bearing 
 heavy baskets for the market,) to the valley of the 
 Dane, where there is a deserted old mill and one or 
 two cottages in ruins. Upon broken window and 
 decaying roof a curse might rest. The place seems 
 haunted in its dark enclosure of wooded bank. The 
 shadowy nook is the scene for a ghost-story. 
 
 And now the Mecca of our pilgrimage is nigh. 
 The darkly wooded hill-side, sloping to the Dane, is 
 the ancient Back Forest of Swythamley, whose yews 
 furnished Robin Hood with hunting-bows, and where 
 Ludchurch is hidden. Above and beyond the steep
 
 12 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 sloping wood- Pelion piled upon Ossa rise the 
 Roches, black and grim even under this blue radiancy 
 of sky. The crazy timbered structure \ve are now 
 crossing is Caster's Bridge. Under it the Black- 
 brook races past a tumult of bearded gritstone rocks 
 to the Dane, which, rising on the western flank of 
 the Axe Edge, here divides East Cheshire and North 
 Staffordshire, and afterwards, when its life has been 
 blurred and disfigured by the outrages of man, joins the 
 Weaver at Northwich to enter the Mersey at Runcorn. 
 'The rough, old, moss-grown plank crossing, with the 
 stone harassed water racing past in a series of noisy 
 little waterfalls waves of white which the sun ever 
 .and anon strikes is picturesque enough in its green 
 setting to detain a painter. But the old Caster's 
 Bridge of arching grey stone, long since washed 
 .away, might have enchanted an artist hither. It 
 was a memory in masonry, a story in stone. Lin- 
 gering legends lent the quaint arch the charm 
 of heroic association. One of them told of a 
 time when a brigand's hostel stood close by, and 
 io which tired travellers were decoyed and mur- 
 dered. A weary pedlar sought a night's rest at 
 this sham caravansary. He saw the robbers 
 melting ore. And he heard these dreadful, 
 blood-curdling words urgently whispered: "Mother, 
 iclien ic ill that queer old man Le dead? I'm
 
 WITH A LOOK AT I/LTDCHUBCH. 13- 
 
 sure the oven is quite hot enottfjJi." The prudent 
 pedlar ran away with remarkable celerity for a foot- 
 sore man. Pursued, he found a narrow ridge within 
 the arching roof of Caster's Bridge. The pack of 
 murderous men and women and dogs, who hunted 
 him like sleuth-hounds, were thus eluded. The 
 refugee made the best of his way to a Staffordshire 
 town. He gave his evidence before the authorities. 
 Soldiers sacked the den. The desperadoes were' 
 secured. They were tried and hung. All this, it is 
 true, happened " once upon a time." That, perhaps,, 
 is all that is true about it. There are not even any 
 rums left to mark the stage of so much pre-Sweeny- 
 Todd-melodrama. Deponent says that a flood washed' 
 the ruins away, and that gold has from time to time 
 been discovered on the supposed site of the razed 
 building. " Kalmat," however, is suspicious of the 
 story. But his companion loves the old grotesque, 
 country-side traditions. They are the green oases 
 in the arid desert of history. They have met with 
 the unchallenged acceptance of succeeding genera- 
 tions, and have thus a broad base for belief. We 
 are too eager to dissect and analyse, and follow that 
 shrewd scientist who endeavoured to upset " Robinson- 
 Crusoe," by pointing out that the rice which the cast- 
 away sowed could not have grown because it had been 
 dressed and denuded of its fructifying properties.
 
 14 BOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 The surrounding scene is picturesque enough for 
 any romance. "Walking on at issue over old legends, 
 vre are almost unconscious that we have heen follow- 
 ing a path that climbs the shadowy hillside, high 
 above the Dane, which is now quite lost in the shade 
 of spruce and larch and fir, and anon sends up 
 flashes of liquid light from the wooded water-way. 
 The river lies in a deep canon beneath. Steppes of 
 far-reaching moorland rise up on the other side. 
 We are in the green gloom of the Back Forest. The 
 upward path winds through a Gothic aisle of lam- 
 bent leaves. Mossy columns support the arched 
 roof of foliage, through which the sun is reflected in 
 light leaf-shadows on the tangled path. It is Sep- 
 tember, and the trees are tinted by the artistic touch 
 of Autumn. Green is still the prevailing colour; 
 but there are spots of rose-red on the knotty-boled 
 beeches ; an orange glow is spreading on the maple ; 
 the oaks are splashed with yellow and the acorns are 
 turning brown ; there is a shimmer of light yellow 
 on the limes ; the elms are fading into a soft amber ; 
 the chestnut has a bronzed gleam ; the tresses of the 
 birch are of a golden hue. The mountain ash blazes 
 with clusters of vivid red beads ; there are bright 
 coral berries on the hip bushes ; wild raspberries 
 impede our progress ; the yellow and white waxwork 
 petals of the scented woodbine stretch across the
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH. 15 
 
 narrow path. There is an ungathered bouquet of 
 wild blue-bells and streaked convolvuses yet remain- 
 ing of the summer, and a wealth of golden gorse, 
 which flowers in every season. The nuts on the 
 hazel boughs are racing the blackberries into ripe- 
 ness ; the haws are reddening on the thorn. There 
 is a harmony of hue ; chord of colour answers chord. 
 This secluded depth of forest might almost be the 
 home of Pan. Mr. Kuskin once said that in the 
 valley of the Derbyshire Wye you might expect to 
 catch sight of the Arcadian God and the Muses. 
 And here in this wild-wooded solitude, as we sit 
 awhile on a cushion of moss with our pipes amid 
 the fragrance of the resinous pines, in a silent session 
 of thought, the sigh of a falling leaf is like the 
 gentle movement of a dryad, and that blue-bell, 
 whose chalice is catching the sunlight, might be the 
 azure gaze of some retiring faun ; and the Dane 
 where the placid pools make a liquid looking-glass 
 for ash and birch, wild rose and hazel and yew, 
 might be the home of the nymphs ; and in that 
 mossy vista, Adonis might find a couch of leaves : 
 And visions, as poetic eyes avow, 
 Hang on each leaf, and cling to every bough. 
 The silence of the wood carries with it a strange 
 solemnity. A blue butterfly, like a winged flower, 
 flits in the flickering light of the leaf shadows ; once
 
 16 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 we catch sight of the disappearing brush of a squirrel ; 
 a field mouse is carrying food to its house in the 
 ground ; now and again a timid rabbit has stared at 
 us and shown his little white tail. Bat the only 
 sounds are the murmur of the river, the song of the 
 grasshopper, and the rustle of leaves. The birds are 
 speechless. There is the flutter of wings, but not 
 the thrill of a feathered throat. In Spring when all 
 the birds are either courting, or commencing house- 
 keeping, the woods are noisy with their incessant 
 opera ; but now the eloquence of silence is well-nigh 
 pathetic. Stay ! a lonely robin has started a few 
 plaintive notes. But there is no response to his 
 pensive appeal. We are accosted by the contrasts in 
 trees in which Nature delights. Here is a gnarled 
 patriarchal oak, attended by a light winsome birch, 
 which stands supple and beautiful at its side. It is 
 a picture of age and youth, the one radiant hopeful 
 and fair, the other seamed and scarred and furrowed 
 by care and time. Close by the knotted trunk of 
 this old oak, a little plant of green oak leaves is 
 springing up where an acorn has taken root, and the 
 parent tree stretches out its tottering paralysed arms 
 as if to bless its posterity. More gnarled oaks and 
 graceful silvery birches, as we climb the wooded 
 path, fringed by fading bracken and spreading bur- 
 docks, and carpeted with fir-needles;
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LTJDCHURCH. 17 
 
 And now, behold ! the Castle Rocks come abruptly 
 in view ; a fortress by Nattire of black millstone grit 
 embattlement projecting over the valley. At the 
 foot of this bastion a tumult of loose rocks is strewn 
 about like the debris made by a bygone bombard- 
 ment. The view from the Pisgah summit of this 
 Castle Cliff in the crisp slanting September light is- 
 one that photographs itself on the memory of both 
 of us, and time will not readily efface the impression 
 on the camera lucida. But it is difficult to convey 
 the colour and contour of the picture in worda. 
 Perhaps the easiest way to deal with the task were to 
 glibly dismiss the scene as difficult to imagine and 
 impossible to describe, a method which is the 
 favourite resort of ready writers. Yet it is very con- 
 ventional scenery that the pen can reproduce, and it 
 would be paying the present landscape but scant 
 respect to leave out description altogether because of 
 the difficulty of the performance. Better, I take it, 
 an inadequate description to none at all. Even a 
 few blurred lines, and badly mixed colours may 
 assist the imagination more than utter blankness. 
 Dip I, then, the 'prentice brush in the imperfect 
 palette. The dark weather-worn Castle Rocks stand 
 out from the wooded hill, and impend their pinnacles 
 over a curve of deep valley at the bottom of which 
 the Dane shines amid a dense green lining of spruce
 
 18 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 and larch. Beyond the gleam of water and the gloom 
 of wood in the valley, the hills spread for miles, wild 
 tracts of bronzed heath under the wide sphere of 
 uninterrupted sky, here and there broken by a 
 bright patch of emerald pasturage, washed a cleaner 
 green by recent rains, with white farmsteads stand- 
 ing out against bleak, blue-black pines, such as 
 Turner loved to introduce in the shading of his 
 pictures. Some of these isolated buildings are 
 sheltered in the dip of moorland valleys ; others are 
 perched like eyries on the brow of hills right against 
 the distant sky-line, with the sun flashing heliostate 
 signals from their narrow window panes. All around 
 is the fascination of great breadths of undulating 
 space, and the spell of sunlit silence. To-morrow 
 the whole sharp clear picture may be sponged out by 
 the grey soaking mists that brood over these hills 
 and blot out every outline. 
 
 And here the operations of the mental photographer 
 are interrupted by a presence in an M.B. waistcoat, 
 and with a copy of Romola under its arm, and a pensile 
 appendage hanging below its clerical coat. (Doctor 
 Molloy, of Dub. Unv., we greet you !) The tail was, 
 ye disciples of Darwin, only a geological hammer, or 
 rather a fishing-rod for catching fish of the ganoid 
 and placoid genus that the sea left in shoals on the 
 tops of the loftiest of these hills before the time of
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHUECH. 19 
 
 the first Navigator, Noah himself. The apparition is 
 asking " Kalmat" the bearings of LutTchurch, which 
 he cannot find. No wonder that he has missed it. 
 Ninety-nine explorers in a hundred would miss it. 
 Ludchurch is close by. A narrow cleft in the wooded 
 hill-side is the doorway. It leads to a flight of rough- 
 hewn steps of slippery stone. We descend. The 
 riven rock, fern -covered and lichen-stained, rises on 
 either side of us a sheer precipice. The Church is 
 really a gorge in the gritstone, some 200 yards in 
 length, several yards in width, some 40 feet in depth, 
 and with a narrow entrance at either end. Young 
 ash-trees and hazels form a roof of luminous green, 
 rare plants and ferns and dwarf trees spring from 
 every cleft ; cool mosses robe the naked rocks ; high 
 up in a hazardous interstice a hawk has built its 
 nest. At the further end of the Church a narrow 
 slanting fissure opens out into an inner cavern 
 ending in a perpendicular abyss which the most 
 daring have not penetrated. Luckily the guide-book 
 writers are ignorant of Ludchurch, and excursionists 
 are unable to find it. For the sacred temple would 
 be violated by the fern-gatherers and botanists, who 
 ruthlessly tear out the leaves from the great, green, 
 God-written Book of Nature, and who kidnap sweet 
 ferns and flowers, lichens and mosses, and carry 
 them away into captivity to pine away, pale prisoners,
 
 20 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 far from the nourishing influences, the dews and 
 \vind and shade and sweet air of their native hills. 
 
 There is something ineffably solemn about this 
 romantic ravine. A lovable little friend of mine 
 once asked when she was here during a passing 
 thunderstorm : " Father, is this the place where God 
 makes the thunder ?" Sterner minds might almost 
 endorse her tender fancy. This divine defile is 
 linked with legend and history. Here Kobin Hood, 
 and his gigantic Little John, and his Sherwood out- 
 laws, met to receive the benediction of their " curtal 
 Friar." The persecuted Lollards, hunted down by 
 the blood-hounds of persecution, sought refuge in 
 Ludchurch, consecrating it by prayer and praise, 
 sermon and psalm, and even baptizing its walls with 
 their blood. Sir John Gilbert might seek inspiration 
 for a pathetic picture in an incident of that troubled 
 time. Here are the outlines. Walter De Lud-auk r 
 the grey-haired Apostle of the proscribed Wickliffites r 
 leading the simple devotions of his fervent followers. 
 Close by him, his grand-daughter Alice, with her 
 sylph-like figure, her streaming hair, her sweet face, 
 her dulcet voice. She stands like May at the side of 
 December, a picture of opening summer and declin- 
 ing winter. The fierce soldiers of Henry V. bursting, 
 without warning, upon the sequestrated worshippers. 
 The beautiful Alice lying killed in the assault by a
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LTTDCHUECH. 21 
 
 shot from an arquebus, just when her escape is being 
 made good by one of the Lollards, her lover, one Hen- 
 rick Montair, a sturdy forester, equipped with cross- 
 bow and broad sword. Or an historical painter might 
 find a picturesque subject in a more modern grouping 
 of which Ludchurch was the scene, when the Pre- 
 tender and his Highlanders camped in the ravine on 
 then: ill-starred march to Derby in the winter of '45, 
 with Flora Macdonald, whose ringlets steal from 
 under a slouching military hat, as she nurses her 
 heroic hopes on the very spot where the December 
 wind wails a requiem over the dust of Alice De 
 Lud-Auk. 
 
 Ludchurch at its extreme end leads up an ascent 
 of rugged steps out on to the open moor. We are 
 above the Back Forest now. The entrance to its 
 sylvan chapel is like a mouse-hole in a wall of green. 
 Wide is the horizon from this wind-swept height. 
 On one side the moors of Derbyshire and Cheshire 
 etretch in bleak hungry solitudes with intersecting 
 walls of grey- stone ; while lo ! on the other side 
 reposes a vision of smiling farmsteads, and level 
 meadows, and green hedgerows. And that sunny 
 dream is Staffordshire. It is a striking scenic con- 
 trast. In front, a wild Scotch picture, up in the 
 land of Lome somewhere, behind a fair gentle 
 English landscape. And fancy that soft, bsautiful
 
 22 BOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 country side belonging to Staffordshire, noxious 
 name, suggesting Acherontic streams of black poison, 
 Cimmerian skies, hills of slag, valleys of coal-wash- 
 ings, people of pottery, home of Vulcan ! A few miles- 
 away in the sunny haze is Congleton, with Congleton 
 Car intervening, a burly peak, to block man's approach 
 nearer the moors. Down there we can see the factory 
 windows of unlovely Leek. They are only four or 
 five miles away. But we are in a world of moor. 
 The only sound is the call of a cock grouse. The 
 heather gives under foot like a spring board. To the 
 right rise the Bodies. We take a shepherd's path 
 across these cromlech-like crags. Once a sunburnt 
 man in velveteens and gaiters, with gun and dog, 
 takes a pipe of tobacco with us. He is a keeper. 
 Grouse, partridges, and pheasants are to him the 
 whole of existence. The 12th of August, and the 
 1st of September, and the 1st of October are the only 
 anniversaries h,e wots of. 
 
 And so we tramp on through bog and bracken and 
 bilberry, and the ever present purple heather bloom, 
 1,600 feet above the sea. The plover decoys us 
 from its nest ; ever and anon grouse rise strong on 
 the wing in front. Three miles in length, the Roches 
 are some two miles in breadth. The course lies from 
 end to end of the rugged ridge, and our progress is 
 inspired by " the live translucent bath of air," as
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHUBCH. 23 
 
 vitalizing as the elusive Elixir of Life, which has 
 been the search of the ages. Very bold and romantic 
 is the scenery, almost unknown to painters. A quaint 
 shrewd book published a century and a half ago, 
 says : " Here are vast rocks which surprise with 
 " admiration, called the Henclouds and LeekKoacb.es. 
 " They are so great a height, and afford such stupend- 
 " ous prospects, that one could hardly believe that 
 "they were anywhere to be found but in picture. 
 " They are so bare that they have no turf upon them, 
 " nor indeed any eaith to produce it ; which whether 
 " they were so from the Creation, or were uncovered 
 " by the general Flood, or were washed clean by rain, 
 " is not possible to account for." Our walk along 
 this ridge is a romance in rock. Black, sepulchral, 
 and uncanny rise the rugged millstone-grit crags 
 above the broad undulations of heather. They 
 assume strange shapes. Now a massive block, 
 tapering at the end, and poised over a plateau, 
 suggests a great breech-loader pointed at some far- 
 off threatening mountain fort. Another stands an 
 inscrutable eternal Presence, a sphinx indifferent to 
 time, and tanchanged by Age, a melancholy Menhir, 
 silent, awful, with the secret of a pre-historic 
 crisis hidden beneath its scarred, storm-rent breast. 
 Other rocks, like colossal dragons, and petrified 
 lions ; and still others, weather worn and wrinkled,
 
 24 ROUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 \vhich remind one of monsters of antediluvian birth, 
 with grotesque heads, turned-up noses, blinking eyes, 
 and mouths leering horridly. Here is a rocking 
 stone ; there a large-sized dolmen. And then, be- 
 hold ! at the summit of this ridge, close by where 
 the sappers and miners have raised their flagstaff 
 cairn, is a lonely, rush-fringed tarn, whose peat- 
 coloured water catches the sunlight like a shield of 
 steel. Still we have the awful cataclysm of ci-ags 
 around us, scattered like the brooding monuments of 
 a dead world, the Necropolis of fabled giants. They 
 are in two distinct lines now. One upright on a 
 higher ridge ; the other prostrate on a lower plateau 
 that shelves abruptly into the valley. On the crags 
 are shoals of fossil fish ; underneath seams of coal 
 and ironstone. I merely mention the fact as a 
 curiosity. For neither of us regard the country with 
 the mercenary manufacturing eye of the Philistines 
 to whom the map of England is a geological chart 
 representing coal measures and iron ore, and who 
 look upon Cornwall as a tin mine, and North Wales 
 as a big slate quarry, and the white crags of Derby- 
 shire as containing so many cubic yards of pure 
 limestone. 
 
 A little further on and a bridle-path, breast-high 
 in bracken, leads us to Rock Hall, where there is 
 another curious dolmen. Be not deceived by the
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LUDCHURCH. 25 
 
 appellation ' hall.' It is not the synonym in this 
 instance for an ample country-seat and architectural 
 stateliness. Rock Hall is simply a bleak keeper's 
 lodge beneath the beetling cliffs. It belongs to 
 Squire Brocklehurst, the owner of the Swythamley 
 estate. There are antlers over the door, and black 
 old oak within. Part of the retreat is a natural cave 
 made cosy with furniture that shines like a smile. 
 Another room is stone-built. We are welcomed to 
 Bock Hall by a country-woman with broad dialect 
 and apple-like face, streaked with red, like a Normandy 
 pippin. She wears a tall snowy cap that makes her 
 resemble a Breton peasant. Did she often see 
 visitors? Oh yes, she had received Royalty, for 
 had not the Prince and Princess Teck taken tea with 
 her when their Highnesses were shooting in this 
 neighbourhood ? This comforting fact compensates 
 the old lady for years of solitude. We have milk and 
 sweet brown-bread and butter here, which is as 
 acceptable to our freshened appetite as the most 
 toothsome dishes ever packed in one of Fortnum 
 and Mason's hampers. We rest and talk. It 
 is pleasant to listen to the shrewd Mrs. Poyser- 
 like sayings of this quaint dame, when lo ! 
 an earnest clock in an upright oak case, 
 which has no doubt been wound up regularly 
 at a certain time every Saturday night for ever
 
 26 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 so many years, startles us with a solemn warn- 
 ing, and then strikes the hour of five with a 
 throbbing heart. It cannot be five o'clock? 
 Impossible. But the faithful old clock always- 
 tells the truth, and would never be the means 
 of one losing one's train and temper, if there were 
 trains and tempers in these parts, bless you. And 
 our watches point to five unmistakably. Conclusive 
 confirmation is afforded to the very minute by a 
 mouldering sun-dial at the door. Now, it will be 
 remembered, that we left the ponies at half-past ten, 
 and the coachman was instructed to wait four hours 
 for us at the Royal Cottage. But the K. C. is yet- 
 several miles away. So we slide down the slope, and 
 into the valley, gaining the road which leads us to 
 an old-world village called Upper Hulme. A mill, 
 and a church, and clustering houses are all mixed up 
 among apple trees. A mountain brook, that washes 
 over the pebbles, runs across the main road, where 
 there is a ford for those who ride, and a mossy tim- 
 ber foot bridge for those who walk. And here there 
 is an inn. The E. C. is some distance off yet ; the 
 refection of bread and butter and milk was ample 
 enoxigh in its way ; but our tramp has been a long 
 one, and again our vagus nerves are eloquent of that 
 vacuum which nature abhors, and like Oliver, they 
 ask for " more." So we decide to let the coachman
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LTJDCHTTRCH. 27' 
 
 linger longer. The order is ham and eggs and tea, 
 and as we sit in the inn's best parlour, we can hear 
 the sweet music of the ham hissing three or four 
 rooms off, and ever and anon there steals upon us a 
 savoury breath of its saline flavour. 
 
 Whilst we were soothing the vagus nerve, however,, 
 the best effects of the sunset were being wasted upon 
 us. But there is still a glory in the west ; the hills 
 stand out in sharp outline against the low horizontal 
 light ; delicate tints soften the rocks. The light 
 lingers long and lovingly on the silent hills, that 
 seem to rest on the earth like rounded clouds, as if 
 loth to leave them to the desolation of darkness. 
 The intensity of the sunset glow has gone. There 
 are black indigos and cold violets where there la&s- 
 been a flame of crimson and gold ; but in the west 
 there is a faint rose-red flush of fading colour, with 
 a soft saffron spreading to the clouds above. The 
 Hen Clouds and Lady Eocks, at the extremity of the 
 Roches, stand out a black silhouette against the sky. 
 They assume strange weird forms in the half-light of 
 the darkening distance. There are still the ghostly 
 bastions with great breechloaders about to open fire, 
 and behind them are stony sentinels, who seem to 
 wear long grey coats. Now they stand like picket- 
 posts ; anon bend stealthily over their guns. On 
 one side of us is a deep mysterious wood ; on the- ,
 
 28 BOUND BY THE ROCHES, 
 
 other the moors, which are now a picture in Indian 
 ink. An owl with white silent wings wafts over us ; 
 once a hawk swoops hissingly down into the wood ; 
 a cock pheasant's plumage is seen against the white 
 bark of a birch tree ; a glow-worm shines like a 
 fallen star. The nutter of a bat, the rubtle of a 
 rabbit, and the plaintive appeal of a peewit, make 
 the silence intense. Almost imperceptibly the King 
 -of Day has died, and the pale Queen of Night, with 
 her retinue of stars, begins her reign in the south. 
 At first the stars show faint and far, but when the 
 Eoyal Cottage is reached they are hanging low and 
 lustrous. 
 
 Here we make the horrible discovery that our 
 .coachman, whom we expected was waiting to take us 
 up, departed about an hour ago. " 'E gotten tired o' 
 weetin', and 'ee happen tho't ee'd mista'en 'is d'rec- 
 tions," is vouched in explanation. The Eoyal Cot- 
 tage is a lonely hostelry that seems to have strayed 
 among the moors, a hermit from habitations. Under 
 its rafters Charles I. is said to have hidden a 
 .hunted fugitive. But just at this moment we would 
 rather the house possessed an available horse and trap 
 than its historic reputation. " Quite a dash of adven- 
 ture added to the day," says " Kalmat," carelessly, 
 lighting his pipe, and we step out sturdily under 
 ihe stars to Flash, where, perchance, our belated
 
 WITH A LOOK AT LTJDCHUECH. 29" 
 
 driver may be awaiting our arrival. There is nothing 
 but moor on either side of us. The road is cut 
 through it. The heather grows to its very verge. 
 Ever and anon stone posts show at the edge of the 
 intersecting road. They are placed there to mark 
 the way for travellers in snow time. We seem to be 
 on the top of the world. There is nothing between 
 us and the sky, a wide perfect sphere of light. The 
 stars seem near us. We have never seen so many 
 of them before, not even in mid-ocean. There is 
 something in the broad silence of the moors black 
 save where a peaty pool shines spectral and wan in the 
 white moonlight ; something in the awful expanse of 
 the sky ; something in the calm scrutiny of the stars 
 which lifts the mind from the sentimental to the 
 spiritual, and fills the soul with tender hopes, with 
 higher aims, with a sense of the Infinite, with secret' 
 yearnings after what Browning calls " The Grand 
 Perhaps." This feeling is accentuated as the wind 
 wafts the sound of a hymn to us from a lonely little 
 cottage of grey stone, far away from any signs of 
 houses, with the yellow light from its windows 
 thrown athwart the road. We pause in the reflection. 
 There is a little gathering of week-night worshippers. 
 A wheezy harmonium leads a few earnest singers ; 
 then an uncouth preacher with rough ringing voice 
 who might be Adam Bede, prays from the heart for 
 the weary and heavy-laden.
 
 30 HOUND BY THE KOCHES, 
 
 It was Charlotte Bronte who said that people had 
 .no conception of what a companion the sky becomes 
 to anyone living in solitude more than any inani- 
 mate object on earth, more than the moors them- 
 selves. It is so. The pole-star hanging like 
 a lamp in front of us in the north, speaks 
 to us like a friend ; we become familiar with 
 Charles' Wain, with Dick the plough-boy riding 
 on the middle horse of ' the team ; the far-off 
 filmy milky way, spreading from north to south, 
 .grows palpable to our gaze. The brightest star is 
 Mars, throbbing with a ruddy glow in the south- 
 east. This session with the stars, is, perhaps, the 
 tenderest sensation of the day ; but it is not without 
 satisfaction that we see the twinkling lights of the 
 cottages at Flash, each telling a little tale of homely 
 joy ; and with something like hope we push to the 
 inn. We find that our charioteer had enquired for 
 us, waited, and left for Buxton. There is no ac- 
 cessible conveyance at Flash, and we have six miles 
 more walking before us. So Shanks' pony is spurred 
 on again with a disregard for the staying powers of 
 lhat steed which calls for the merciful interference of 
 the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. 
 
 When we are taking the road along the lower 
 slopes of Axe Edge, there is the distant sound of 
 hoofs. Presently there is the gleam of carriage
 
 WITH A HOOK AT LUDCHTTRCH. 31 
 
 lights. We shout. The voice that responds is the 
 glad cry of delight from Someone we hoth know well. 
 She has heen so put out at our absence. The coach- 
 man had heen to St. Ann's and asked if we had 
 returned. He thought that he had blundered over 
 his intructions. And then the stupid man had 
 caused the anxious heart to beat faster by a sinister 
 suggestion that one of us might have fallen down the 
 rocks. And so Our Lady had started out with the 
 driver, a midnight Stanley, in search of the Living- 
 stone of her heart. The rescuing party were equipped 
 for this forlorn hope with Oscar, who comes to us 
 with his cold nose and wagging tail, and with them 
 they had a lantern, and a bottle of cognac. One of 
 the tired tramps, in a spirit of very forced gaiety, 
 says he would prefer to finish the journey on foot, 
 but he is very glad to ride, and the demands made 
 by his vagus nerve upon the supper would have 
 
 shocked the medical world. 
 
 ****** 
 
 All that we brought back with us teas a .spr/// of 
 heavier. Its purple bloom is dried and faded now ; 
 but that little bit of moor carries icith it an undyiny 
 aroma of a rare, bright, happy, careless day; and it 
 sometimes sends us back on the rough highway of 
 memory to linger by one of the pleasantcst landmarks 
 in life's chequered journey.
 
 THE 
 
 VALLEY OF THE GOYT, 
 
 Hie to haunts right seldom seen, 
 Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green. 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 It all came about through Somebody a sweet 
 symphony in seal-skin losing a skate-strap. The 
 discovery of the loss as paradoxical an expression 
 by the way, as the " If I am found, then I am lost !" 
 ejaculation of the hunted fugitive in the melo-drama 
 was made when we were approaching the Eeser- 
 voir that supph'es the Engine House on the High 
 Peak Eailway at Bunsal Cob. We had walked from 
 Buxy>n along the Manchester Road a distance of 
 three miles with the intention of cutting our 
 initials on the ice. 
 
 " Have you ever seen the Goyt Valley in the depth 
 of winter?" asked this bonny lithe maiden, the 
 keen air heightening the beauty of her face with 
 an unwonted colour.
 
 THE VALLEY OP THE GOYT. 33 
 
 " I have not even seen the Valley in summer," I 
 was fain to confess, ashamed of my own ignorance. 
 " Then you shall make its acquaintance this 
 afternoon," she said with a matronly air of decision. 
 " It is an old and favourite friend of mine, and if 
 you don't thank me for giving you an introduction, 
 
 I will " But no matter. The threat was an 
 
 idle one, and we chatted away merrily. We did'nt 
 say anything clever, or poetical, or aesthetic ; we 
 posed in no attitudes of romantic admiration ; and 
 I am apprehensive that if our careless talk came to 
 be coldly analysed it would be proved great rubbish. 
 But the happiness of life, my friend, is not made up 
 of heroics. It consists largely of little things ; it is 
 composed of trifles. And that afternoon we were 
 both as happy as I daresay we ever shall be in this 
 mundane sphere. But to return to that bright 
 time. 
 
 It is a beautiful day at the end of November. 
 That misanthropical month, so associated with 
 drizzle and fog, has at Buxton redeemed its bad 
 character by giving us a bright blue sky, and a 
 thin clear crisp air that must be very trying to 
 the able-bodied poor, since it trebles one's appetite, 
 and gives the genus homo a whole series of anti- 
 dyspeptic stomachs. Why Buxton is not replete with 
 visitors is to me one of those puzzling phenomena
 
 34 THE VALLEY OF THE GOTT. 
 
 which, in the phrase of my Lord Dundreary, " no 
 fellah can understand." Buxton in mid-winter is 
 every whit as charming as Buxton in the height of 
 the summer season. At a time when London and 
 Manchester are choking with fogs that might be 
 blasted with dynamite, Buxton a thousand feet 
 above the mud and mist has an elastic, lucent air 
 that braces the nerves ; and when the perverse east 
 wind is making everybody peevish, the residents of 
 this Derbyshire Spa are barricaded at every approach 
 by barriers of determined hills from the assaults of 
 the bronchitis-dealing blast ; while the scenery of 
 the Peak in winter has charms of which few people 
 have any conception. For that matter, nature is as 
 beautiful in her winter appearance as in her summer 
 aspect. It seems so to my eyes, and Somebody 
 emphasises my opinion with her endorsement. Of 
 course the charm is a different one. It is as 
 distinct in colouring and contour as the sunny 
 light diaphanous muslin of Somebody in July, 
 with bright flowers jewelling bosom and hat, is 
 from the soft dark furs of that vivacious young 
 lady in January. But there is a charm, never- 
 theless, just as there is one glory of the sun, another 
 of the moon, and another of the stars. The pictur- 
 esque side of winter has been neglected by painters. 
 They represent Nature in Art only as seen six
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 35 
 
 months out of the twelve. Then out-door land- 
 scape painting is a more luxurious occupation. 
 In literary description the same one-sided practice 
 largely prevails. Somebody protests that nearly all 
 the pen-pictures of Derbyshire scenery which she 
 has read have commenced: "It was a bright June 
 morning ;" or " The time was the merrie month of 
 May ;" or " The fair scene lay in the languid sun- 
 shine of sultry July." 
 
 " As if," she said, " there was no beauty about 
 hills and valleys, no attraction in the moorland 
 steppes, no grandeur in the tempestuous sunsets 
 and twilights and cloud shadows of winter. As if 
 men were so many dormice, and hibernated through 
 the artistic winter months, when there is a sharp- 
 ness of outline and a tenderness of colour on the 
 hills, and a fresh elasticity in the air, which are lost 
 in the heat and haze of summer." 
 
 All this she argued with an earnestness that be- 
 came really eloquent by its manner, by the witching 
 animation of eye and the musical inflexion of voice 
 denied masculine orators from Demosthenes to 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 And yet Buxton is empty. The stray visitor 
 monopolises the whole of the light, bouyant air of 
 the place. Standing in the shadow of the Crescent, 
 he is as much alone as if he were in the vast
 
 36 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 solitudes of Sahara, and lie feels like a second-hand 
 Marias, contemplating the desolation of a fashion- 
 able Carthage. The proprietors of the hotels are 
 dining with each other to make up a table for 
 dinner. They would, I verily believe, bribe a visitor 
 just now for the curiosity of his patronage, unless in 
 the process of treaty, the said visitor shared the fate 
 of Action, and had his disjecta membra strewn 
 along the Colonnade by competitive waiters tearing 
 him in pieces in jealous rivalry. Some day, some 
 celebrated person will suddenly discover what a de- 
 lightful winter residence Bnxton really is, just as 
 Lord Brougham made Cannes by believing that that 
 place agreed with him. Then it will become- 
 fashionable to repair to Buxton from October to 
 Marchj and lodgings will be at a premium. 
 
 Me ! Where, and oh where, hare I left the reader 
 during the digression ? Pardon the long aside. 
 Here we are regarding the skaters on the little lonely 
 tarn among the moors, and picturesque enough la- 
 the scene. The atmosphere has the rich softness of 
 a Claude landscape. There is such a golden mel- 
 lowness in the November sunshine that the after- 
 noon seems to swim under the lemon sky ; across 
 the ice, virgin white, save where some frozen-out 
 labourers have swept broad black rings for skating, 
 the westering sun, a ruddy copper shield, shines-
 
 THE VALLEY OP THE GOYT. 37 
 
 J 
 
 with a red horizontal light across wild tracts of hilly 
 moors, with just a suggestion of snow relieving their 
 sombre shade. There are great hollows in the 
 moors, and there is an intersecting space between 
 the hills which tells of a deep valley. Not a tree. 
 Not a house. The only other object in the land- 
 scape, from the point whence our mental camera 
 now focuses it, is the tall chimney of the solitary 
 engine house of the High Peak Railway, a mineral 
 line whose rails wind round miraculous curves and 
 up extravagant gradients through Undiscovered 
 Derbyshire, from Whatstandwell to Whaley Bridge. 
 But the foreground of the picture is filled with a 
 merry-moving steel-shod multitude, mostly Buxton 
 residents, all mixed up in kaleidoscopic combina- 
 tions, the patches of cardinal about the hats and 
 throats of the girls, giving just the warm tints 
 which a painter would distribute in the grouping. 
 The captivating swing of that tall lissome lass now 
 swiftly curving yonder, with the sun glancing on the 
 Wades of her skates, is one of the most graceful 
 eights possible ; for a handsome English maiden 
 kating makes really a fine picture, as stately as the 
 pose of a swan, or the movement of a yacht. 
 Somebody is delighted with two bright-eyed girlettes 
 vignettes in black velvet and clocked stockings 
 who are being taken in tow across the ice by a big
 
 38 THE YALLEY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 St. Bernard dog, and it would be difficult to say 
 which most enjoys the fun : the harnessed animal 1 
 or the two bonnie weans. That is their brother 
 learning to strike out, and tumbling down very often. 
 But, bless you, he never seems satisfied with the 
 frequency of bis falls, and is adding to their num- 
 ber, when Somebody, nudging my elbow, says : 
 
 " We are not stationary engines, and I must really 
 remind you that our exploration will involve some 
 walking." 
 
 Without being tediously topographical, I may 
 remark that the valley of the Goyt is approached 
 from Bunsall by a road called Goyts Lane. A rough 
 declivitous road, more like the dry bed of a bygone 
 mountain torrent, than the carriage way it claims to 
 represent. Heath, cranberry, bilberry, and wortle- 
 berry infringe on either side, and sometimes dispute 
 the possession of the road with the traveller alto- 
 gether. The bilberry leaves are a vivid green among 
 the prevailing neutral tints. 
 
 Presently comes a glimpse of firs and larches, 
 pine and spruce, on the bank rising out of the valley, 
 and now behold ! there is Goyts Bridge : a wooded 
 hollow amid the meeting of waters. There is a grey 
 farmhouse, and here and there the blue film rises 
 from a cottage mixed up in dark patches of pine and 
 fir. A solitary arch of lichen ed stone spans the
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 39 
 
 little voicefnl river, which rising from the slopes of 
 Axe Edge the great water shed of the Peak Dis- 
 trict dissects Cheshire and Derbyshire, even as the 
 Dove and the Dane, running in different directions, 
 divide Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and flowing in 
 a deep channel by New Mills is robbed of its sweet 
 music by money-making manufacturers, who blacken 
 its pure, transparent life, until sick, and sluggish, 
 and impure, it crawls feebly into the Mersey near 
 Stockport. 
 
 "Why" asks Somebody in an indignant and 
 injured manner "why do we hold guiltless the 
 greedy gold-grasping men who poison our beautiful 
 streamlets? For private gain they disfigure the 
 very face of God Himself, and stifle the voice of His 
 Spirit." 
 
 I must talk seriously to Somebody about Political 
 Economy. 
 
 At Goyts Bridge, the road to the right leads to 
 Errwood Hall, to which Somebody is wishful to 
 take her charge another day. Our present path is 
 that to the left, and follows up the river as it runs 
 away from its mountain home. The spot is musical 
 with the meeting of waters. A grey stone arch 
 spans a tinkling tributary; there is an old cottage, 
 with an interior like a bit of Tenier's ; together with 
 a picturesque blending of swift water, projecting
 
 40 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 rock, and hanging tree, that might be a scene 
 specially " set " by Nature for a stage-picture. 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 So carols Somebody, who has already forgotten all 
 about the millocracy of New Mills and Stockport. 
 For we are now in the deep canon, pursuing a 
 narrow path that rises and falls and skirts small 
 precipices. And which of us will first forget that 
 sudden vision of a long vista of valley, seen under 
 a cold lemon sky, with the eager voiceful river 
 breaking over a tumult of mossy boulders in a 
 thousand white waterfalls, and here and there 
 catching a tinge of red from the frosty sun ? At 
 the bank-sides, where the current is not swift, the 
 water is frozen, and little tributary water-threads 
 have a surface of thin clear ice under which we see 
 the water moving like quicksilver. There are icicles 
 on the grey lichened rocks, and crystals of snow 
 shine on the roadway, which winds high above the 
 torrent. The dark-limbed trees are brought out in 
 sharp relief by the white rime of hoar-frost, feathery, 
 fantastic, lace-like ; and the needles of the firs are 
 coated with shining crystals. But the light covering 
 of rime and snow cannot hide the carpet of faded 
 oak, and copper beech, and broad Spanish chestnut
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 41 
 
 leaves, which lie ankle deep in heaps of red and 
 brown and yellow. There is scarcely any foliage 
 left on those trees, but on either bank soldierly rows 
 of dark green fir and pine and larch are drawn up in 
 line to salute the river as it passes in kasty review. 
 On the hazel are threads of scarlet ; a few red haws 
 remain on the hawthorn ; and there is the plum- 
 like bloom of the black sloe. But for the ceaseless 
 song of the river now soft and tender in a minor 
 key, like a lover's entreating whisper ; now a sweet 
 lullaby, with a note of sadness in it, sung to the 
 silent and listening rocks, as the water reposes in 
 contemplative pools that mirror bits of sky ; then 
 a gay careless shout, a loud defiant laugh, as it 
 wakens from its reflective mood and dashes in 
 restless madcap race heedlessly past lichened rocks 
 and stretched-out arms of compassionate trees that 
 try to stop its flight ; but for this voiceful water, 
 I say, absolute silence would reign in the valley. 
 Frost and snow hold Nature in quiet restraint. We 
 have seen, it is true, the robin and the torn-tit ; once 
 there has come the sceap-sceap of a snipe, rising in 
 zig-zag flight, with breast as brown as the fallen 
 chestnut leaves ; once the missel-thrush has shown 
 his spotted chest ; once we have caught sight of 
 the golden bill of the blackbird. There are the 
 footprints of rabbits and hares ; we hear the
 
 42 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 hollow note of the wood-pigeon ; and Somebody 
 says that she has seen the heron sitting watchful 
 and weird by the water when the gloom has been 
 gathering in this wild solitude. 
 
 As we pass up the valley the walk increases in its 
 lonely beauty.' At Goyts Clough, where a torrent 
 roars across the path, the rocky sandstone sides of 
 the stream break suddenly into moorland escarp- 
 ments, and these stretch into higher expanses of moor- 
 land, that rise and fall until their far-off waves meet 
 the purple line of the horizon. And now the aspect 
 of the valley is altered. The trees cease, the bronzed 
 moors rise precipitously from the stony bed of the 
 stream, and encompass it on either hand. Presently, 
 to our right, are one or two houses that seem to 
 make the solitude all the more lonely. The sun has 
 insensibly gone down, and there is a metallic twilight. 
 The glimmer of a candle shines in one of the ghostly 
 cottage windows. Close by is an old gritstone quarry, 
 which has a story that belongs to the romance of 
 trade. It was first worked by the originator of 
 parcel-vans, the Pickford whose name is as familiar 
 to us as Her Majesty's face on pence and postage 
 stamps. That was in the days of last century. 
 The flagstones which paved the Eegent-street of 
 those days were hewn from this quarry. They 
 were carted all the way to London, via Leek.
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 43r 
 
 Brindley had not then developed his water-high- 
 ways, and George Stephenson, in his pitman's 
 clothes, was learning to read and write for fourpence 
 a week at a night-school. But canals came to be 
 made, and railways were constructed, and it became- 
 no longer profitable to pave Piccadilly from the- 
 Peak. The supply of stone in this quarry is by 
 no means exhausted, but the cost of carriage 
 renders its working no longer profitable. Time, 
 which deals gently with most wounds, has healedi 
 the scars the quarrymen of a past generation in- 
 flicted on the cliff, and with lichen and ivy, fern 
 and foliage and flowers, has lovingly repaired the- 
 rein caused years ago. 
 
 And now we leave the river-side and strike across 
 the moors. We are alone on the top of the world. 
 The moon looks down upon us with pale steadfast 
 gaze ; the stars regard us with a thousand eyes. 
 The road shows wan in the wide space of encom- 
 passing moor. A far-off group of gloomy pines 
 stand ghost-like in the white light. The only sound 
 is caused by the plaintive cry of that bird of triple- 
 name lapwing, peewit, plover. Once, too, the 
 curlew " the Whaup " of William Black's " Daugh- 
 ter of Heth" rises with its sharp wings in swift 
 flight, with a shrill call with a roll in it, just like a 
 pea-whistle. Far away in front is a yellow light
 
 44 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 from a solitary little farmhouse which has made a 
 scanty clearing in the moor. Somebody is strangely 
 silent. The cold refining light of the moon touches 
 her face with a saintly radiance. And at last when 
 .-she speaks there is an unwonted tremor in the soft 
 voice. She says : 
 
 " I sometimes think that to be in the middle of a 
 moor under the stars is to experience more spiritual 
 feeling than is induced in the solemnest cathedral 
 or by the most earnest sermon." 
 
 It appears that she knows the people at the 
 house whose yellow window, in the broad space of 
 mysterious moor, shews like a lighthouse gleam 
 in mid-ocean. An old woman, with a white mob- 
 cap something like what the fashionable ladies of 
 aesthetic South Keneington are reviving to-day sits 
 in the ingle-nook smoking a clay pipe of marvellous 
 colouring. There is a smell of peat about the fire ; 
 the only pictures on the walls are in the shape of 
 substantial sides of bacon ; there is a cheese knife 
 on the table fashioned out of the old broad-sword of 
 a cavalier. The ancient dame is crooning alone, 
 " John " the sharer of her years " has gone to 
 Booxton to pay th' rent to th' Duke," and she is fret- 
 ful that he will be "coming whoam full up wi' yell 
 which'll do his rheumatics a power o' harm." And 
 ehe puffs away silently at the consoling pipe. And
 
 THE VALLEY OP THE GOYT. 45- 
 
 Somebody, with a tender consideration for the 
 weakness of old people, quietly prompts me to leave 
 the whole contents of my own pouch to solace the 
 old lady's hours. It is one of the aged dame's boasts- 
 that she has never slept out of that house for over 
 fifty years. Half a century spent in vegetation. 
 To the dwellers in busy towns, who crowd so mucb 
 experience and so many sensations into each day, 
 these isolated hill people do not seem to live. The- 
 number of their days is longer than ours, and the 
 days are longer, but one day is so much like another,, 
 that their existence is only a monotonous routine of 
 food and sleep, a slow process of going to the grave. 
 They do not really feel the pulse of life. 
 
 They from to-day and from to-night 
 
 Expected nothing more 
 Than yesterday and y ester night 
 
 Had proffered them before. 
 
 And yet, perhaps, these simple dull quiet people 
 are happier in their iives than we, with our daily 
 discontent and fever fret. 
 
 The moon shines on the waves of moorland in a 
 long path of white light, just as it does on the sea, 
 making, as it seems, a silver road upon which you 
 might walk up to the entrance of Heaven. But 
 what is that strange object in front of us standing 
 out in sharp silhouette between moon and stars? 
 It is a man, kui his steps over the rough uneven way
 
 46 THE VALLBY OF THE GOYT. 
 
 are very erratic. He is walking in figures of eight. 
 The old lady in the lonely farm yonder was quite 
 right in her sorrowful apprehensions. It is " John/' 
 and he is, indeed, "full up wi' yell." He is made 
 more grotesque by a number of parcels for he has 
 been shopping which, he being unable to carry, 
 are tied all over his body. We console with him 
 about his rheumatics; and his efforts to balance 
 himself in a dignified perpendicular position of 
 attention are as broadly comic as a farce. " Oi 
 munna stop and talk or Oi shall set," he says at 
 last, and the honest old man stumbles on, paying 
 his attentions to both sides of the road. 
 
 The path across the moor brings us on to the 
 Macclesfield road just above Burbage, where we are 
 a mile from Buxton, whose gas lamps in the hollow 
 strike strange to eyes which have grown accustomed 
 to the sharp lights and dark shadows of the moors. 
 When we get back to the town, we have walked 
 altogether about eight or nine miles. The exercise 
 and the air have given us appetites that are 
 Homeric in their greatness, and the old-fashioned 
 knife-and-fork tea in the snugly-curtained room, 
 with its glowing fire and wax candles, is not the 
 least acceptable sensation of the day. 
 
 And afterwards Somebody is not too tired for 
 music. And has she, perhaps, a lingering vision in
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE GOYT. 47 
 
 her memory of that deep, still, beautiful, secluded 
 valley of the afternoon, where a dozen rivulets and 
 rills join their young voices in a perpetual hymn, 
 which only the bending trees and the grand old hills 
 are privileged to hear, when she sings ; 
 Sweet vale ofAvoca! how calm could I rest 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, 
 Where the storms that ive feel in this cold world should 
 
 cease, 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
 
 CLIMBING COMBS MOSS. 
 
 Will you go with me to the moors ? 
 To the land of grouse and heather 
 Yon level ridge in the distance, 
 Wliere hill and sky meet together ? 
 One hour from where we are standing, 
 In sound of the forge and the Iwmmer, 
 And you'll hear the crow of the moor cock, 
 And the lapiving's ceaseless clamour. 
 
 J. H. J. 
 
 A January morning at Buxton. Grey sky, gusty 
 east wind, and grim black frost. There is a friendly 
 glow in the fire ; across the room the cold window 
 frames a picture of sullen hills drawn in Indian Ink, 
 The North-Easter has lost its temper, and is shriek- 
 ing because no one ventures out to do battle with its 
 vengeance. 
 
 " Just the morning for a ten mile walk as a tonia 
 before dinner !" says the Young Man breaking in 
 upon some touch-and-go criticism of the poetry of 
 Festm, which I am enjoying with Somebody, with
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 49 
 
 frank grey eyes and good-natured mouth. She has 
 got Philip James Bailey's volume, a gift of the poet, 
 resting in her lap. By the way, who reads Festus 
 now? a dramatic poem of which Alfred Tennyson 
 said that he "could scarcely trust himself to say 
 how much he admired it, for fear of falling into- 
 extravagance." It is a remarkable composition, and 
 all the more remarkable because its author was- 
 barely three and twenty when it was given to the- 
 world. But he has never done anything of merit 
 since this youthful masterpiece. He exhausted, 
 himself for all time. 
 
 He sang himself hoarse to the stars very early, 
 And cracked a weak voice to too lofty a tune. 
 
 Single Speech Hamilton ; One Book Bailey. 1 
 think his Huso obtained a pecuniary recognition 
 from Government. Perhaps if he had received no> 
 pension we should have had more poetry. 
 
 But to return to the Young Man. He is not thus 
 called because he is young, for his beard has long 
 been iron-grey, and the steel ploughshare of Time 
 has left deep furrows in the fine-featured face ; but 
 because his heart is full of juvenility and his sym- 
 pathies are all with youth. One of us, indeed, 
 proposed to dub him " The Boy." He takes a 
 school-lad's fresh interest in country-life, and his. 
 greatest delight is to romp with children, or pause
 
 50 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 to have a tete a tete with little strangers of the 
 mature age of five and six, whom he may casually 
 encounter in his travels. I should not be astonished 
 to find him setting a back at leap-frog, or playing at 
 shuttlecock and battledore, when he is eighty. Al- 
 though he is now in his sixth decade, and is surely 
 old enough to know better, he has been exposed to 
 the genteel disgu?t of his grown-up family " knuckl- 
 ing down " at ring-taw with the small urchins of the 
 neighbourhood ; and only last spring he went bird- 
 nesting with some young lads, finding the mossy 
 nests for them, but, mark you, not permitting the 
 theft of a single egg, or fledgling, for the Young Man 
 is as much a champion of wild birds as St. Francis 
 D'Assisi was a friend of fishes. When remonstrated 
 with by an indignant potentate in petticoats, he 
 quotes a favourite author to prove that cricket has 
 "been made a manly game simply that men may 
 think themselves boys for an hour or two. 
 
 The Young Man, in addition to these dreadful 
 deformities of character, is the only person in the 
 world I ever found to agree with the Rev. Charles 
 Kingsley's love for the north east wind. " To be 
 able to enjoy the brave east wind is a sure sign of 
 good health, my nephew," he says, after he has 
 dragged me away from the genial fire, and the warm 
 .grey eyes, to face the gloomy Hyperborean hills.
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 51 
 
 Welcome, black North-Easter ! 
 O'er the German foam ; 
 O'er the Danish moorlands, 
 From thy frozen home. 
 
 Jovial wind of Winter, 
 Turn us out to play ! 
 Sweep the golden reed-beds, 
 Crisp the lazy dyke; 
 Hunger into madness 
 Every plunging pike. 
 Fill the lake with wildfowl- 
 Fill the marsh ivith snipe; 
 While on dreary moorlands 
 Lonely curlews pipe. 
 Through the black fir-forest, 
 Thunder harsh and dry, 
 Shattering down the snow-flakes 
 Off the curdled sky. 
 
 Come, and strong within us 
 Stir the Vikings' blood; 
 Bracing brain and sinew, 
 Blow, thou wind of God ! 
 
 These are the lines the athletic sexagenarian is 
 singing as I pull on my gloves and button up my 
 coat, and Somebody is very solicitous about a 
 certain warm woollen comforter, almost as big as 
 a blanket. 
 
 Once outside, there is something strong and 
 healthful in the dash of cold air that inspires 
 courage ; and the ramble we have before us ia 
 through a wild track of picturesque country that
 
 52 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 is new to me, and one which my friend's ecstatic 
 descriptions have led me, in the drudgery of a dull 
 life in a dingy office, to look forward to with no 
 ordinary anticipation. We are bound for Coombs 
 Moss (from " Cwm," the Celtic for a curved piece 
 of country, as in this instance). A romantic soli- 
 tude upon whose heather the foot of the tourist has 
 seldom trod. It is quite near Buxton, yet very far 
 away from Buxton ; and while artists would revel in 
 its scenic charms, antiquarians would delight in its 
 interesting historic relics : but practically the place 
 has yet to be discovered. " I only know two English 
 neighbourhoods thoroughly, and in each, within a 
 circle of five miles, there is enough of interest and 
 beaiity to last any reasonable man his life. I be- 
 lieve this to be the case almost throughout the 
 country." So wrote the author of " Tom Brown's- 
 School Days " in reference to the White Horse Vale,, 
 and the observation applies with special force to> 
 the Peak of Derbyshire. 
 
 The Young Man makes light work of the steep 
 slopes of the Corbar Woods, in their whiter aspect 
 very different to the dense green forest which sum- 
 mer visitors haunt. Overhead there is now no 
 fretwork roof of lambent foliage, through which the 
 sunlight steals with a softened radiance ; underfoot 
 there is no tangled carpet of wild flowers. The
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 53 
 
 bracken is brown; the ferns are yellow and sad. 
 The pleasant summer glades of cool green are now 
 represented by black trunks and bare, frosted 
 branches. The incessant concert of birds is hushed. 
 One misses, too, the sweet confusion of lovers whose 
 reverie has been disturbed by encroaching footsteps. 
 The only sound is the axe of the woodman. The 
 woods are being thinned by the Duke's forester, for 
 the growth has become too thick. Several trunks 
 lie athwart the path, others still standing bear the 
 fatal white paint cross of destruction. Among the 
 winding walks, so cool and fragrant and beautiful a 
 few months ago ; across the secluded bridge where 
 Mr. Manchester has so often plighted his troth with 
 Miss Liverpool, and Miss Birmingham, with the 
 deadly eyes, made promises to Mr. Sheffield, with 
 pretty lips that have since perjured themselves, and 
 with honeyed smiles that are now sweetening 
 another's hours ; still ascending the lovers' path, 
 until the very summit of Corbar is reached. And 
 now above stretches a vast expanse of moor. This 
 is Coombs Moss, a mountain ridge several miles long 
 and one or two miles across. We are to explore it 
 this morning. Buxton lies below, shut completely 
 in with barriers of hills. The town lies, as it were, 
 at the bottom of a tea-cup. Across in the cold grey 
 mist is the hill locally known as Solomon's Temple ;
 
 54 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 behind it the bladelike contour of Axe Edge stands- 
 out clear and defined with waves of brooding mist 
 below it. The Young Man, to whom this grey peak 
 of the Midlands is as dear as the Matterhorn is to 
 an enthusiastic member of the Alpine Club, says he 
 has often clomb the hill when there has been a sea 
 of clouds beneath him, but a sky of vivid blue 
 above ; and in winter he has stood on its summit 
 when a snow-storm has beat below, blotting out the 
 earth in a dancing mist of white, while the sun 
 blessed the head of the mountain with its beams, 
 and left it unspotted by the wintry element. Cawton 
 Hill and Chelmorton Low are high in cloudland ; 
 yonder is Priestcliffe ; there the hills encompassing 
 Tideswell ; while that indistinct nebulous mass, dif- 
 ficult to decide whether it be mist or mountain, is 
 Mam Tor, the shivering mountain of Castleton. 
 
 We strike across the moor. The North-Easter at 
 this altitude shaves one like an atmospheric razor,, 
 and, as Mr. Buskin says of the oxygen-laden wind of 
 the Yorkshire wolds, "you can almost lean against 
 it." The long beard and moustache of the Young 
 Man are being frozen into matted iron ; there is ice 
 on the mouthpiece of my pipe ; but we perspire with 
 the plunging exercise through the springy heath 
 which we, being lovers of birds and leathers of the 
 battue, protest has all the glow and excitement of.
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 55- 
 
 grouse shooting without its cruelty. Several grouse 
 rise, but at long distances from us. Once a hare 
 starts from our feet. But there seems an utter 
 suspension of life. The moors are a picture of wild 
 desolation, and a cold loneliness, that is not alto- 
 gether without poetic fascination. The black rigour 
 of the frost seems to hold everything fast in its iron 
 grip. The peaty pools are frozen ; there is a great 
 stillness ; everything is dead ; the prevailing colour 
 is dead ; a neutral tint, a shroud of swathing mist, 
 a breeding cold grey that half hides and half reveals. 
 The moors themselves seem to be a vast black sea 
 of raging billows suddenly checked in the height of 
 a storm and held in eternal arrest. The heather, 
 regarded as a mass, is a dark bronzed green like 
 velvet, and Is as attractive to the artistic eye as in 
 its wine-stained purple of full bloom. But taking 
 the individual plant it is withered and dead. One- 
 looks in vain for a single sprig of green, and recalls 
 the aching pathos of that passage in Mrs. Gaskell'& 
 Life of Charlotte Bronte, where the author of " Jane 
 Eyre " went over the December moors searching in 
 the little hidden hollows and sheltered nooks for a 
 lingering spray of heather, just one spray however 
 withered to take to her sister Emily, and found 
 that the flower was not recognised by the filmy, 
 fading eyes. Coombs Moss, indeed, is just such a
 
 56 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 moor as the strange wild-bird like nature of Emily 
 Bronte loved, for here are the vast spaces, the sense 
 of freedom and of loneliness, which gave to her 
 dauntless poetic nature such ministering companion- 
 ship. But if the heather is dead, the bilberry is a 
 bright green, for it is freshest in the depths of 
 winter, and duskiest in the summer ; while in the 
 protected clefts and sheltered crevices of the grit- 
 stone are beautiful lichens and mosses that are 
 miracles of colour. The Young Man points out a 
 bold rock that is called Bobin Hood's Tor. It was 
 the scene of one of the Sherwood hero's hunting 
 
 exploits, when he but no matter. The story 
 
 is quite a mile long. At least we have got over that 
 space of ground while the Young Man, a lover of 
 legends, has been detailing the country-side tradition. 
 We are now making oar way across the moor to its 
 north-eastern extremity to something less apocryphal : 
 an actual Roman Camp, as complete as it was when 
 the warriors of Julius Agricola left it. 
 
 Our steps are directed thither, the Young Man 
 diminishing the distance with a fund of local anec- 
 dote that is as unfailing as the widow's cruse of oil. 
 A grouse at last rises near us. It flies up almost at 
 our feet with a startled cluck-cluck-cluck, and then 
 alights a few yards off with a temerity which the 
 Young Man cannot disturb. The bird is waiting
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 57 
 
 for his timid wife, who is trembling somewhere 
 near us and is afraid to join her lord and master. 
 He accosts her impatiently, and now there is a sud- 
 den flutter of brown feathers as the dear lady has 
 summoned up courage, and the wedded pair fly 
 away into the misty distance, evidently under the 
 delusion that the 12th of August has arrived pre- 
 maturely. Our next acquaintance is a horned ram 
 as black as his native millstone grit. We approach 
 him, and he contemplates us with a grave stare of 
 critical scrutiny. After he has judiciously summed 
 us up, he gives vent to a bah ! of unmistakable con- 
 tempt, and walks off with an air of disdain in his 
 curly horns, and lofty scorn in his dirty fleece, to 
 tell his club of the strange creatures trespassing on 
 his estate. The Young Man says that these moun- 
 tain sheep are very diflerent animals to your domes- 
 ticated meadow mutton. They are as wild as the 
 hills they range. Fierce and defiant, when a hostile 
 dog is after them they will take the rough stone 
 walls of the country like stags. And he also adds 
 something about their superior culinary qualities. 
 Entre nous a regard for selle de mouton is not one of 
 the least of the Y. M.'s characteristics. But 
 revenons a nos moutons, if the expression is not 
 paradoxical when it is sheep that we have been 
 discussing.
 
 58 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 Presently, as we approach the eastward edge of 
 the Moss, there comes a patch of blue in the cold, 
 grey, gusty sky. The mists that have been trailing 
 along the hills are lifting. The sun, as yet, does not 
 absolutely shine ; but his presence is indicated by a 
 lance of yellow light that strikes athwart the Land- 
 seer mists of the landscape. And far below us is a 
 deep broad vale shut in with bold hills whose burly 
 shoulders claim attention by their aggressive atti- 
 tude. Chapel-en-le-Frith hides down in the hollow ; 
 and lo ! there is a broad mere which is not frozen, 
 for the water shivers in the wind. The Young 
 Man vouches that it is only the Chapel Reservoir ; 
 an artificial lake formed by a natural basin. But 
 are we not in Wordsworth's country ? Say, is not 
 that Grasmere ? The expanse of water certainly 
 gives to this Derbyshire landscape a charm which 
 Derbyshire landscapes emphatically lack. Who was 
 it who said that a landscape without water is like 
 the human face without the eye ? And new behold ! 
 the sun with a sudden burst turns the drawing in 
 Indian ink into a radiant water-colour picture. The 
 light touches the water, and the silver spreads over 
 the cold black surface until it is a damascened sheet 
 of liquid light, framed in a setting of grey-green, 
 where the irregular banks and grassy promontories, 
 which give the water a picturesque variety, are
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 59 
 
 reflected. The burnished expanse is broken only 
 when a fitful gust of wind ruffles it in dark ripples^ 
 The day is fast brightening. Hills that have been 
 invisible now sketch themselves in the picture with 
 great clearness of outline. The Young Man enthu- 
 siastically proposes a vote of thanks to his Puissant 
 Majesty, the Clerk of the Weather, for turning on* 
 the opportune sunshine ; it is seconded by his com- 
 panion-in-arms, supported by both, and carried 
 unanimously. And now the views on every side 
 have broadened to the vision, as if seen through a 
 powerful telescope. Distant objects stand out sharp 
 and clear in the thin bright air ; the lake below 
 mirrors a patch of blue sky. The little mist linger- 
 ing in the valley is now a silver gauze. Taxall, 
 Lyme Moor, Disley, Whaley Moor, Eccles Pike, 
 Chinley Churn, Dympus, rattles off the Young 
 Man pointing to this and that hill, with his stick, like 
 the descriptive lecturer at a penny panorama. To our 
 left, right across a vale in the north, are the sombre 
 shoulders of Kinderscout, the highest point in 
 Derbyshire ; the isolated Peak on the opposite side 
 to the right is Cracken Edge, on whose summit a 
 famous landscape painter, in a notable picture, 
 placed Joshua commanding the sun to stand still, 
 while in the valley the warriors of Israel were 
 vanquishing with great vigour the army of the-
 
 60 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 Amorites. Tom Moore conceived Lalla Kookh, with 
 its gorgeous glow of scenery and vivid oriental 
 colouring, by the bleak banks of the Dove; but it 
 was even a greater geographical achievement to 
 pass off this hungry Derbyshire hill as a peak in 
 Palestine, and that Chapel-en-le-Frith dale as the 
 valley of Ajalon. 
 
 The expansive view which we are now compre- 
 hending is the same as the soldiers of Cssar beheld, 
 as their sentries looked down upon the country and 
 watched with strained eyes for the rising of any of 
 the desperate, disaffected Britons whom the Eoman 
 legions had driven from the Derbyshire leadmines and 
 lime-workings. Here at this northern termination 
 of the Moss, at an elevation of 1670 feet above the 
 sea-level, is the Eoman fort. Look how clearly from 
 the valley the artificial chariot-road, a ruled line of 
 green amid the dark he.ath, climbs the stubborn side 
 of the hill until it reaches a level plateau at the 
 summit. This flat and angular platform is flanked 
 with precipitous escarpments several hundred feet 
 in height and invulnerable against attack ; while on 
 the southern boundary are formidable entrenchments 
 still distinctly definable. The inspection of this 
 ancient stronghold is like reading a chapter of 
 history. The memory sees more than the eye, and 
 Ihe imagination peoples the silent trenches with
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 61 
 
 helmeted men armed with shield and spear. The 
 Young Man points out the fountain in the centre of 
 the Camp. It quenched the thirst of valiant war- 
 riors dead these two thousand years, but the clear 
 water is bubbling up still a perpetual spring, the 
 emblem of immortal youth. We also stumble, when 
 at the northern angle of this old-world fortress, upon 
 excavations which are said to be the remains of 
 cairns, or sentry shelters ; and the Young Man has 
 jotted down in his pocket book from Professor Sain- 
 ter's " Scientific Kambles" the exact dimensions of 
 the Camp. Here are the figures : 
 
 FEET. 
 
 Length of fosse and ramparts 547 
 
 Width of outer fosse at top of cutting 30 
 
 Depth of outer fosse from level of ground ... 10 
 Height of first or outer rampart from bottom 
 
 of outer fosse 20 
 
 Width of inner fosse at top of ramparts.. 50 to 65 
 
 Depth of inner fosse from top of ditto 10 
 
 Height of inner rampart 10" 
 
 Length of west side of camp 450 
 
 Length of north east side of camp 466 
 
 Length of entrance to camp, including path... 306 
 
 The supreme idea of the Koman strategists, in 
 entrenching this windy table-land, was to command' 
 an outlook over as large an area of country as pos- 
 sible. From this unassailable eyrie they had cer- 
 tainly one of the most expansive prospects in the 
 Peak. At the foot of the fortress right down in the
 
 62 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 wide valley, may be seen in the summer days ano- 
 ther encampment, for regiments of Her Majesty's 
 infantry of the line, from the depots of Manchester 
 or Sheffield, camp out here and have target practice 
 in a country as wild as the denies of Afghanistan or 
 the dhongas of Zululand. And a very picturesque 
 sight it is in the soft, hot, hazy weather to see the 
 red-coats scattered over the heather, little patches of 
 bright colour amid the bold inequalities of the hills, 
 pinging away with the Martini-Henry under the 
 very camp where the imperial eagle waved its sym- 
 bol of conquest in days when the Nazarene was per- 
 forming His miracles. 
 
 When the Romans left the country, and their 
 Saxon successors lost it, Coombs Moss overlooked 
 the Royal Forest of the Peak of Derbyshire. It was 
 held by William Peverill, the illegitimate son of 
 William of Normandy. Peak Forest is now a 
 railway station, and the blasting of the limestone 
 companies is heard where once the woodman's horn 
 awoke responsive echoes. Chapel-en-le-Frith, 
 according to the Young Man, owes its name to the 
 fact of the foresters and keepers of the deer 
 becoming so numerous that about 1225 they 
 purchased a portion of the crown lands held by one 
 William de Ferrers and erected for themselves a 
 chapel for divine service, which they named the
 
 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 63 
 
 Chapel in the Forest (firth). The ancient chapel is 
 as dead as the sturdy green-woodsmen who built it, 
 and the present church has neither the attraction of 
 age nor architectural beauty to detain us. 
 
 Coombs Moss falls away rapidly into Dove Holes, 
 for which place we make with appetites as sharp as 
 .any that may have belonged to Koman soldier or 
 Norman forester. Dove Holes is the picturesque 
 name for a commonplace lime-burning village which 
 has a station on the North- Western system, while it 
 gives a name to a long tunnel, perforating a 
 massive hill, on the main line of the Midland to 
 Manchester, between Peak Forest and Chapel-en-le 
 Frith. There was something big in landslips here 
 some years ago ; while the history of the tunnel is 
 in itself a romance ; a fascinating story of 
 unyielding engineering skill conquering insurmount- 
 able forces. More than three years were spent i 
 this difficult undertaking. Water-springs in the 
 rock defied both capital and labour. At the present 
 time there is an underground stream in this vault 
 in which trout and grayling are so numerous that it 
 has been suggested by a practical angler they should 
 be captured and transferred to the over-fish' : I 
 waters of the Wye and Derwent. Fancy trout in a 
 tunnel; imagine grayling in the gloom. 
 
 It is a sudden transition from the broad sileno
 
 64 CLIMBING COOMBS MOSS. 
 
 and the sublimity of the moorland mountain to this^ 
 commercial village of Dove Holes, with its public- 
 houses, and its hulking "corner-men" at each turn 
 of a street. There is a train bound for Buxton in a 
 few minutes, and, leaving the Young Man to 
 propitiate with a penny the shrill anguish of a little 
 fellow, who has fallen down and broken a jug, I 
 hasten to the rabbit hutch of a booking-office to* 
 take tickets.
 
 AN 
 
 EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD 
 
 Tlie rooks scarcely swing on the tops of tlic trees, 
 
 While river-reeds nod to the tremulous breeze; 
 
 A rose-leaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam, 
 
 Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;: 
 
 The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay, 
 
 The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay. 
 
 J. ASHBY-STERRY. 
 
 " Driver !" 
 
 The Buxton petrifaction does not hear us, and' 
 the horses crawl lazily up a very easy gradient- 
 When the address is repeated, the man turns round 
 on his box respectfully. 
 
 " We are not going to a funeral !" says the Young 
 Man, cheerily. 
 
 There is no improvement in the sluggish pace for 
 the moment. Then, quite suddenly, the Derbyshire- 
 
 Jihu breaks out into a spasm of wiry activity. He- 
 
 E
 
 66 AN EXCURSION TO ERKWOOD. 
 
 tugs the reins, brandishes the whip, shouts to the 
 pair of horses, and away we go at a reasonable trot. 
 The mortuary observation only took a minute or 
 two to make its occult meaning clear, which is, 
 indeed, a very short space of time for the average 
 Peak intellect to receive and understand a joke. 
 Sydney Smith, who must be credited with the few 
 good things Shakespeare left unsaid, placed the 
 assertion on record that it requires a surgical opera- 
 tion to get a joke into the head of a Scotchman; 
 and it is said that at a supper-party, and in passing a 
 plate, Theodore Hook made a madly-outrageous pun 
 that convulsed with spontaneous merriment every- 
 body in the room but one man, who did not even 
 smile, but who, more than an hour afterwards, and 
 to the surprise of all, abruptly broke out into the 
 broadest of laughs and complimented the wag on 
 the joke he had made over supper. That man 
 was either Scotch or Derbyshire born. Misty 
 hills must induce a mental melancholy that 
 the sunshine shaft of wit takes time to pierce. Not 
 that there was much of the sunshine shaft of wit in 
 the remark we made to our charioteer. But even so 
 transparent a joke took careful consideration. 
 
 May is merging into June, and we are bound for 
 the Home of the Rhododendron : Errwood. Topo- 
 graphically I may be wrong in including Errwood in
 
 AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD. 67 
 
 Undiscovered Derbyshire. Really it is in Cheshire, 
 but it only belongs to that county by the width of 
 the little river Goyt. At any rate Errwood is in the 
 Peake countrie, and only a matter of four or five 
 miles from Buxton. 
 
 We leave the carriage at the Engine House at 
 Bunsall Cob, better known as Long Hill, only having 
 availed ourselves of the vehicular convenience 
 because of the encumbrance of an easel and a fish- 
 ing-rod ; for Somebody is going to take a treasured 
 beauty-spot back with her on canvas, and the 
 Young Man proposes to try the fortunes of a new 
 artificial fly in a deep pool in the Goyt, where plump 
 trout lie lazily poising their speckled bodies under 
 the shade of wooded banks. So the charioteer is 
 dismissed with instructions to pick us up again at 
 the same place at the close of the day. 
 
 Leave we artist and angler awhile to their amuse- 
 ments, while we stray round Errwood. 
 
 Instead of taking the turn to the left at Goyts 
 Bridge, and following the road up the river, we 
 pursue the road to the right. A walk of a hundred 
 yards brings us to the lodge gates of Errwood. The 
 carriage drive up to the Hall is before us. Be not 
 deceived by the appellation carriage drive. Conjure 
 up no decorous roadway of mathematically ruled 
 gravel, dissecting methodically shaven grass. Im-
 
 68 AN EXCURSION TO ERITWOOD. 
 
 agine no stiff roadway as " county family " as the 
 severe Squire that owns it. There is nothing formal 
 about this carriage drive. It runs at the bottom of 
 a wild valley, where nature assumes one of her most 
 romantic moods. A blithe mountain stream sings- 
 by its side all the way. Bold rocks and steep wooded 
 slopes shut it in on either hand. There is the shade 
 of foliage and of deep wooded ways everywhere. 
 Banks of hollies, with the red berries of winter still 
 glowing in the dark gloss of the green ; pines and 
 firs of majestic height, very different to the bleak, 
 ragged, storm- shrivelled trees on the hills, trees- 
 which turn to the East as if trained in strict Kitual- 
 istic observances ; but Goliaths of their race, jast 
 like the giant firs and pines that are the glory of the- 
 Duke of Argyll's forest at Inverary, by the banks of 
 the brawling Aray and under the shadow of the peafc 
 of Duniquoich. But it is not for these splendid 
 growths that Errwood is famous. Behold the pride' 
 of the place ! See the rhododendrons rising tier 
 above tier, tint upon tint. Pelian piled upon Ossa 
 a blaze of bloom. They are not plants ; they are 
 trees. They rise in ramparts of flowers. It is an- 
 artist's study of colour, these tints, from the deep- 
 Tyrian imperial purple to faint blush of pink, witli 
 every seeming gradation of rose-red, scarlet, vermil- 
 lion, lake, carnation, cardinal, and all relieved by the
 
 AN EXCURSION TO EKRWOOD. 69 
 
 deep glossy green of the dense leafage, toned down 
 till more by the sombre foliage of fir and pine and 
 jew. This is, indeed, the Home of the Rhododen- 
 dron. Forty-thousand plants according to the 
 unimpeachable testimony of the Young Man were 
 et here some thirty years ago, and they have flour- 
 ished into this magnificent growth. 
 
 The road winds uphill at the base of these 
 towering walls of showy flower, and the little 
 tributary stream hurries down under arches of 
 foliage and ferns, cascading now with a shout of 
 joy over a lichened rock ; pausing now in a quiet 
 cool pool where water plants bend low and kiss the 
 sweet- faced water. There is a lark, a speck of thrilling 
 song, in the June bine above ; the wooded slopes of 
 the deep green valley are full of unstranslatable 
 melody ; but surely the sweetest sound to be heard 
 is the voice of that joyous streamlet, as it hugs the 
 road all the way down the drive. A mountain 
 rivulet, taking its tributary wave to the ocean, surely 
 does make the sweetest music St. Cecilia can 
 evoke ; tenderer in the piannissimo passages, more 
 exultant in the full forte, than the notes of a 
 Malibran, a Lind, a Titians, a Patti. 
 
 Errwood Hall stands on a plateau commanding 
 a view that would exhaust the ornate descriptive 
 powers of a George Robins. The vision comprehends
 
 70 AN EXCURSION TO EEBWOOD. 
 
 the whole of the deep green wooded valley, with a 
 range of moorland heights beyond. The house is 
 the home of the Grimshaws, a Eoman Catholic 
 family. The white stone mansion is in the Italian 
 style, and a crucifix one sees at an upper window 
 lends to the mind the delusion that the scene is- 
 
 Italian too : 
 
 A deep vale 
 
 Shut out by Alpine Mils from tlie rude world. 
 On the summit of the hill above Errwood Hall an 
 observatory which gives an expansive panorama of 
 rising and falling hill and moor is the Mausoleum 
 Chapel. At this height the wind comes with a cool 
 caress to the face ; there is the hum of the bee 
 among the heather ; a butterfly flies past like a 
 winged flower. Down again by the Hall. We will 
 return, if it please you, by a footpath on the right,, 
 high above the carriage-way. It is a lovers' walk ; 
 a deep-green wooded way made for Phillida and 
 Corydon. Boughs interlace above ; the hare-bell, 
 the fox -glove, and the blade-like fern are at our 
 feet ; at our side behold the beautiful chalice of the 
 giant campanula, the cup of the golden cistus, the 
 blue eyes of the forget-me-not ; the wind brings us 
 messages of scent from azalea, and woodbine, and 
 wild sweet-cicely. Now the path descends under an 
 aisle of rhododendron and pine, and ever and anon 
 a mighty tree has thrown its network of fibrous-
 
 AN EXCURSION TO ERKWOOD. 71 
 
 roots across the wooded walk, till we are brought 
 out at Goyts Bridge, again ; Goyts Bridge which 
 might have been the inspiration of Longfellow when 
 he drew that pen-picture where : 
 
 Reflected in the tide the grey rocks stand, 
 
 And trembling sluidows throw ; 
 
 And the fair trees lean over side by side, 
 
 And see themselves below. 
 
 Our stroll, my friend, has occupied more time 
 than I thought, for when we scramble down the steep 
 wooded bank of the river, with the lace-like leaf- 
 shadows falling athwart the winsome water, Some- 
 body has got the outline of a pretty vignette on her 
 canvas, and there are already three brace of fine 
 trout in the Young Man's creel. It does one good 
 to see the Young Man whip the water ; to witness 
 the light easy graceful touch with which he drops the 
 cast on the stream with the gentleness of gossamer ; 
 the adroitness with which the flies are thrown upon 
 hanging leaves on the bank and made to naturally 
 alight on the river ; the ease with which he floats the 
 yellow dun May flies over the rising fish, the quick, 
 dexterous, almost imperceptible, turn of the wrist as 
 he sees the suck of the pearl-tipped mouth and 
 strikes ; and the subtle skill with which he plays 
 a valorous fellow of at least a pound the diplo- 
 matic lowering of the point of the rod when the 
 fish, feeling the prick of the tempered barb, attempts
 
 '72 AN EXCURSION TO EKRWOOD. 
 
 an aerial evolution, and the ready running out 
 of the line when he makes a frantic rush a down- 
 ward flight to release himself until the speckled 
 heauty has the landing net put under him, and 
 presently lies among the cool grasses on the bank, 
 with that sweet evanescent musk-like aroma about 
 his plump body, which seems to dry off with the 
 water. And I contrast this " judicious Hooker" with 
 the Cockney unaccountables, who, with wonderful 
 armaments in the way of rods and tackles, affect the 
 *' Peacock at Wousley," as they call Rowsley. I mind 
 me of one of those superlative superfine gentry once 
 getting up the Wye as far as Bakewell Bridge I 
 remember he was encased in awkward fishing boots, 
 xasperatingly new; he had a white hat with a 
 marvellous piscatorio-entomological museum of 
 flies wound around it, a stupid muslin veil, 
 puggarees, don't they call those effeminate 
 abominations? kept the sweet, glad, sunshine from 
 his poor, dear, tallow-coloured neck ; a landing-net 
 and gaff were fixed vertically behind his back; a 
 bran new creel encumbered his shoulders ; he wore 
 an impossible belt and an unaccountable pouch, 
 while on his long, lithe rod was affixed a patent 
 winch that made a clicking sound like the wheel of 
 a steam crane. A wonderful man ; the promise was 
 tremendous ; the performance terrible. His flies
 
 AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD. 73 
 
 fell in the water with a splash like a big brickend ; 
 then the line was jerked back for the gut to become 
 entangled, a Gordian knot of difficulty, in an un- 
 offending elder bush that grew over the wall behind. 
 The caustic village humourists, hanging over the 
 bridge, laughed at the perspiring piscator, who lost 
 his temper and his tackle, and instead of fish 
 caught nothing but foliage. Very different is the 
 Young Man, cool of body, calm of mind, and 
 cunning of hand, with his two silken flies, so 
 temptingly natural that they impose upon us, much 
 more the trout, and his half dozen yards of line, 
 working up the narrow stream between the hanging 
 bushes, and leaving hardly an inch of water 
 unfished. A trout is, indeed, a fish worthy of an 
 able rodster. A fish with the pride and instincts, 
 the taste and tone of a gentleman. A fish dignified 
 and dainty, aristocratic and handsome, who grovels 
 not in muddy ponds and in sluggish, slimy streams, 
 leaving the stench of the canal, and the taint of the 
 river to plebeian and coarser natures, electing 
 waters that are clear and crystal, and bounding with 
 cascades, and sheltered with rocks and trees. A 
 fish dauntless, daring, and full of resource, who 
 demands the highest skill and nerve from his 
 antagonist, and is oftener victor than vanquished, 
 snaring the angler instead of the angler snaring
 
 74 AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD. 
 
 him. An epicurean fish, who prefers the graceful 
 fly or the silvery minnow, before nasty greaves 
 and grubs, lob- worms and maggots. An artistic 
 fish, who revels in wild mountain scenery, and fixes 
 his home in the still green solitudes of deep sylvan 
 valleys, where the only sound is the shout of 
 the waterfall and the sweet cadence of the current. 
 
 But lo ! We have been following the Young Man 
 down the river, and Somebody is left sketching 
 behind in solitude. She is surely as dainty a picture 
 as the scene she is transferring to canvas, this fair 
 Derbyshire girl with the frank clear eyes, and the 
 friendly laughing mouth, in the bright, happy, early, 
 summertime of life, just like the opening ferns and 
 blossoming flowers and newly-budded boughs that 
 frame her portrait, as she sits at her easel in the 
 lonely loveliness, with the glad June light about her, 
 and the swift voiceful river flowing at her feet as it 
 hurries down from the hills from rock to rock, now 
 altogether hid by jealous foliage, and now shining in 
 patches of blue in an opening among the trees. 
 
 We apologise for our desertion. 
 
 " Oh, I have had lots of company," she laughs. 
 " I have had the society of a linnet and two tomtits 
 picking up crumbs from my dress ; and then a great 
 stupid pre-Eaphaelite bull, with perverted artistic 
 tastes, came and began inspecting the sketch, finally
 
 AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD. 75' 
 
 pointing his opinions with his nose, and smelling at 
 the wet colours like an ignorant art-critic, and I had 
 to drive him away with my mahl stick, although if 
 he had only kept still I should like to have included 
 him in the picture ; while the river has been chatting 
 to me all the time." 
 
 It is a pretty picture whose beauty our lady artist 
 is throwing upon the canvas. A reach of river 
 showing bright and glassy over a dark rocky bed ; a 
 grey stone bridge where a tributary rivulet adds its 
 clear water ; at the side of the old arch a gritstone 
 cottage, with filmy peat smoke mixed up among 
 ragged pine trees ; a glimpse, and only a glimpse of 
 brown moor beyond. It is a suggestive bit of 
 " silent poetry," full of light and air and whisperings 
 of the sweet coolness of green trees snd running 
 water ; a picture to be hung up in a curtained room 
 in a far-off town sometime, maybe, to take the mind 
 back to this pleasant, peaceful Derbyshire solitude, 
 when in a place, and amid associations, far removed 
 from those which inspired the painter. 
 
 All too soon does the early summer day pass away ; 
 and when the Young Man with fairly filled creel 
 summons us to pack up, there is still much to be 
 clone to the picture, and so it and easel and palette 
 and tubes of colour and sheaf of brushes are left at 
 the gritstone cottage. To-morrow we hope to treat
 
 76 AN EXCURSION TO ERRWOOD. 
 
 ourselves to another excursion to Emvood. And 
 to-night as we ride back, the clearness of the skies, 
 .and the sharp distinct outlines of the hills, hold out 
 jpleasant promises for the day.
 
 A 
 
 DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 IN THE 
 
 SPRING TIME. 
 
 When will the songs be old that tell of spring ? 
 Of buttercups that blow and birds that sing ? 
 Ah, never may my losses or my gains 
 Make common things to me of fields and lanes! 
 
 GUY EOSLYX. 
 
 The present writer was once called upon for his- 
 sins to answer for a charming young lady a series of 
 impertinent questions in what she was pleased to 
 call her " Confession Book." It was demanded from 
 the P.W., for instance, that following the laudable 
 example of the aforesaid C.Y.L.'s " sisters, her 
 cousins, and her aunts " he should record his 
 opinion in black and white of what constituted an 
 ideal man and an ideal woman ; that he should state 
 what his age was, and whether he was ever in. love,
 
 78 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 and if so, how often ; that he should give to the 
 world his direct fiat as to what time of lite 
 people should niarry, and whether they should 
 unite for love or lucre ; that he should confess what 
 was his favourite poem and his favourite hero and 
 heroine in fiction, together with the opera of his 
 choice and the particular colour of his fancy. And 
 among other such inquisitorial queries, wrung from 
 the victim by his fair tormenter was this : " What is 
 the most beautiful thing in nature ?'' Of course the 
 P.W. wrote that his bright-eyed interlocutor was ; 
 but after that dulcet divinity he was fain to confess 
 came A Derbyshire Valley in the Spring Time. 
 
 Months have passed since then, Winnie, but I 
 endorse that opinion this May afternoon, as the birds 
 sing to me, and the river wimples on its glassy way, 
 in one of the most beautiful and least known of Der- 
 byshire dales. A couple of hours ago I was a toiler 
 within cilice walls, with maps and diagrams that 
 insisted with grating emphasis that two and two are 
 four, and could not be five or three under any pos- 
 sible circumstances ; the windows looked out upon 
 roaring foundries and big workshops of scrofulous 
 brick ; the furniture consisted of precise rows of 
 official shelves filled with my genuine " works," as 
 Charles Lamb, with gay gravity, was wont to say of 
 the bulky daybooks and ledgers of the East India
 
 IN THE SPBING TIME. 79 
 
 House. But now there is a soft sky of blue above, 
 faintly flecked with pearl, pleasing colours around, 
 and grassy carpet beneath ; the wind brings a wel- 
 come of scent from red hawthorn and rain-washed 
 wild flowers ; white rocks gleam from a setting of 
 emerald green, and a voiceful river, which intersects 
 the valley like a line of light, is singing a " song 
 without words." Forest, hill, and streamlet mingle 
 in picturesque variety. This morning the forest was 
 one of smoking chimneys ; the hills were of coal, 
 and coke, and stacked timber; the stream was a 
 stagnant fermentation of filth denominated a canal ; 
 there was the din of industry, the clanging of ham- 
 mers, the shriek of steam whistles, the sob and wail 
 of tortured metal ; revolving wheels suggested " per- 
 petual motion ;" everywhere was the sense of brick- 
 and-mortar bondage. This afternoon a delicious 
 Derbyshire dale ; an exquisitely tinted picture of 
 rock and river, tor and torrent ; a light, thin, buoy- 
 ant atmosphere ; a green gladness soothing the work- 
 wearied eye ; and the music of birds and bees, rust- 
 ling wood, rippling water, and splashing fish, falling 
 gently on town-tried ear. What a welcome tran- 
 sition it is, and how great the contrast between 
 God's Country and man's town ! What a quiet haven 
 in a troubled sea ; what a sweet truce in the severe 
 fight ; what a shady refuge in the feverish race !
 
 80 
 
 It is the fashion for superfine writers to protest 
 with forcible feebleness against railways ; but for 
 the line, however, he who was the Theseus of toil 
 two hours ago, doomed to keep for ever in a sitting 
 posture, could not have been the lazy lotus-eater of 
 the limestone dale. The train deposited me at a 
 well known station on the Midland system between 
 Derby and Manchester. I am not, however, going 
 to divulge the name of the station, for such thought- 
 lessness would betray the whereabouts of my beautiful 
 unknown valley. The Mexicans, who are aware of 
 a city of gold, keep the secret closely to themselves, 
 lest the prying and profane should step in and despoil 
 it of its untold treasures. My hidden valley is only 
 three pleasant miles from where crowded excursion 
 trains of sensational length deposit invading armies- 
 of cheap trippers, together with those modern Goths 
 and Vandals who call themselves "Field Naturalists." 
 The unlovely debris of paper-bags and ginger-beer 
 bottles, which marks the festive footsteps of the 
 former, is even more tolerable than the wholesale 
 sacking of ferns and flowers which characterises the- 
 forages of the latter. " Dovedale is already stripped 
 " to the bare rock of its ferns ! " is the lament of 
 the Eev. Gerald Smith, the author of The Fcrm of 
 Derbyshire, indignant at the rapacious robbers who 
 " rudely tear the ferns from their home so as to
 
 IN THE SEEING TIME. 81 
 
 " swell the spoils of a day's excursion, but who as 
 " rudely cast them off when the day's pleasure is 
 " past, or plant them in soil and situations where 
 " they must inevitably pine and die." Legislation, 
 has given us a Wild Birds' Preservation Act. Could 
 not the life of many a coy fern and modest flower be 
 saved by a Wild Flowers' Preservation Act? But 
 this en passant. Happily my hidden valley is free 
 from the presence of both the cheap-tripper and 
 " field naturalist." It knows not the defilement of 
 the one or the other. Your Excellency may walk 
 the whole length of the valley, from where the little 
 limpid laughing river rises, to where it enlarges the 
 Wye, without meeting a person, unless it be a keeper 
 in velveteens, with a gun and dog, who has a civil 
 good day for respectable folk. It would, indeed, 
 seem an act of sacrilege for 'Arry to pollute the 
 lovely loneliness. 'Arry, with his sweetheart, who 
 wears a discordant bonnet of violent colours, is at 
 the station as we leave it. They are off to one of. 
 the ducal show places on the beaten track, and are 
 already receiving the attentions of the raucous-voiced, 
 'bus drivers, who wait for the unwary outside the 
 station gates. 
 
 We turn to the It ft and over the ancient river 
 bridge : a grey, quaint, old-world bit of architecture, 
 whose lichened-staineJ, moss-grown arches repeat
 
 82 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 themselves, crumbling stone for crumbling stone, in 
 the Wye, a swift glassy stream beneath, in which 
 you can count the pebbles and the trout, so clear is 
 the unpolluted water. Over the bridge, an hostelry 
 that is another old-world bit of architecture, also 
 grey, quaint, moss-grown, and lichen-stained. It is 
 a picture rather than a place ; a ballad sooner than 
 a, building ; a song in stone ; a poem in its deep 
 pointed gables, its antique mullioned windows, its 
 little diamond panes, its clustering chimneys, and its 
 projecting porch. The ivy clings lovingly to this old 
 ideal hostel ; and the charm of bygone association 
 lingers, like a perfume, in every room. 
 
 " 'Tis a finely-toned picturesque, sunshiny place, 
 
 Recalling a dozen old stories : 
 With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-stoned face, 
 
 Suggesting old wines and old Tories : 
 Ah, many a magnum of rare crusted port, 
 
 Of vintage no one could cry fie on, 
 Hat been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort 
 
 At the " 
 
 Stay ! I was nearly letting out the secret of our 
 location, and that would never do. What a vignette 
 the building makes in the spring sunshine, with the 
 flowing river by its side, and the wooded hills in the 
 background that stand out in the clear bright air 
 with distinct outline and delicate colour. The old 
 inn seems to be a relic of the past bequeathed to the 
 present. You half expect to see people dressed in
 
 IN THE SPRING TIME. 83 
 
 old-fashioned costumes in brave cavalier hats with 
 plumes, in stately cloaks, and wearing swords and 
 ruffles lounging round the carved stone porch, 
 tossing off beakers of wine. The russet building 
 carries your mind back for generations ; but you are 
 speedily brought back to unpleasant remembrance 
 of the 19th century, eighth decade, by the appearance 
 at the door of a demonstrative fly fisherman, with 
 loudly displayed calves, who is palpably dressed for 
 the effective pose of his part. Leave we this sarto- 
 rial exquisite, for whom honest-hearted, simple- 
 minded Izaak Walton would have had a strong 
 repugnance, and pass the little grey thatched houses 
 mixed up among the trees. Genuine rustic cottages, 
 these, and not the " Brummagem" pinch-beck pre- 
 tenders that Mr. Buggins, the builder, tries to 
 pass current for "cottages" in suburbs of brick- 
 laying barbarisms. A mile and a half of turnpike, 
 through a pastoral country, on which the eye rests 
 on soft woods covering gentle slopes. A river bridge 
 marks a boundary, where the little crystal river we 
 are going to seek falls into the Wye. As we leave 
 the turnpike and turn down a lane to the left, on 
 which the grass and wild flowers encroach on either 
 side, as if jealous of the cartway, we have a vision 
 of grey old towers rising out of a deep mass of 
 wooded hill. Baronial towers, those, eloquent of
 
 84 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 merry mediaeval times. Those time-stained turrets 
 look down on great dining-hall that erst echoed to 
 the loyal shout of feudal retainers; on ball-room 
 with deep oriel windows, where a dozen partners 
 could linger after the dance without one pair seeing 
 the other ; on stately terrace where gay hawking 
 parties have gathered ; and on most poetical relic 
 classic doorway and steps down which tradition says 
 tripped a runaway girl to meet a brave lad, whose 
 elopement is every bit as romantic as that of 
 Lochinvar, Lord Ullin's daughter, or Jock o' 
 Hazeldean. 
 
 Our companion for the next mile along the left- 
 hand side of the lane is the little river that gives 
 its name to the valley where vre are to sit and 
 dream the afternoon away. It is a typical trout 
 stream, made up of clear rough hurried water, and 
 it contains more trout than all the other Derbyshire 
 streams put together, thanks to the rigid preserva- 
 tion of the Duke of Kutland. It crosses the road 
 at a stone bridge with curious little arches, where 
 another trout haunted mountain brook joins com- 
 pany. And here is an old village, secluded and 
 somnolent, that might belong to Shakespeare's time. 
 Honeysuckles at porches ; old-fashioned gardens, 
 with stocks, London pride, pansies, mignonette, 
 nasturtiums, and gillyflowers; thatched roofs, with
 
 IN THE SPUING TIME. 85 
 
 the sun searching out the mosses and lichens ; sweet 
 repose and quiet shadowy nooks and corners every- 
 where. Here is the farm-house in whose yard on a 
 memorable morning in personal history, I left a 
 canvas bag, containing trout tackle and a pigeon pie 
 for the dinner of two of us, while we went indoors 
 and rested and refreshed ourselves in the best room 
 with mighty draughts of new milk, and said pretty 
 things to the farmer's daughter, who wore a muslin 
 dress and had quite a bouquet of wild roses in her 
 cheeks. When we were so occupied, two hungry 
 harriers were interesting themselves in the canvas 
 bag, and when we came into the yard, ready to 
 proceed on our journey, one of the dogs was making 
 satisfactory progress in the demolition of the pie, 
 while the other animal was dancing in energetic pain 
 with a fish-hook in his tongue ! Past this farm- 
 house and through the fields, lilac with the " lady- 
 smocks" at our right. Another time-toned bridge 
 through which the river rushes as through a sluice ; 
 a stretch of level meadows that give way presently to 
 the deep shade of wooded paths ; the banks gather 
 closer and hug the river, and anon rise high and 
 steep and shut it in on either side, and lo ! we are in 
 possession of the Secret Valley. 
 
 And the beauty and wonder of the Spring Time 
 are all around. Autumnal tints have their glory;
 
 86 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 but look at the variety of this young foliage ; the 
 changes that are rung upon green, the tender hesi- 
 tating yellows, and the light and shade of the pines 
 and firs. Up the mass of that steep wooded slope a 
 wave of green seems to have spread, leaving black 
 unrelieved patches here and there that bring out the 
 new colour with pronounced vividness. The balsam 
 poplars are a golden yellow ; there is the rich hue of 
 the copper beech ; the oak buds are red. The deli- 
 cate silver spray-like leaves of the lady birch twinkle 
 in the sunshine like dancing motes of light ; and the 
 new palm-like foliage of the larch, drooping from a 
 trunk as slim and straight as the mast of a schooner, 
 is an idyll of colour in its tender, translucent, 
 luminous green. Yes, there is quite as much variety 
 in the foliage of Spring as in the tints of Autumn ; 
 and while the latter is a saddening sermon telling of 
 decay and decline, falling leaves, fading flowers, and 
 fleeting light, Spring is eloquent of youth and love, 
 hope and promise, careless confidence and audacious 
 courage. The ferns are opening their fronds in 
 obedient response to the call of the birds, although 
 many of them are still curled up like fiddle-heads 
 among the withered bracken. The sunlight falls in 
 leaf-shadows on tangled paths of wild flowers. There 
 are hyacinths, trembling anemones, and a wealth of 
 blue bells ; there are the coral beads of the bilberry,
 
 IN THE SPRING TIME. 87 
 
 and the pearl shell-like flower of the wood-sorrel, with 
 its little shamrock- shaped leaves that make such a 
 sour impromptu salad. There are lilies of the valley, 
 too, together with white starwort and crimson 
 campion ; but your Excellency, whom I know to be 
 a Liberal, will be pleased to note that the prevailing 
 complexion of the flowers is Yellow. It is as if 
 Nature were rejoicing with the Eeform Club at the 
 Eadical victory at the General Election and were 
 wearing, in consequence, the winning colours. In 
 these glades behold the gold of the daffodil, the 
 amber of the cowslip, the pale yellow of the primrose, 
 the chrome of the marsh marigold, the bright yellow 
 of the little celandine, the vivid yellow of the butter- 
 cup. And are not the poplars yellow, and other 
 trees a yellowish green? Yellow, moreover, is the 
 tulip, and lemon tinted are the sunset skies of 
 Spring. The old lines must be reversed : 
 " For blue is forsaken, 
 And green is forsworn, 
 And yellow is the sweetest 
 Colour that's worn." 
 
 The sun which is opening leaf and blossom has 
 the same influence upon the birds. What a concert 
 it is, mingled with the murmuring music of the 
 river, and the lullaby that lurks in the trees. The 
 blackbird is whistling on the other side the stream, 
 and the thrush is answering him on this side; a
 
 '88 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY 
 
 peggy-white-throat, no bigger than a leaf, is trying 
 a duet with a torn-tit in the next tree. That pro- 
 found egotist and self-advertiser, the cuckoo, is telling 
 the woods its name ; and the lark most spiritual of 
 birds a speck of song in the blue above, has taken 
 the news of opening summer to the skies. There is 
 the crow of the pheasant in the deep wooded way, 
 and the scream of the jay as it flies past a patch of 
 bright blue. Here is a little bird worth studying. 
 It is the tree tit-lark. It flies up to a topmost branch 
 from the ground, and then comes down in a sweet 
 vibration of song, which just starts and finishes with 
 the fluttering descent. Another moment, and the 
 modest little songster flies up once more, again to 
 ome down in a ripple of music. As we walk up the 
 stream the shining white cliffs on either side rise 
 steeper and more sheer, and the growth of wood is 
 denser. Here and there the river has been dammed 
 up into little lochs, and the trout in these deep pools 
 surprise one by their number and their size. Majestic 
 fellows some of them, three and four pounders, lying 
 with their pretty heads poised up stream to catch 
 what the current brings down ; or jumping up with 
 a great splash at a succulent fly ; or lurking under 
 tree roots to dart out into mid- water whenever there 
 is a temptation. Next to the number of the trout, 
 the clearness of the water surprises the explorer in
 
 IN THE SPRING TIME. 89 
 
 the Secret Valley. It is perfectly crystal, and as 
 clear now as when Charles Cotton described it to 
 "Viator" in TJie 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." 
 This delicate clearness is caused by the limestone 
 bed through which the river flows, and also through 
 the absence of man on the banks to pollute it with 
 his money-making manufactures. The only habi- 
 tation in the valley is the keeper's house halfway up. 
 Beyond are the ruins of some old lead workings, 
 with the remains of a tumbled-down aqueduct that 
 once strode across the brightly running water. A 
 mile further up the voiceful valley. In the wildest 
 part, where the solitude is most impressive, and the 
 silence most musical with birds, the river starts a 
 mere spring from a mossy rock, and sets off with 
 great haste to grow from rill to rivulet and rivulet to 
 river. Close by here is a square, stout-built, old 
 farmhouse of warmly-tinted stone, which has been 
 in possession of the same Quaker family these two 
 or three hundred years. There is an honest welcome 
 for us, and bread and cheese and beer home-baked, 
 home-made, home-brewed, hearty and wholesome 
 or milk, if your Excellency prefer it. Our respects 
 to you, Farmer Bowman.
 
 90 A DERBYSHIRE VALLEY. 
 
 And now comes a stride across the fields with the 
 plover distracting our attention from its nest among 
 the long grasses by shrill cries of "pee-wit," which 
 are almost painful in their earnest anxiety ; anon a 
 Tillage, not particularly picturesque, straggling and 
 generally exposed, hungry-looking and stony; and 
 then two or three miles tramping along a lonely turn- 
 pike, blinding white and very dusty, with limestone 
 walls dissecting fields that seem to grow limestone 
 boulders as big as sheep ; then a grand old church, 
 where those runaway lovers, I spoke of when we started, 
 sleep in a last long embrace that knows no parting ; 
 and then, behold ! a quaint mediaval market town, with 
 the repose and poetic shadows of the centuries hang- 
 ing about its dreamy public square and its narrow 
 streets filled up with glints of green. Pleasant it is 
 to step into the openings of the river bridge and 
 watch the fishermen below, and trace the windings 
 of the Wye, which wanders in splashes of light in 
 the green breadths of meadow, giving to the 
 landscape by its wilful sinuosities alternate glances 
 of flood and field. Turn where we will there is 
 something pleasant for the eye to rest upon, be it 
 the clear flowing river, with the broad path by its 
 bank, where the growing youth and garrulous age of 
 the place loiter in the soft sunset light; or the 
 swelling ducal woods beyond, which tuck in the
 
 IN THE SPRING TIME. 91 
 
 town on every side ; or the old-fashioned houses of 
 grey stone or mellow brick with red tiles, that speak 
 of rest and peace. All too soon does the train time 
 come. All too soon is the brief truce in the battle 
 over. All too soon we shall reach the actual 
 jostling, greedy, sterile, unsympathetic world. 
 
 " O no, I do not wish to see 
 
 The sunshine o'er these hills again ; 
 Their quiet beauty wakes in me 
 A thousand wishes wild and vain. 
 
 And fancies from afar are brought 
 By magic lights and wandering wind ; 
 
 Such scene hath poet never sought 
 But he hath left his heart behind. 
 
 It is too sad to feel how blest 
 In such a spot might be our home; 
 
 And then to think with what unrest 
 Throughout this weary ivorld we roam."
 
 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 
 
 " Hillsborough, though built on one of tlie loveliest 
 sites in England, is perhaps the most hideous tmvn in 
 creation . . . The city is pock-marked with public- 
 houses, and bristles with high, round chimneys . . . 
 They defy the law, and belch forth massy volumes of 
 black smoke, that hang like acres of crape over the 
 place, and veil the sun and the blue sky even in the 
 brightest day ; but in a fog ivhy, tlie air of Hillsborough 
 looks a thing to plourjh, if you want a dirty job. More 
 than one crystal stream runs sparkling down the valleys, 
 and enters the town ; but they soon get defiled, and creep 
 through it heavily cJiarged with dyes, clogged loith 
 putridity, and bubbling with poisonous gases, till at 
 last they turn to mere ink, stink, and malaria, and 
 people the churchyards as they crawl. This infernal 
 city, whose water is blacking, and whose air is coal, 
 lies in a basin of delight and beauty: noble slopes, 
 broad valleys, watered by rivers and brooks of singular 
 beauty, and fringed by fair woods in places." 
 
 CHAKLES KEADE. 
 
 " The foulest town in the fairest country I have 
 ever seen." Such was Horace Walpole's terse de- 
 scription of Sheffield. It hits off the cutlery capital 
 more happily, perhaps, at the present time than 
 when it was first written. Sheffield itself only grows
 
 AT CHANTBEY'S GRAVE. 9$ 
 
 bigger and blacker, duller and dirtier, and its sordid 
 streets only bring out in stronger relief its romantic 
 suburbs. A blurred, blotted, seamed, smoked, 
 disfigured picture in an attractive frame ; the ill- 
 conditioned daub only draws attention to its beautiful 
 enclosure. Sheffield supplies a humiliating illustra- 
 tion of man's town and God's Country. No town 
 had a finer site given to it for effective architecture. 
 One sighs to think to what picturesque purpose a 
 Norman Shaw might have turned such natural 
 advantages. Sheffield itself is a hill surrounded by 
 investing lines of nobler hills, with three rivers, 
 forming three sides of a peninsulated area, upon 
 which spreads the town, and there is not a street in 
 the place from which a glimpse of the country may 
 not be seen. The town is as hideous as positive 
 genius for the perverse perpetration of deformed- 
 ugliness can make it ; but the hilly suburbs, with 
 their wooded valleys, possess a scenic charm which 
 it is difficult to imagine existing ia such close contact 
 with so much that is revolting and contaminating. 
 These are the valleys of the Sheaf and the Don, the 
 glens of quiet beauty such as the Eden, the Loxley, 
 and the Kivelin. 
 
 " Five rivers like ike fingers on a liand, 
 Flung from blade mountains, mingle and, are one 
 Wliere sweetest valleys qidt tlic wild and grand,"
 
 94 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 
 
 The Eivelin ravine, with its bold hills stretching 
 westward to the Derbyshire moors, is a romance; 
 and here Mr. Kuskin has placed his St. George's 
 Museum, just where the comparison between God 
 and man is seen in the most vivid contrast. Then 
 there is the valley of the Don, with the warbling 
 woodlands of Wharncliffe, the view from which Lady 
 Mary Montague, writing from Avignon, placed before 
 the landscape at the junction of the Rhone and 
 Durance, the beauty of which she was describing. 
 "Last summer," she says, "in the hot evenings, I 
 " walked often thither, where I always found a fresh 
 " breeze, and the most beautiful land prospects I ever 
 " saw, except Wharncliffe, being a view of the wind- 
 " ings of two great rivers, and overlooking the whole 
 " country, with part of Languedoc and Provence." 
 But the most attractive part of Ballamshire lies in 
 Derbyshire. Sheffield, indeed, had a narrow escape 
 to get into Yorkshire at all. Part of the town is in 
 Derbyshire ; and the valley of the Sheaf belongs to 
 the Peake countrie entirely. Beauchieff Abbey (beau 
 chef: "beautiful head") lies in this fair vale, with 
 shady woods encompassing it, and the great space 
 and solitude of the Derbyshire moors beyond. And 
 overlooking the Sheaf valley, perched like an eyrie 
 on the hill, is Norton ; classic Norton : the rugged 
 Derbyshire village where Sir Francis Chantrey was
 
 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 95 
 
 born, where he toiled an obscure milk-boy, where he 
 cherished his earliest artistic dreams, where his 
 widowed mother always lived, and where her fond 
 and famous son lies buried. 
 
 I have often been struck with the antipodean con- 
 trast between the brutal uncouthness of Sheffield, 
 and the romantic comeliness of its natural surround- 
 ings. The antithesis, however, has never impressed 
 me so forcibly as it does as I leave Sheffield with 
 Orestes, an old comrade-in-arms, this sunny morning 
 at the end of May, to stroll as far as the Church 
 associated with Chantrey's immortality. It is a 
 pleasant walk of four or five miles from Sheffield 
 High Street to Norton. When we have left Heeley 
 we are away from the low tenements, suffering from 
 a brick-and-mortar erysipelas, the arid workshops, 
 seamed with a scrofula of dirt, the foul chimneys 
 that vomit at the sun, the vitiated rivers that once 
 were trout haunted streams, and were kissed by 
 hanging greenery, and leapt with joy hi the sunshine, 
 but now crawl wearily, heavy with pestilence. Now 
 the glad green country is all around us. A great 
 breadth of transparent blue is hi the sky ; the pure 
 thin air is full of exhilarating light ; the outward 
 aspect of Nature is one that would have inspired 
 paeans of praise from Sheffield's native singers, 
 Montgomery and Elliott. Yet it is but a step from
 
 96 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 
 
 this earthly Heaven to that mercantile, metallic 
 Hades : to the Styx, the Cocytus, and the Acheron ; 
 to the heavy atmosphere of Pluto's Kingdom, where 
 the one-eyed Cyclops, with the flaming foreheads, 
 are heating molten metal till it wails and moans in 
 the very agony of torture. 
 
 We turn through the fields to the left as we 
 approach Ecclesall. That grey village on the 
 wooded hill overlooking the valley is Norton. Norton 
 itself is a scattered place. Here is a collection of 
 old rustic houses, with one or two modern villas, 
 painfully new and largely little, that reach the height 
 of their paltry architectural ambition when they 
 throw out a self-assertive bow window, almost as big 
 as the house itself ; together with a little post office, 
 and a public-house that is styled " The Chan trey 
 Arms," and combines the sale of both bread and 
 beer, grog and groceries. At this establishment we 
 learn that the actual Norton is " ar gud moil from 
 'ere," and that we shall have to " go thru' th' jennel 
 and then thru' th' wood." " Th' jennel " turns out 
 to be a passage between two houses. This funnel 
 gives access to open fields. Now comes a stiff climb 
 up to a glorious old wood, bright with blue-bells. 
 The view from here is a revelation in landscape. 
 Far away below lies the foul blot of Sheffield in a 
 fair country where bills rise en hills and valleys meet
 
 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 97 
 
 in valleys. A pall of smoke broods mournfully over 
 the town. Eight across are the moors of the Peak, 
 breaking in waves of heather to the horizon ; to 
 Hathersage and Grindleford Bridge, to Froggatt 
 Edge and Baslow. Orestes denotes for my delecta- 
 tion the different localities in the borough of Sheffield 
 that now is stretched like a map below. That smoky 
 smudge, a dusky yellow in the sunshine, is Attercliffe ; 
 that black place is with cruel irony named Bright- 
 eide ; yonder is pleasant Nether Edge ; there 
 Sharrow ; there Crooks ; there hilly Steel Bank and 
 Walkley. And then he points out this and that 
 beautiful mansion mixed up among trees. That he 
 notes with great precision is the seat of Mr. 
 Polyphemus Bessemer Pigg, of the firm of Messieurs 
 Arges, Brontes, and Steropes, Unlimited ; yonder is 
 the suburban seat of Mr. Vulcan Ccelus, J.P., senior 
 partner of the wonderful Sulphurous Brimstone and 
 Steam Hammer Company ; there resides Mr. Alder- 
 man Ferruginous Terra, who boasts that he "made 
 his brass by dirt." These are the Iron Princes who 
 take the life of the crystal streams, who gash with 
 ugly scars fair scenes, and whose workmen are 
 herded together in sordid dwellings, with open drains 
 in front, that it would be monstrous to describe by 
 the sweet name " home." Notice, my friend, that 
 the men who prosper out of deformity live far out of
 
 98 AT CHANTREY'S GKAVE. 
 
 the demoralisation of Nature themselves. They 
 seek delightful little " heauty-spots " of their own. 
 They are "the heads of the people," those they 
 employ are often only " hands." 
 
 Through the wood, and on to a pleasant country 
 road, where more of the village of Norton is scattered. 
 Entirely old this part. Mr. Buggins, the builder, has 
 not yet put down any of his bricklaying barbarisms, 
 his architectural atrocities. Here is a grey old 
 farm-house where little boy Chantrey probably 
 played with other milk-boys ; and I believe there 
 still exists, though in an altered form, outside the 
 village, the low-roofed humble house where the great 
 sculptor was born. Presently comes Norton Hall 
 there are splendid prospects in the Park then, on 
 the roadside to the left, an old-fashioned English 
 mansion which you associate with a fine old Tory ; 
 then more antique houses, mixed up in the deep 
 shade of woods, a poet's fancy of grey roof, green 
 tree, and filmy smoke. Then the venerable church 
 itself. On the village green, which at first seems 
 part and parcel of the churchyard, so closely does 
 the plot of grass adjoin the sacred enclosure, is a 
 commanding obelisk. It is a single shaft of un- 
 polished Cheesewring granite. There is no carved 
 design. The only inscription is the boldly cut word, 
 CHANTREY.
 
 AT CHANTEEY'S GEAVE. 99 
 
 Yet plain as the obelisk is, it occurs to us that the 
 very plainness is Art itself, and far better in its 
 severe simplicity than any sculptured piece that 
 would have only challenged comparison with the 
 masterwork of the English Phidias whose genius it 
 aspired to commemorate. We have only to step 
 across the little patch of sward to gain access to the 
 churchyard. Moss-grown and still is this secluded 
 God's acre, shut in with the trees of Norton Park. 
 The old church looks like a tradition in stone, so old 
 and shadowy does it appear in the green shade. 
 There is the light translucent tender tint of May on the 
 trees, mingled with the hesitating yellow of the open- 
 ing oak leaves, and the dark red of the copper beech, 
 and shaded with the gloomy hue of yews, which have 
 kept sombre vigil over the dead for centuries. A 
 country churchyard is always an interesting study, 
 even to minds less tinged with melancholy than a 
 Blair's or a Hervey's. The silence has an eloquence 
 of its own. As Doctor Ealeigh in a fine passage puts 
 it, " Nature seems to concentrate her pathos and her 
 stillness in such a spot. Quiet is the dust below ; 
 quiet the scarcely moving grass of the graves ; quiet 
 the shadows of the tombstones ; quiet the over- 
 arching sky ; and he who sits there on the moulder- 
 ing stone, looking at the graves of his kindred, is 
 thinking : ' It is a quiet resting-place ; I shall not be
 
 100 AT CHANTKEY'S GRAVE. 
 
 sorry when the toils of this life are over, and wearied 
 I come in hither to lay me down among the rest. I 
 shall be glad rather when the sowing and the reaping 
 are done, and I am brought here like as a shock of 
 corn cometh in his season.' " 
 
 Norton clmrchyard is especially attractive to one 
 who derives a quiet pleasure in studying quaint 
 verses, and deciphering old country-side names. 
 Here is a portion of an old cross, starting a shattered 
 shaft from four circular steps ; here is a newly-made 
 grave, with the fresh soil yet wet with weepers' tears ; 
 and here, tree-shaded and unobtrusive, is the grave 
 of Chantrey. Two flat granite slabs in a railed 
 enclosure, plain but polished, and with the lettering 
 boldly and deeply cut. The slabs are of unequal 
 size. The larger covers all that is mortal of the 
 great sculptor. Thus reads the inscription : 
 SIR FRANCIS CHANTBEY, 
 
 Sculptor, 
 E.A. F.K.S. 
 
 Born in this Parish VII. April, MVCCLXXXI. 
 
 Died in London, Nov. XXV., MVCCCXXXXL 
 
 The smaller slab covers the ashes of his grandfather,. 
 
 his father, and his mother, and the lettering reads : 
 
 M. 
 
 FRANCIS CHANTREY 
 Died MVCCLXVI, aged LVI.
 
 AT CHANTREY'S GRAVE. 101 
 
 FKANCIS CHAXTREY 
 Died MVCCXCIII, aged XXXXV. 
 
 SAKAH, His Wife, 
 Died MVCCCXXVI, age LXXXI. 
 Sir Francis might have reposed among the honoured 
 dead in the historic Abbey ; or beside Reynolds and 
 Barry in the Cathedral; but he elected that his 
 ashes should rest with his country-side kith and kin 
 in the simple old-world village, where he, a poor 
 fatherless boy, worked on a humble farm and trudged 
 with his milk- cans to Sheffield. The story of his 
 life is a romance. The Norton milk-boy's first 
 inspirations were sketched on a grinder's wall. Then 
 the milk-boy became a carver and gilder's apprentice 
 in Sheffield the dolorous town which I have said is 
 the grave rather than the cradle of artistic hopes, 
 and where fact hard, grinding, and repellent 
 crushes out fancy, beautiful, ennobling, and graceful. 
 In the leisure hours of his apprenticeship the boy 
 Chantrey drew and modelled in a room which he 
 hired weekly for a few pence. Then he left to 
 struggle with difficulties in Dublin, and push on 
 -endeavours at Edinburgh. Then London, where he 
 met Nollekins, who smoothed for him the steep and 
 stony chequered path. Then he " struck for honest 
 fame," and after vain effort came victory, after trial 
 triumph. Then surfeited with fame, came the desire
 
 102 AT CHANTKEY'S GEAVE. 
 
 to slumber, not amid the mighty great ones in the 
 national Walhalla, but to rest amid the repose and 
 silence and soothing shadows of this sequestered 
 village churchyard of his boyhood. 
 
 We find the church old and interesting. Part of 
 it dates from the late Norman period, being built by 
 one Robert Fitz Eanulph, in the time of Henry II. ; 
 the rest of the building belongs to the Perpendicular 
 Period ; but everything about the place is quaint and 
 mediaeval, and carries the mind back hundreds of 
 years to when the monks fasted and feasted in the 
 adjacent abbey of Beauchieff. The pews are high 
 and old-fashioned ; the sun falls gently on the recum- 
 bent alabaster effigies of William Blythe and his 
 wife, dressed in the habit of the fifteenth century ; 
 there are more mouldering monuments of this Blythe 
 family, one of whom, Geoffrey, was, in 1503, Bishop 
 of Lichfield; all around the dead speak to you 
 through the eye; while there is a curious font of 
 early English Art, standing upon four groups of 
 pillars, with a strange carving, with a bird's body, a 
 reptile's tail, and a human face, the latter wearing an 
 expression of extreme mortification,which is supposed- 
 to symbolise Satan and his dislike to the sacrament of 
 Christian baptism. The weight of centuries seems 
 to rest upon the church ; and there is the solemnity 
 of years about the walls, even though the May
 
 AT CHANTKEY'S GRAVE. 103 
 
 sunshine streams down the aisles, and the new 
 leaves tap at the windows and tell of Spring, and 
 Hope, and Promise. 
 
 We wander amid the shadowy nooks and corners 
 of the somnolent, moss-grown village. Its soothing 
 quiet acts like a charm. Its hush and repose, and 
 the gentle beauty of its deep wooded ways, invite the 
 jaded mind, the vexed heart, and the disappointed 
 life. Before long we must rest in its sweet shelter 
 again, and thank God that there is still left in the 
 very heart of industrial England a spot where man 
 may bury the memory of vain ambitions and bitter 
 failures and futile successes, may forget the illusions 
 of life and the fallacies of hope, and may rebuild 
 with surer foundation those castles in the air which 
 have fallen down with such a pitiless crash and well- 
 nigh buried their builder in the ruin.
 
 OYER THE HIGH PEAK 
 RAILWAY. 
 
 " No poetry in railu-ays ! foolish thoicght 
 Of a dull brain to no fine music wrougJit." 
 
 " Once upon a time," in the pages of a popular 
 art magazine, the present writer, with a presumption 
 that must have been regarded as a literary imperti- 
 nence by the assthetic exquisites who are fall of Mr. 
 Matthew Arnold's vague gospel of "sweetness and 
 light," and share Mr. John Buskin's honest contempt 
 for "kettles on wheels," endeavoured to depict the 
 romantic side of railways. He tried to show that a 
 railway unyielding, noisy, repellent, and dirty had 
 in its hard reality an intimate connection with poetry, 
 music, tenderness, sentiment, and art ; that pictures 
 are to be seen in trains ; that aching tragedies and 
 diverting comedies are ever to be beheld on busy 
 railway platforms, and at little wayside country
 
 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 105 
 
 stations. He was wishful to find poetry in points 
 and crossings, sermons in steel rails, songs in 
 sleepers, books in block signal-boxes, tongues in 
 tunnels, and romance in all railway tbings. Tbere 
 can be no doubt that the Present Writer ought to 
 have been punished for so flagrant a piece of printed 
 audacity by being suitably maimed in a railway col- 
 lision, or sent over the Tay Bridge with that awful 
 "flash of light" on that tragic December night at 
 the close of 1879. " Prisoner at the Bar" is reported 
 to have said a famous Justice of the Peace, surer of 
 his genius than his grammar "Providence has 
 blessed you with health, strength, and fair abilities, 
 instead of which you go about the country stealing 
 ducks." The railway Juggernaut has not yet called 
 upon me to pay the sacrifice for my sins, " instead 
 of which" I find myself at Whaley Bridge, on Satur- 
 day, July 10th, 1880, still pursuing the romance of 
 railways, and about to take a trip on the engine over 
 the High Peak Line, a privilege for which I am 
 indebted to the Engineer of the London and North- 
 Western Company. 
 
 Most tourists in Derbyshire have, I take it, 
 encountered, at some point or another, the acute 
 curves, and sensational gradients of the Cromford 
 and High Peak Railway, and have wondered what 
 the mysterious track was, how it got there,
 
 106 OVEB THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 from whence it started, and to whither it was 
 directed, and were glad to think that their route did 
 not include the adventure of those Avernus-like 
 declines and those sharp bends. For the information 
 of these good ladies and gentlemen, the present paper 
 should be prefaced by the remark that the High 
 Peak Eailway is purely used for goods and mineral 
 traffic, and that passengers are not conveyed by it, 
 although some years ago the guard was allowed to 
 take a few people between local stations, but an 
 accident occurred which closed the privilege. Thirty- 
 two and a half miles long, this mountain line 
 connects the Cromford Canal and the Midland 
 Railway at Whatstandwell, in Derbyshire, with the 
 Peak Forest Canal and the London and North- 
 Western system at Whaley Bridge, Cheshire. It 
 was constructed at a cost of 200,000 as a private 
 enterprise ; but the undertaking did not prove pro- 
 fitable, and the line was leased eventually to the 
 London and North-Western Railway Company in 
 perpetuity. This morning I am to traverse the 
 whole extent of the line on the engine, or rather 
 engines, for the railway is divided for working 
 purposes into eight sections, viz: High Peak 
 Junction to Cromford ; Summit of Sheep Pasture to 
 Foot of Middleton ; Summit of Middleton to Foot of 
 Hopton ; Summit of Hurdlow to Hurdlow ; Hurdlow
 
 OVER THE HIOH PEAK KAILWAY. 107 
 
 to Harpnr Hill; Harpur Hill to Grin Branch 
 Junction ; Colliery Junction to Bunsall ; and Foot of 
 Bunsall to Summit of Shallcross. Some of these 
 names will sound strange to the ear of even the 
 reader \vho prides himself on his close acquain- 
 tance with the Peak district. Off the beaten track, 
 they are like hamlets that have got lost among 
 the hills, and need a special exploring party 
 to discover them. The High Peak Eailway, 
 it may be further advanced in the way of 
 preface, is a single line. It is of the same width 
 of gauge, and of the same character of permanent 
 way, as the lines belonging to the London and North- 
 Western Company's ordinary branches. Like all 
 single lines the traffic is worked by what in railway 
 parlance is known as the " staff system." The staff 
 is a truncheon painted and lettered specially for the 
 division of line over which it acts as the open sesame. 
 It is suspended on the weather-board of the engine, 
 and no train or engine may enter any section without 
 being in possession of the engine-staff belonging to 
 that section. The driver cannot start without this 
 staff, which he receives from the official in charge of 
 the staff station ; and on arriving at the station to 
 which the staff extends, the talisman is given up to 
 the person conducting that place. Through or local, 
 "up" or "down," "fly" or "slow," there are
 
 108 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 iwenty-two trains a day on the High Peak Eailway, 
 and the fastest trains occupy a space of over five 
 hours in performing the entire journey. All this I 
 candidly concede, my dear Madam, is very dry and 
 uninteresting, and I apologise for being so tediously 
 technical. The only extenuation I can urge is that 
 the High Peak Eailway is in itself a solid fact of 
 such dimensions that a discursive description of it 
 should also be "ballasted" with facts and figures, 
 data and detail, to carry even my special light 
 locomotive safely. 
 
 I am at Whaley Bridge this July morning ; and 
 before half the world has breakfasted, and while 
 housemaids, drowsy and slovenly, are yawningly 
 lighting the fire to prepare the matutinal meal, the 
 through " up " train to Whatstandwell is off and 
 away. Due out at ten minutes past seven o'clock, 
 we are timed to arrive at the Cromford terminus at 
 a quarter past twelve, according to the current time 
 table, which is dated " December, 1876, and until 
 further notice ;" an arrangement which is primitive 
 and simple, and makes one wish that the hours of 
 departure and arrival of all trains in " Bradshaw " 
 savoured equally of the unvarying constancy of the 
 Medes and Persians. One leaves Whaley Bridge, 
 with its factories and colliery gins and slag heaps, 
 without regret. The first mile or so of the
 
 OVEE THE HIGH PEAK EAILWAT. 109 
 
 ride is achieved in the guard's brake, and is up 
 the Shallcross gradient, a straight rise of 1 in 8. 
 The line is here doable, and is worked by an endless 
 chain. Presently we are among the bold features of 
 the Derbyshire moorland hills ; and the Goyt on our 
 right is running innocently away between the banks 
 of lichened rock, coy fern, and hanging trees. A 
 locomotive meets us at the summit of the incline, 
 and working tender first is taking on our train of 
 some twenty waggons : a cargo that is a curious 
 ollci podrida of grains, barrels of beer, bags of 
 beans, sewing machines, flour, lime, coal, cans 
 of paint, boxes of tea, and agricultural implements. 
 To one accustomed to the swift, smooth, 
 motionless motion of a Pullman Palace Car, or 
 a Midland bogie carriage, the jerking, jolting, 
 jig-dancing of the engine of the High Peak Railway 
 is an experience to remember as a certain specific 
 for the cure of indigestion. The seven o'clock 
 breakfast is already shaken down ; and no wonder 
 that Toodles, the stoker, is feeding himself as well 
 as the engine. Toodles is a grotesque combination 
 of grit and grease, and might have been carved out 
 of a column of coal and then roughly oiled and 
 toned down ; while his " mate," the driver, an 
 older man, is suggestive of an impossible part- 
 nership between a butcher and a chimney sweep,
 
 110 OVER THE HIGH PEAK EAILWAY. 
 
 wearing as he does the blue blouse of the 
 one, and the mosaic of soot of the other. 
 
 We are now in full swing ; and everything about 
 the train strikes me as being mechanically malevolent, 
 discordant, and out of temper. The engine has not 
 the mellow " fluff- fluff," and the full- voiced, deep- 
 throated " chay-chay," of its superior locomotive 
 brethren, the race horses of the main line. It spits 
 its way along spitefully, and starts with a jerk, and 
 -stops with a jump, and goes with an irregular lurch 
 throughout that is trying to one who has not acquired 
 his " sea-legs." The waggons, through not being so 
 closely united in the tightness of " coupling" as they 
 might be, batter away at each other as if each 
 individual truck had quarrelled with its partner, and 
 was settling its grievances in blows. The curves are 
 so sharp and frequent that ever and anon the train 
 seems intent on the study of Euclid's Elements, and 
 describes every denomination of geometrical outline, 
 the favourite one being an acute crescent, when the 
 van at the rear of the train comes up at right angles 
 with the engine just to allow the driver and guard to 
 shake hands, and show that if the engine is ill- 
 tempered, and the waggons are emphatic in their 
 contempt for each other, they, at least, are friends. 
 Now the whole train seems bent on going a trip over 
 the low stone walls into the neighbouring moors to
 
 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. Ill 
 
 the right ; then it evinces that it has changed its 
 mind and has a disposition for toppling over to the 
 left. Between walls of woodbine and ivy now ; then 
 to the right, the deep wooded shade of Errwood 
 Hall, as the line runs along a terrace of rock, high 
 over the wild, green, glen heauty of the Goyt Valley. 
 Presently Bunsall is reached. Here the engine leaves 
 us, and the train is pulled in instalments up the 
 steepest gradient of the line, varying from one in 
 seven to one in eight. It is a double one, the first 
 straight, the second on the curve. The operation is 
 a long and tedious one ; but at last the whole train is 
 marshalled on the summit. Another locomotive is 
 waiting to take us on, and I am making friends with 
 the two fresh engine men, greasier and grittier than 
 the last, and am learning to balance myself on 
 another quivering foot-board, as we pant through a 
 wild, bleak, hilly country. We seem to be moving 
 along the top of the world ; there are deep hollows 
 in the hills below ; and every variety of peak and 
 rounded knoll. The journey is a scamper across 
 savage and solitary moors. The heather grows to 
 the verge of the line. The rarefied air blows about 
 you like a fresh sea breeze. The train is the only 
 moving thing in sight, save a wild grouse, when on 
 the wing, rises with a sharp startled cry. Then, 
 just as Buxton is seen, with its white houses lying in
 
 112 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 the hollow, and shining like a pearl in a setting of 
 emerald, a sudden scream from the engine takes the 
 startled air, and darkness shrouds the speeding 
 train. " Burbage Tunnel," yells Toodles in my ear, 
 as he opens the firehox, and stands like a Salamander 
 in a white dazzling circle of heat. But the wind has 
 hurried away with his words. A thousand echoes 
 are fighting with each other ; the wet walls fly past 
 like a rushing river ; there is a furious whirlwind of 
 tumult, and a damp chill that might belong to the 
 Styx. The train, indeed, might be Charon's boat ; 
 and the driver, standing so statuesque and silent in 
 the broad, blinding circle of white light, with his eye 
 strained hi earnest watchfulness, and his hand fixed 
 with decisive hold on the cold glistening regulator, 
 might be Dante's infernal ferryman. In the dis- 
 tance, however, there is hope. A glimpse of light, 
 looking as big as half-a-crown, widens. It grows 
 larger and larger, until, with a wild shriek of exulta- 
 tion from the snorting engine, we emerge from the 
 confined vault, with its darkness and damp, and 
 strange unearthly noises, into the glad blue light and 
 freedom again, and see the windows of Buxton flash- 
 ing back the sunlight far away below our breezy 
 table-land. Half-a-mile long, the Burbage tunnel is 
 the only one on the High Peak Eailway of any 
 importance, and it is dirty enough and wet enough 
 for them all.
 
 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 113 
 
 " This is Ladmanlow," ventures the driver, 
 shutting off the steam. The information antici- 
 pates my query, for there are no name boards on 
 any of the stations to indicate your whereabouts. 
 The stations, indeed, are but sheds ; and they some- 
 times seem to be the only erections within miles 
 of anywhere. Some little time is now occupied in 
 the operation known as " shunting," the dropping 
 of one waggon off, and the coupling of another on ; 
 sending this truck down that siding, and fetching 
 that truck from another. After thus playing at a 
 species of truck-tennis with the entire train for some 
 time, we rattle along again. Past Diamond Hill ; 
 past the stony slopes of Solomon's Temple ; past 
 Harpur Hill, with the tall, insolent, ugly, ubiquitous 
 chimney which threatens the vision of the Buxton 
 visitor wherever he may be, whether on the top of 
 Corbar, or on the slopes of Axe Edge, at the Cat and 
 Fiddle, or at Fairfleld. And now the landmarks are 
 lost, and we are running with a rattle and a roar 
 over the moors. Steep are the gradients, and 
 " a caution " are the curves. The engineman 
 treats his iron-horse as if he were driving a living 
 animal, He knows her faults and her good 
 points. He can tell at what part of the road she 
 wants whip and loose rein, and when he must hold 
 
 her in with tight hand. And the iron Bucephalus 
 
 H
 
 114 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 responds as if sensitive to his will, and the slightest 
 movement of the regulator is as a touch of spur, and 
 makes her spring on like a creature of blood and 
 nerves. Now a hare starts by the side of the line ; 
 now some grouse rise with noisy " cluck cluck " ; 
 again a flight of crows, making for some feeding 
 place, is the only sign of life in the lofty loneliness. 
 Here there are fields on either side of the rough 
 track ; but what the unsophisticated eye takes for 
 sheep grazing are really so many obtruding blocks 
 of grey limestone. Hindlow is the next stopping 
 place. "Low" in the Peak district means "high;" 
 and the quaint old Derbyshire people describe a 
 residence in these exposed altitudes as " living out 
 of doors." Hurdlow is the succeeding station ("low " 
 again, you see), and this is the highest point of the 
 High Peak Line. To get here there was formerly a 
 third incline, but the gradient has been rendered 
 workable by locomotive. A change of guard, and 
 transfer to a third engine, with driver and fireman 
 who can hold their own in grease and grit with their 
 ebony colleagues. There is no water supply at this 
 depot, and to assuage the Iron Horse's thirst, water 
 is brought in large tanks from Ladmanlow. More 
 truck tennis ; and then we bump along again ; now 
 upon a terrace of rocky embankment ; now in a steep 
 cutting, with the naked limestone rocks clothed in
 
 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 115 
 
 flounces of green which you can gather as you pass, 
 so scanty is the clearing ; now a sharp whistle of 
 warning from the engine to announce our approach 
 to some platelayers, who leap aside with pick and 
 shovel just in time as we whisk past in a cloud of 
 steam. Anon we rush under a bridge carrying a 
 road that seems to lead nowhere ; then we pause at 
 a little one-horse kind of a station called Parsley 
 Hay, which looks just like a wayside shed on an 
 American prairie h'ne. The guard seems to combine 
 the duties of station-master, shunter, clerk, signal- 
 man, porter, and inspector. Indeed, he seems to be 
 the only element of existence about the place. One 
 misses that pleasant aspect of h'fe, that intensely 
 human interest, which belongs to English country- 
 side stations. There is an omission of healthy, 
 unkempt children to see the train pass through. 
 Nobody gets in or out. Where is the stout old lady 
 who is always so anxious about her luggage : three 
 boxes, a portmanteau, and a basket, all with a bit of 
 red flannel tied to the handles ? And where is the 
 crimson apoplectic person, with umbrella and carpet- 
 bag, who rushes up to the train just in time to 
 behold it pass away without him ? There are none 
 of those little lyrics, those charming pastorals and 
 delicious idylls, one can always observe on village 
 platforms ; where lovers meet lovers, and friends
 
 116 OVEE THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 say the sad word farewell ; where there are kisses at 
 the carriage doors as honeyed as Eros sucked from 
 the lips of Psyche, and tears as scalding as those 
 which dimmed the eyes of Eurydice when Orpheus 
 was snatched from her side. There is not even the 
 stumpy church tower to be seen mixed up in trees,, 
 and rising above grey old gabled farm buildings, at 
 these High Peak out-of-the-world stations. 
 
 Between Friden and Minninglow is the great 
 Gotham Curve, which describes a rectangular 
 square ; and then quick, if you please ! and you 
 will see, on the left hand, the Arbor Low 
 rocks : hoary Druidical stones. And then, after 
 this glory of the rocks, Toodles screws on his 
 brake, and we stop at Bloore's Siding. Who is 
 Bloore that he should have a siding ? He is evi- 
 dently a man of bricks. But the subject is not one 
 that is likely to throw the world into convulsions of 
 controversy; and the engine is panting away again. 
 The scenery, truth to tell, has not been specially 
 attractive during the last few miles. There have 
 been none of those poetic vignettes of green valley 
 and grey crag, gleaming water and glowing wood, 
 that make the ride in a Midland carriage from 
 Derby to Marple such a rich railway romance. 
 Kather a monotonous table-land, where niggard 
 fields and stubborn heath are ruled off with bleak
 
 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 117 
 
 stone walls, and the perspective is unbroken save 
 here and there by a clump of storrn-rent ragged 
 pines. At Longcliffe, however, the views are more 
 diversified ; and we get in a pleasant country of hill 
 and dale, with glimpses of wood and water, rendered 
 all the more pleasing to the artistic eye by the 
 sudden lighting up of the picture by the sun, which 
 has been sulking behind grey clouds all day. As 
 Hopton is approached there is some bold rock 
 scenery ; and the limestone cuttings show engineer- 
 ing works of great difficulty. Another engine is 
 harnessed to ours here, and with both brakes 
 screwed down, we slide down the incline to Middle- 
 ton. To think that I have for a moment allowed 
 myself to charge the High Peak Railway with being 
 unpicturesque ! Peccavi, as the droll commander said 
 when he announced to the First Lord his capture of 
 Scinde, contrary to instructions. Picturesque enough 
 to make me wish to enchant hither the painters by 
 whom it would be most appreciated is the view now, 
 with the Black Rocks of Stonnis, pointing over the 
 Matlock Valley, and Barrel Edge rising in serried 
 ranks of pine and fir above them, and the filmy 
 smoke of peaceful Wirksworth rising lazily from 
 the green-wooded hollow beyond. That Sleepy 
 Hollow is Adam Bede's country ; and in the church- 
 yard yonder Dinah Morris awaits the Kesurrection
 
 118 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 bidding. Do you recognise the scene from " the 
 preaching " chapter of George Eliot's first, freshest, 
 and most famous work? "In two or three hours'" 
 " ride the traveller might exchange a bleak, treeless, 
 "region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for 
 " one where his road wound under the shelter of 
 
 " woods, or up swelling hills High up 
 
 " against the horizon were the huge conical masses 
 " of hill, like giant moulds intended to fortify this 
 "region of corn and grass against the keen and 
 " hungry winds of the north ; not distant enough to 
 " be clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre 
 "greenish sides visibly speckled with sheep, whose 
 " motion was only revealed by memory, not detected 
 " by sight ; wooed from day to day by the changing 
 " hours, but responding with no change in them- 
 " selves left for ever grim and sullen after the flush 
 " of morning, the winged gleams of the April noon- 
 " day, the parting crimson glory of the ripening 
 "summer sun. And directly below them the eye 
 "rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods 
 " divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed 
 " crops, and not yet deepening into the uniform 
 "leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing 
 "the warm tints of the young oak and the tender 
 "green of the ash and lime." 
 But there is something else to think about besides
 
 OVEE THE HIGH PEAK KAILWAY. 119 
 
 George Eliot now, oh dreamer. There is the 
 Middleton Incline to go down. The locomotive 
 leaves us ; and down below drops the shining track 
 of steel, its diminishing lines a study of perspective. 
 The gradient is 1 in 8 ; and the train is let down 
 two waggons at a time by a coiled wire rope from a 
 stationary engine. You must be quite prepared to 
 hazard the risk of the run down. Sometimes a 
 waggon does break loose, and it will not stop to be 
 reasoned with, but goes to swift destruction. Eide 
 across the buffer my friend, and be prepared to 
 jump off at once if anything gives way. The hook 
 is coupled to the waggons. Off we glide. The cable 
 swings and clangs ominously as it strikes the steel 
 rollers, which seem to say "Caution!" in a metallic 
 voice that keeps repeating itself all the way down. 
 Steeplehouse is the next station ; and here the view 
 of the line is beheld as, riding on yet another 
 locomotive, we pass directly under the Black Kocks 
 and see through the green veil of the sunlit wood 
 that vision of Matlock, with the deep crags of the 
 Derwent valley, which is like a piece of sublime 
 theatrical scene painting from a romantic opera. 
 There is another of those creepy, dithery inclines at 
 Sheep Pasture, with a gradient on the curve of 1 in 
 8 down to Cromford; but one forgets the risk of 
 riding on buffers in the green beauty of the scene,
 
 120 OVER THE HIGH PEAK RAILWAY. 
 
 for the rocky cutting through which the line winds 
 is a fern paradise that is a revelation of loveliness. 
 
 Another locomotive to take the train to High Peak 
 Junction at Whatstandwell. The unique "Oozly 
 bird" came over to this country, it is well known, in 
 two ships; hut to get over the High Peak Line 
 involves at least half-a-dozen locomotives. No, 
 thank you very much, Toodles. I will not ride down 
 to the Junction. My bones have been sufficiently 
 dissected; and "The Greyhound" at Cromford is 
 eloquent of a refreshing bath, and of a well-cooked 
 dish of plump trout that were rising at flies in the 
 cool Derwent an hour or so ago.
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT 
 COUNTRY. 
 
 "A north-midland shire, dusk ivith moorland, ridged 
 with mountain .... There are great moors behind 
 and on each haiul of me; tliere are waves of mountains 
 far beyond tJiat deep valley at my feet. Tlie population 
 here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these 
 roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south 
 white,broad, lonely ; tJiey are all cut in tlie moor, and the 
 heather grows deep and wild to their very verge . . . 
 I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I 
 will seek her breast and ask repose . . . I struck 
 straight into the heath, I lield on to a hollow I saia 
 deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I ivaded knee- 
 deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, 
 and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden 
 angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were 
 about me; the crag protected my liead; the sky ivas 
 over that." 
 
 CHABLOTTE BBOXTE. 
 
 August the Twelfth ! Summer two months 
 behind its time come at last, and making up for 
 its lateness by the warmth of its reception. A 
 day white with heat ; the sky steely in its blue
 
 122 IN THE KINDEBSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 brilliance ; the air a burning radiance. Everybody off 
 and away to the land of the grouse, or to the cool 
 fresh salt scent of the sea. Everybody departing, 
 except those who have already gone ; or those who 
 like myself have already eaten their holiday 
 cake ; or those God prosper them ! who never 
 have any holiday cake to eat, and to whom there 
 never comes a truce in the conflict of life, or an 
 armistice in the Battle of Bread. A real hot day. 
 "Jfaint it 'ot? If awful 'ot!" as Mr. Middlewick 
 remarks in the play, his H's running into each 
 other with heat. I mop my head with my handker- 
 chief ; I pick out the shady side of the glaring 
 street ; I don't think it effeminate to put up an 
 umbrella to filter the fiery fierceness. The dapper 
 clerks at the Bank are cashing cheques in their 
 shirt-sleeves ; the pavements are hot enough to 
 serve the purposes of the humane men who teach 
 young bears to dance ; the air pulsates with heat ; 
 the dogs are rushing about with hanging tongues 
 horribly suggestive of hydrophobia ; claret cup is 
 popular. The only man to be envied is the custodian 
 of the municipal watering cart ; and I am almost 
 inclined to carry out one of Mr. Ashby-Sterry'a 
 whimsical " warm weather wishes," and bribe that 
 functionary to let me get inside the cart, and allow 
 my head only to be seen through the trap door,
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOTJT COUNTRY. 123 
 
 whilst in cucumbrian coolness I could jeer at the 
 panting and parched passers by from my delicious 
 retreat. 
 
 " Oh ! for a day on a moor ! " I sigh, as the 
 window blinds are pulled down, and I shut myself 
 up in an atmosphere of ink. The postman must 
 have heard the aspiration ; for, just as it is expressed, 
 there comes a letter with a familiar post-mark, and 
 addressed by a " fine Roman hand " I have often 
 grasped in greeting and good-bye. It is an invitation 
 to refuse which would subject me to the direst 
 penalties and pains. It comes from the Young Man, 
 before mentioned in these pages, who unites the 
 wisdom and experience of a long and eventful life 
 with the robust strength, the vivacious feeling, and 
 the youthful temperament that belong to the teens. 
 He has refused an invitation to Lord Loamshire's 
 grouse-shooting party, because he thinks the sport 
 cruel, and he has sympathies with the sufferings of the 
 birds which are shot but yet escape to die a lingering 
 painful death in the hidden hollows. But the spirit 
 of grouseland has got possession of him ; he must 
 get on the moors ; and will I tramp the untrodden 
 Kinderscout country for a couple of days ? And is 
 not the invitation endorsed by Somebody, and em- 
 phasised by her sister ? And is not a sprig of purple 
 heather enclosed in the letter, just to complete the
 
 124 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 temptation ? Man is but mortal, let business plead 
 never so powerfully; and with such weather, and 
 under such circumstances, it is not long before a 
 plausible excuse presents itself to justify an escape 
 from the city. 
 
 The same night the train brings me from the 
 "broiling town to Buxton. Cool breezes are coming 
 down from the hills to the crowded Spa, now in the 
 full throb of the season. The next morning is like 
 its predecessor, white with cloudless heat. A 
 fascinating Watteau picture the Gardens and the 
 Pavilion present, with the green trees mixed up in 
 the glare of the sun, and gay dresses competing 
 with bright flowers in rivalry of colour. But not for 
 tis Gounod's melodies; not for us the drawling 
 chatter of the rich dawdlers, languidly promenading 
 on the terrace ; not for us the trivial lawn tennis ; 
 not for us the flirting in Corbar's deep secluded 
 paths of green shade ; not for us the grateful waters 
 of St. Ann; not for us the idle shopping in the 
 Colonnade. Somebody's serge dress of navy blue, 
 and simple hat with just a suggestion of red in it, is 
 not meant for the scrutiny of critical eye-glasses. 
 She carries a satchel of sketching materials ; while 
 the Young Man, who is wonderfully juvenile this 
 morning, bears the shepherd's crook that was once 
 of good service to him in climbing Ben Nevis in the
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOTJT COUNTRY. 125 
 
 year of a memorable "border raid." And Sweet- 
 briar, too, is of the party, with an animated flush 
 on her pale, sensitive, poetical face at the 
 anticipation of two whole days amid the moors. 
 I wonder who it was who first called our little 
 Hypatia " Sweetbriar " ; but I can easily understand 
 why, for she always carries such a quiet aroma of 
 intellectual sweetness about her, impalpable but 
 present, indefinable but irresistible. She makes 
 such old-fashioned, fanciful, philosophical remarks 
 with such childish faith, such sweet innocence, such 
 perfect trust, as to lead one almost to wish she 
 could never grow older and know what a hollow 
 hypocritical humbug of a world it is into which she 
 is born. 
 
 It is not a far cry from Buxton to Hayfield by 
 train. Hayfield is the point for striking Kinder- 
 scout, the highest mountain in the Peake countrie. 
 I dare say a good many people will smile at my 
 ambitious vanity in describing this moorland height 
 as a mountain at all ; and no doubt it would appear 
 even contemptible to the tourists who have found in 
 Switzerland a telegraph office 6,000 feet above the 
 sea, and have "cabled" direct away from the Alps 
 to America. But one's estimation of hills should 
 not be measured by the foot, like gas ; any more 
 than the beauty of a river should be regarded by the
 
 126 IN THE KINDEKSCOTTT COUNTRY. 
 
 number of miles absorbed in its length ; or the 
 loveliness of a lake appraised by its largeness. 
 Bigness is not always beauty. Diamonds are never 
 found of great dimensions ; and precious stones are 
 not to be weighed by the pound avoirdupois. The 
 latter observation comes from Sweetbriar, herself an 
 illustration of the charm of little things. 
 
 Hayfield, says the Young Man as we arrive at that 
 place, ought to be called Haguefield. The English 
 tourist when he is at Antwerp hardly knows whether 
 Antwerp was made for Eubens, or Bubens for Ant- 
 werp. Hayfield might have been made for the late 
 Mr. Joseph Hague, who died at nine score, in 1786. 
 He was one of the men who begin life with the 
 traditional two and sixpence and attain to the 
 .opulency of Croesus. Joseph Hague's first trading 
 transactions were done as a pedlar with a few small 
 articles in a basket. Then he bought a donkey, 
 went to London, and became wealthy. Somebody 
 asks with a laugh whether the ass in question had 
 ihe same happy influence over his commercial 
 destiny as a certain cat exercised over the fortunes 
 of one Dick Whittington, sometime Lord Mayor of 
 London ? Certain it is that Joseph Hague became 
 fabulously rich, and in the years of his retirement 
 came to live near Hayfield, where he died. The 
 Charities of Hayfield are his bequests. In the
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 127 
 
 Church there is a sonorous mural monument in 
 marble, surmounted by a handsome bust, to his 
 memory. This church standing between the river 
 Kinder and the stream from Phoside Valley is 
 neither ancient nor architecturally attractive : but 
 the Young Man, who is well up in Cox's Derbyshire 
 Churches, tells a good story about the Hague monu- 
 ment, as we leave the church behind and drive as 
 far as the first of the Kinderscout passes. It appears 
 that the beautiful monument was first erected in 
 the neighbouring church of Glossop, where the good 
 man it commemorates is buried. The chancel of 
 that edifice was to be rebuilt, and the churchwardens 
 were sorely exercised as to the removal of the Hague 
 memorial to a place of safety. Fearful lest it should 
 be stolen (it had cost 420), these sagacious Dog- 
 berry s placed it in the lock-up. When thus " in 
 durance vile," the occupancy of the cell was shared 
 by a violent " drunk and disorderly," who, in a state 
 of liquid lunacy, commenced a violent attack on the 
 -white and silent bust. The monument to this day 
 bears marks of the disfigurement. So discreditable 
 a transaction excited the indignation of one of the 
 heirs of the Hague estate. The monument was at 
 once taken out of custody, and erected in Hayfield 
 Church, where it has received better treatment than 
 it met with at Glossop. There is a strange sequel
 
 128 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 to this strange story, which is not without a tender 
 touch of pathos. A few years ago an elderly stranger 
 sought the parish clerk of Hayfield. He desired 
 admission into the church to see the Hague 
 monument. After gazing at the memorial with 
 reverent earnestness for some time, he expressed his 
 satisfaction at seeing it so well cared for. The 
 verger, concluding that the visitor was connected 
 with the family, told him of the ignominious incident 
 in the lock-up. With tears in his voice, the stranger 
 stopped the recital of the story. " Nobody knows 
 " that better than myself " he said. " I was the 
 "drunken man who knocked the monument about 
 " in Glossop lock-up. I have since been abroad for 
 " many years, and have only just returned to- 
 "England. The damage I did to that monument 
 " has often troubled my conscience, and I determined 
 " that as soon as I set foot in England again, I 
 " would at once journey to Derbyshire to see what 
 " had become of it ; and now I am satisfied." 
 
 I have been regarding Sweetbriar's face while the 
 Young Man has told the story, and what a revelation 
 of deep interest was written there. It would have 
 been a study for Leslie, a suggestion for Millais, a 
 sketch for Sandys. We have left behind the grey, 
 bleak, scattered stone houses, and the isolated print 
 mills of Hayfield ; and now, a mile or two only out of
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 129 
 
 the town, the steep slopes of Kinderscout block the 
 path against further riding. Walk we now must, 
 for the burly mountain monarch will receive only the 
 homage of the active and the hearty, the nimble- 
 footed and the lusty-winded. The person who would 
 find favour with the Kinder King must leave his 
 erutch and toothpick, his patent leather boots and 
 languid manners behind. There is no nonsense 
 about this natural " Peveril of the Peak." Sturdy 
 is he in his sympathies, and rough and rude and 
 old-fashioned in his robust ways. It is the wish of 
 Somebody to take the path to the waterfall which 
 descends from the head of Kinder, the wild beauty of 
 which she wants to throw upon her canvas. The 
 Young Man and myself are somewhat imperiously 
 informed that we may then potter about with our 
 pipes. Sweetbriar holds views of ambitious breadth 
 with regard to the ./fora of the mountain. 
 
 What a glorious walk it is to the Kinder Downfall. 
 It seems incongruous, however, that we cannot ex- 
 plore the wild solitudes of the Scout without an 
 " order." Fancy binding the Kinder King with red- 
 tape, and applying "rules and regulations" to the 
 broad freedom of the moors. This mountain, over 
 which the pedestrian might have at one time roamed 
 at his own sweet will, has become absorbed by the- 
 rarious proprietors of the adjoining lands. It is now
 
 130 IN THE KINDERSCOTJT COUNTRY. 
 
 strictly "preserved," and the tourist, cherishing an 
 old-fashioned faith in the freedom of the mountains, 
 is apt to come into ungrateful greeting with the 
 keepers, if he is not armed with the official open 
 sesame. The necessary "order" is, however, not 
 difficult to obtain ; and the Young Man tells me in 
 this connection that the footpaths and bridle-roads 
 of the district have aroused the interest of some 
 neighbouring gentlemen who, under the name of 
 " The Hayfield and Kinderscout Ancient Footpaths 
 Association," endeavour to guard from further inter- 
 ference such footpaths and bridle-paths as belong by 
 indisputable right to the people, and also to prevent, 
 as far as possible, annoyance to legitimate land- 
 owners from the trespass of excursionists heedless 
 of private rights in their reckless pursuit of pleasure. 
 This second motive of the Society is a laudable one. 
 Mr. W. Walker, the president, a jealous guardian 
 of the rights of the public, mark you, tells us that 
 he has witnessed many wanton depredations of well- 
 meaning, but thoughtless persons. Once he saw a 
 melee between Sunday-school teachers, who armed 
 themselves with beautiful specimens of foxglove, torn 
 from the bank side, and who in their pious ardour tore 
 several yards of wall down ; on another occasion a 
 number of tourists, observing how steep a field was, 
 proceeded to roll the coping-stones from the loose
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 131 
 
 -walls of the district to the peril of the sheep in the 
 pasturage below ; again, at the railway station, a 
 tourist was innocently displaying his "find" during 
 his ramble only sixteen moor-birds' eggs ! 
 
 While the Young Man has thus been discoursing 
 in his usual discursive manner, we have gained the 
 summit of Kinder Low, an eminence of 2,088 feet. 
 The entranced eye skips over grey gritstone knoll 
 and wild clough, lying immediately below, wine- 
 stained in heather-bloom, and accentuated in out- 
 line in the white, cloudless light ; passes the lonely 
 white farm houses that here and there give a human 
 interest to the spacious solitudes in the slopes of 
 -the valleys ; lingers for a moment on the soft peaceful 
 repose of Edale ; and wanders over the map-like area 
 of far-off peak and plain, now sharply denned in the 
 strong sunshine, now dreamily indistinct in the 
 impalpable silvery haze of heat. Bight away in 
 the south-west some hills that are sketched against 
 the sky, like softly-tinted clouds, are the Welsh 
 mountains ; and beyond, Somebody's glasses search 
 out for us the Irish Sea, a grey, glimmering plain, 
 almost imperceptible against the remote horizon. 
 The sun, picking out every tint of the moor, is 
 tropical in its white glare above ; but the wind 
 blows a gale around us in delicious freshness. The 
 Young Man's long grey beard is stirred like a sail ;
 
 132 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 Somebody's hair is blown in a wild tangle of sunny 
 brown all over her face ; Sweetbriar's ribbons flutter 
 like the pennons of a yacht. The Young Man says 
 Kinderscout in the winter time is as breezy as that 
 American place where it takes four men to go for 
 one walk : one to do the walking, the other three- 
 to hold him on his legs while he is doing it ! Just 
 below our eyrie is the Kinder Low Cavern, a hole- 
 which is not worth exploring by people who 
 have seen Poole's Hole, at Buxton ; the Blue 
 John Mine, at Castleton ; or the Eutland Cavern, 
 at Matlock. So we press on through the 
 heather northward. There is the somnolent hum 
 of bees in the purple blush of the heather; now 
 and again a moor-eock rises with a frightened cry ; 
 sometimes we make the acquaintance of an impu- 
 dent black-faced sheep, who stares the ladies out of 
 countenance with shameless effrontery; ever and 
 anon Sweetbriar breaks away to make up a bouquet 
 of silvery white-headed cotton sedges, ivy-leafed 
 crowfoot, and blue-eyed forget-me-nots. The most 
 striking feature in the rugged landscape now is 
 the Three Knolls, a trinity of rounded hills rising 
 from a deep hollow in close company ; and then we 
 are filled with speculations as to a ruin which is known 
 to the Young Man as the Old Smithy. Come now the 
 imposing Cluther Bocks, with a debris of time-stained
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOTTT COUNTRY. 133 
 
 millstones, strewn about in picturesque disorder. 
 Presently we cross the little Eedbrook, which 
 is in a great hurry to run away from its bleak 
 mountain home ; and then lo ! there is a musical 
 roar in the air. Somebody utters a cry of delight, 
 and we behold the smoke of the Kinder Downfall. 
 Before The Twelfth brought the country such a 
 burst of brilliant weather, there had been a serious 
 spell of wet, and reports of floods filled the 
 newspapers sufficiently deluged with the watery 
 eloquence of St. Stephens. However unfortunate the 
 excessive rain may have proved to the farmer, it has 
 been flattering to us if one can be so supremely 
 selfish as to place one's own petty pleasure before 
 the absorbing agricultural interests of an entire 
 country for it has given to the Kinder Downfall, 
 which otherwise might have been dry, a volume of 
 water which makes us simultaneously compare its 
 power and beauty with the famous Falls of Foyers. 
 Somebody has fixed her easel in the cool hollow 
 looking direct up the great foaming gorge ; and I 
 wish I could reproduce in this cold column her vivid 
 picture, which repeats the poetry of the scene in 
 all the enchanting inspiration of its rugged outline 
 and varied colour. The cataract descends from the 
 lofty table-land at the head of Kinderscout, down an 
 angle formed by two steep flanks of the mountain,
 
 134 IN THE KINDERSCOITT COUNTRY. 
 
 and falls from ledge to ledge of the great black 
 obstructing rocks in successive plunges of several' 
 hundred feet. It is at the lowest gorge, called the 
 Eunge, that Somebody's little patch of white can- 
 vas is to be seen. Looking up at the plunging 
 water, she has spread before her a revelation of 
 romantic beauty ; the picturesque pushed to almost 
 a theatrical point of possibility. The roar of the 
 water fighting against the huge flanking rocks i 
 the only sound. The sun catches the water, and now 
 it is a dazzling constellation of diamonds ; now- 
 there is a softer lambent light, as the shadow of an- 
 obtruding rock softens the glitter ; then the spray 
 is a beautiful prism ; anon the smoke is a sunny 
 mist broken into glints and splinters of light. A 
 mountain ash here and there hangs its vivid coral 
 berries over the headlong torrent; cool ferns show 
 a tender green against the gritstone crags ; 
 lichens and mosses cushion the rocks in every 
 shade of orange, and brown, and green, and 
 yellow, and grey. The Young Man has found 
 out a resting place on a couch of heather. He has 
 unpacked a basket, that is now going to liberally 
 reward us for so much trouble in the way of carriage. 
 A bottle of dry champagne is placed in a cold pool 
 to cool ; in the meantime the Y.M., with a sparkle 
 of humour in his eye, produces a well-remembered'
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTEY. 135- 
 
 flask, and, pouring out a libation of " Arnbarrow," 
 says, "Derbyshire scenery is best, seen through a 
 
 The tonic atmosphere has certainly stirred the 
 vagus-nerve. Something less tempting than the 
 present contents of the luncheon basket would 
 have met with an alert appetite from all four of us. 
 Even the etherial Sweetbriar confesses to a stomach ; 
 and the lady with the mahl-stick is not too aesthetic 
 to be assisted to a little more of a certain game pie. 
 We shall not readily forget that wild dinner on the 
 banks of the Kinder. Trout rise to our crumbs, as 
 we drop them on the water ; once we catch sight of 
 a kingfisher's rainbow breast; further down the 
 stream where a broken old mossy bridge " makes 
 a hoary eyebrow for the gleam beyond it" a melan- 
 choly heron stands in lonely vigil ; the Young Man 
 remembers years ago seeing the eagle on Kinder- 
 scout. We leave Somebody and her sister at the 
 picture be friendly to it, Sir Frederick the Great, 
 with thy Council of Selection, when it comes in full 
 view of thee and thy brother judges ! and crossing 
 the little river, strike still in a northerly direction 
 across the cliffs. Far away below the still water of 
 a lonely tarn gleams in the sun. It is the Mermaid's 
 Pool. Legend has- lent to it a weird interest. 
 Further on we come to a stupendous tumult of
 
 136 [IN THE KINDERSCOTJT COUNTRY. 
 
 weather-beaten rocks, to which it seems ridiculous 
 to bestow the domestic and little title of the " Arm- 
 chair." But " Armchair," anyhow, suggests rest ; 
 and we seat ourselves here surrounded with the 
 natural ampitheatre of Kinder. The view arrests 
 conversation by its bold wildness and sublime soli- 
 tude. We sit and smoke. In our tobacco trance 
 we are more united in sympathy than if we chatted 
 the closest confidences and made the most friendly 
 mutual confessions. Speech would seem a profana- 
 tion. The poetry of silence prevails. Its pathos is 
 only broken by the distant echo of the sportsman's 
 breechloader, and the plaintive call of the plover. 
 The sun brings out a wonder of colour from the 
 moorland vastness. There is the black of the 
 swampy peat ; the rose of the heather flowers ; the 
 grey of the coarse grasses on the boggy hillocks ; 
 the soft shade of the deep hollows. Suggestions of 
 silver and gold are given by scattered wild flowers, 
 gorse, and lichens. Down below, the windows of a 
 lonely farmhouse laugh with sunlight, and there is a 
 vivid green patch of meadow where the hay has 
 been newly gathered. In the far distance there is a 
 pearly grey where the moor mingles with the sky at 
 the hazy horizon line. The moors have often been 
 compared to the sea ; and the vast breadth of un- 
 dulating distance at Kinderscout gives special force
 
 IN THE KINDEESCOUT COUNTRY. 137 
 
 to the trite fancy. It is an ocean of billowy heather ; 
 distant hills rise like dark sea cliffs ; a far-off ord- 
 nance survey cairn supplies the illusion of a light- 
 house ; here and there a block of dark gritstone, 
 growing above the purple waves, with the sun catch- 
 ing on its weather-stained side, conveys the sugges- 
 tion of a russet sail ; a remote farm looks like 
 an island in the heathery sea. 
 
 The afternoon wears on and still we are Lotos 
 Eaters. We might have " sworn an oath," and 
 mean to 
 
 "Keep it with an equal mind, 
 
 In the holloio Lotos Land to live and lie reclined 
 On the hills, like Gods together, careless of mankind." 
 
 The stillness and solitude, the infinite space and the 
 lofty remoteness of these towering ridges above the 
 littleness of the work-day world, come as a satisfying 
 solace to soul and sense ; an ineffable charm to the 
 eye, a deep peace to the mind, a sweet contentment 
 and calm to troubled nerves and harassed life. This 
 love of the hills is really a sacred thing. It is a 
 religion. The Man of Sorrows went up into a 
 mountain to pray. The world below becomes but a 
 babbling booth of little lives, small ambitions, and 
 sordid ideals ; and he who can pass a day on the 
 heights without coming down the better in mind and 
 soul is not to be envied.
 
 138 IN THE KINBERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 There is a blitheness and buoyancy in the air that 
 stirs us at last into a further walk. Our talk is of 
 how much the dweller in towns appreciates the 
 country. 
 
 " Only those who in sad cities dwell 
 Are of the green trees fully sensible; 
 To them the silver bells of twinkling streams 
 Seem brighter than an angel's laugh in dreams," 
 I poetically protest. Pretty, but generally inappli- 
 cable argues the Young Man. The strength of 
 habit, he maintains, prevails over the spell of the 
 hills, and he instances Doctor Johnson, who, when 
 asked to spend a day in the country, replied in his 
 usual "bow-wow" manner, "Sir, I hate green 
 fields. One green field is exactly like another green 
 field. Sir, let us take a walk down Fleet Street ; " 
 and Charles Lamb, who, when asked how he had 
 enjoyed the lakes and mountains of Cumberland 
 and Westmoreland, answered that he was obliged 1 
 to think of the ham-and-beef shop near St. Martin's 
 Lane ! Some people take London with them 
 wherever they go ; and a highland shooting box is 
 every bit as Sybaritic as a Piccadilly Club. The 
 charni of the moors is destroyed when Pall Mall is 
 thus taken into Perthshire, and the sophistries of a 
 complex civilisation break upon the simplicity and 
 solitude of the heather. This, mark you, is 
 only a small portion of the Y.M's. profound
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 139 1 
 
 observations on the subject. He is still inveighing 
 against the laxity nnd luxury of the present age 
 when we arrive at the north-western point of the 
 Edge. A large cairn here marks the second highest 
 point of the Peak range: 1,981 feet. When we 
 had gained the ordnance barrow on Kinder Low 
 we were at the greatest altitude : an eminence 
 of 2,088 feet. The table land is flat and boggy r 
 and furrowed with deep water courses, that expose 
 the mountain gritstone beneath. The waters- 
 are shed west and east, the Kin and Sett entering 
 the Goyt and the Mersey, and the Ashop and 
 and Noe flowing east to the Derwent. While the 
 western side of Kinder appeals to the artistic eye 
 as strongly as any Derbyshire scene of which I 
 know, there is a fascination in the Ashop side of the 
 mountain. The Ashop waterfall is as wildly beauti- 
 ful as the Kinder downfall. The river, as in the 
 other instance, flows from the great trackless table 
 land. There is a savage gorge of gloomy precipitous- 
 rocks, strewn with mossy boulders, through which 
 the bright brown peat-stained water flashes and 
 foams till it reaches its leap, which is through dark 
 weird rocks that form a rude arch over the plunging 
 fall. The river now descends in its picturesque 
 headlong course in an easterly direction, keeping 
 along the northern flank of the Scout. Here it is
 
 140 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 fed by tributary streams from the swampy moors 
 and mountain ridges. After winding for some three 
 miles it falls in love with the Lady Brook, and the 
 iwo healthy joyous streams skip hand in hand 
 through a narrow defile close by the Sheffield and 
 .Glossop road. It would be pleasant to pursue the 
 Ashop and Lady Brook along their romantic route, 
 past the pretty "bit" of water-colour where the 
 Alport becomes their sweet-faced child, and right 
 .away through the Woodlands, beautiful with birch 
 trees, to Ashopton itself. Following the " Edge " to 
 Fairbrook Naze, we step down briskly to the Snake 
 Inn: a lonely hostelry shining white in a belt of 
 dark firs. The " Cat and Fiddle," near Buxton, 
 claims to be the house of the most elevated enter- 
 tainment in the kingdom ; but the traveller should 
 get the real " mountain dew " at the " Snake," which 
 is 1,069 feet above the sea. Shenstone found his 
 warmest welcome at an Inn ; but I doubt whether 
 the poet had such scenery thrown in as the " Snake" 
 affords from its hospitable doors. Behind are the 
 tors of Alport moor ; right opposite are reared the 
 sturdy shoulders of Fairbrook Naze, one of th<3 
 boldest ridges in the whole of the Scout ; while the 
 jagged, fantastic cliffs known as Seal Edge afford a 
 wild romance of rock. The Young Man has some- 
 thing to say about the turnpike in front of the door.
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 141 
 
 This Glossop road, he tells us, is no engineering- 
 trifle. It is, he believes, unsurpassed in height by 
 any other turnpike in England, scoring, as it does, 
 1,666 feet amid the morose moorland. The heather 
 encroaches on either side of the road ; at intervals 
 there are tall poles to guide the traveller in time of 
 snow. The Dukes of Devonshire and Norfolk are 
 credited with the construction of this emphatic high- 
 way. 
 
 It is a lonely walk of several miles back to the 
 locality of the Kinder Downfall. The two artists 
 must have now lost their light for the picture. 
 There is a flush of red and gold in the west ; and 
 the hilly ridges are growing dark in the deepening 
 shadows, save where some remote peak is brought 
 strangely near and distinct in the warm colours of 
 the sunset. But the Young Man, bless you, has no % 
 concern for the girls. We are to find them, he says, 
 at a certain isolated farm in the great breadth of 
 valley under the Kinder Fall, at which house a- 
 smoking hospitable meal awaits us. A confusion of 
 hay ricks, of grey gables, of thatched roofs of 
 lichened russet, and of tiled roofs of finely-toned 
 red. A square, solid, low-spreading stone house, 
 with thick walls as abiding as the gritstone crags to- 
 which they once belonged. This is our good cara- 
 vansary. A chained mastiff gives us a fierce salute
 
 142 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 as we approach the gate ; but Somebody and Sweet- 
 briar, thus apprised of our arrival, change the tur- 
 bulent fury of the wild animal into quite a frisky 
 friendliness, into much wagging of tail, clanging of 
 chain, and bounding of joy. Over the hills in the 
 west there comes a strange melodramatic radiance of 
 blood red, which fades impalpably into a tinted mist 
 of rose and amber ; while hi the south the scarcely 
 risen moon is striking silvery and cold over swelling 
 ribs of dark heath ; in the sky overhead is a clear 
 twilight ; at present the stars do not show. There is 
 the babble of an adjacent beck; there is the soft 
 coo of pigeons somewhere up in the shadowy mossy 
 roofs of the farm building ; the cattle are being 
 driven in from the pasturage to be milked ; the 
 plover is calling " pee-wit-pee-wit " on the moors ; 
 we can hear the muffled roar of the Kinder Fall. 
 This is the only house within a radius of some miles. 
 The girls seem quite familiar with the interior. 
 Somebody is showing off her art in the mashing of 
 tea, singing all the while in her soft contralto voice : 
 
 " Oh the oak, and tlie ash, and the bonny ivy tree, 
 They grow so green in tlie North Countrie." 
 
 What a broad fine specimen of the Peak farmer 
 our host is ; but I wish he had not grasped ruy hand 
 with quite such a fervid grip ; still one shouldn't 
 wear rings. And what a quaint grace there is about
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOUT COUNTRY. 143 
 
 bis good wife, as genuine and shining as the old 
 polished oak chairs and tables of the room. And 
 the room itself, with that black old oak furniture, 
 which would fetch any price in aesthetic Kensington ; 
 and with a great fire-place as big as the drawing- 
 room of a modern villa, and under which one can 
 sit on an old oak settle in the ingle-nook and see 
 the stars. And the heartiness of our evening meal, 
 with the inviting milk that drinks like cream, and 
 which induces one of us, who comes from a great 
 town, to wish he could have the rich beverage laid 
 on in pipes at his house, in a supply as plentiful as 
 the water. The Young Man has on his knee two 
 bonny, brown-faced, bright-eyed children with a 
 tangle of hair that makes them look as shaggy as 
 Shetland ponies. He is singing 
 " Bide a cocfc horse to Baribury Cross, 
 To see a fine lady on a ivhite liorse. 
 With rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, 
 Slie sliall have music wherever she goes." 
 
 Each of the Y. M's knees is a wild " cock horse," 
 going at a sensational trot, while the young riders 
 cling on and crow with delight. The old gentleman 
 who is thus unbending was a friend of Count 
 D'Orsay's, and the fingers of the clock of time must 
 be put back a few hours, I fancy, to recall those days. 
 After tea we saunter in the cool air outside. All 
 around is the majesty and mystery of the moors by
 
 144 IN THE KINDERSCOTTT COUNTRY. 
 
 moonlight ; the weirdness and wonder of the moun- 
 tains at night. The twilight has cleared away ; and 
 the moon has climbed above the hill, and sheds a 
 broad path of silver down the slope of the moor, so 
 strange and etherial that Sweetbriar says it seems to 
 be a road of light for us to walk up to the gateway of 
 Heaven. Kinderscout is a heavy mass of hill rising 
 sheer and dark like a wall up to the stars. The planets> 
 throbbing in the great silent wold of sky, seem 
 very near to us. The Evening Star, in the rarefied 
 air, is as lustrous as the Koh-i-noor. The pole 
 star is h'ke a lighthouse gleam in the north ; faint 
 and far-off is the diamond dust of the Milky Way. 
 In the east Mars pulsates with a ruddy light ; 
 there is the radiance of Jupiter. Between these 
 two great planets, the intense pure white light of 
 Vesta is to be seen in the clear serenity of the sky ; 
 while that bluish-white light, seldom revealed to the 
 naked eye, is Uranus. Sirfus is the brightest star i 
 the whole sky. The Pleiades stand out among a world 
 of stars ; there is the V shaped cluster of the Hyades. 
 Sharply defined is King Charles's Wain ; Orion* 
 wears a silver belt ; the jewels flash in Cassiopeia's 
 chair ; there is the pale wistful gleam of Andro- 
 meda's face ; and there are other trembling white con- 
 stellations, each of which Sweetbriar connects with 
 some classic romance. Once or twice a shooting star
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOUT COUNTRY. 145 
 
 flashes across the sky. And now the moon is rising 
 more overhead of us, as we are walking alone in 
 this silent, solemn world of moorland masses, with 
 the weird Scout rising like the apparition of another 
 sphere. The road shows white in front of us. Some- 
 body is talking in quite a Buskin manner about 
 the blackness of the shadows that impart so much 
 mystery into the picture, and the sharpness of the 
 light that searches out both colour and outline. 
 The Young Man explains that the thin purity of 
 the air gives strength to the starlight. Sweetbriar 
 is enchanted with the scene. The moonlight falls 
 with a softened radiance on her sweet young face, 
 and invests it with a saintly fancy. The moon 
 seems to belong entirely to this Derbyshire moor- 
 land, and to be shining alone on our own sym- 
 pathetic little group. It seems strange to think 
 that there is a world outside these hills, and that 
 the same placid face is looking down upon many 
 countries and upon millions of people at this very 
 hour ; upon London's teeming streets, upon the 
 lighted chattering Boulevards of Paris, upon the 
 water ways of Venice, upon the laurels of Italy, 
 upon great ships outward and homeward bound 
 in mid-Atlantic. And what scenes other than 
 this simple healthful undulation of the Pcake 
 eountrie the same moon surveys with the
 
 146 IN THE KINDERSCOTJT COUNTRY. 
 
 same impassive gaze : scenes of love and hatred ; 
 of hope and despair; of success and failure; 
 of joy and fear ; of reckless sin and silent self- 
 sacrifice ; of debauchery and devotion. The same 
 impenetrable eyes look on the squander of riches 
 and the squalor of poverty ; on mental wrestlings 
 and moral prostrations ; on pale sick chambers and 
 gay ball-rooms; on the dinner party given by Mr. 
 Croesus, M.P., the special event of the season, and 
 the lonely stone cell where a murderer can hear the 
 fixing of the hideous apparatus that shall make him 
 dangle a dishonoured corpse at eight o'clock prompt 
 in the morning; on mothers in quiet country-side 
 villages, praying for sons exposed to the temptations 
 of great cities ; on women selling their souls in 
 infamy ; on students at midnight lamps ; on the 
 burglar stealing forth on his mission of plunder; 
 on humour and pathos ; on laughter and tears ; on 
 the endless tragedy and comedy of human life ; on 
 carnival and charnel house ; on the weeping eyes 
 and shrunken face of Melpomene, and the inane 
 laugh of Momus ; on swaddling clothes and wind- 
 ing sheets ; on hopes that are broken and ideals that 
 are shattered ; on friendships that are faithless and 
 loves that are false. The moon regards all these 
 contrasts the good and the evil with the same 
 placid face. She is moved neither to love nor pity.
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOUT COUNTRY. 147 
 
 She has seen the same scenes and contrasts in the 
 world for these thousands of years, and may be she 
 will see them for thousands of years to come. She 
 is the same moon whose argent light shone on 
 Homer's Camp before Troy ; and gave such romance 
 to Lorenzo's wooing of Jessica; and revealed the 
 sleeping Endymion. The same moon whose beams 
 lit up the hoary, haunted ruins of the Colosseum for 
 Byron, and inspired Ben Jonson's deathless lyric. 
 The pale Empress of Night, with her retinue of 
 stars, is destined to look down on many battlefields 
 yet, to affect generations of lovers yet unborn, and 
 to inspire whole libraries of poetry. The one 
 dominating feeling of this communion with the 
 solemn starlit moors is, indeed, a revelation of the 
 eternal and immutable. Human existence seems a 
 frivolous, fleeting trifle compared with the unchang- 
 ing moon, and stars, and hills that have seen the 
 generations come and go. The mind is stunned 
 
 with the sense of its own smallness ; and 
 
 It is very cruel of the Young Man to upset us 
 with a spirit of flippant levity, to associate Luna 
 with lunacy, and to say to the moon 
 
 " Never you mind : shine on." 
 
 But, perhaps, the Young Man is as affected by the 
 emotion of the hour as any of us. Can I remember 
 sufficiently well a masterly passage in the Strange
 
 148 IN THE KINDEKSCOT7T COUNTRY. 
 
 Adventures of a Phaeton to quote it accurately: 
 "It is no wonder that lovers love the starlight, 
 " and the infinite variety and beauty and silence of 
 " the strange darkness. But folks who have got 
 " beyond that period do not care so much to meet the 
 " mystery of the solemnity of the night. They may 
 " have experiences they would rather not recall. 
 " Who can tell what bitterness and grevious heart- 
 " wringing are associated with the wonderful peace 
 " and majesty of the throbbing midnight sky? The 
 "strong man, with all his strength fled from him, 
 " has gone out in his utter misery, and cried, ' Oh 
 " God, save my wife to me ! ' And the young 
 "mother, with her heart breaking, has looked up 
 " into the great abyss, and cried ' Oh God, give me 
 " back my baby! ' and all the answer they have had 
 " was the silence of the winds and the faint and 
 " distant glimmer of the stars. They do not care to 
 "meet the gaze of those sad, and calm, and 
 " impenetrable eyes." 
 
 It is, however, growing chilly. The moon is 
 bringing out the red roofs and grey gables of the 
 farm in sharp silhouette ; there are yellow lights in 
 the window for us. What a picture for a shadow- 
 loving artist for a Rembrandt, a Schkalken, or a 
 Dore is the broad, low room in which we are 
 seated. A bottle of whisky finds its way on the
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 149 
 
 table, also a quaint iron tobacco jar ; peat is 
 smoking in the old-fashioned fireplace, over which is 
 suspended a three-legged iron pot ; and the strange 
 smell of the turf makes us think that we are 
 somewhere up in Sutherlandshire. There is an old 
 lamp, which compensates in power of perfume what 
 it lacks in clearness of illumination. But the light 
 suits the room just as an artist would adjust it. 
 Glow and gloom seem to alternate. The shadows 
 are broad, and warm, and mellow. The light 
 catches the old oak chairs ; there are weird shadows 
 thrown across the ceiling, half revealing and half 
 hiding an old fowling piece, a string of onions, and 
 some hams enclosed in white bags, suspended from 
 the rafters; ever and anon some copper vessel 
 flashes in the luxurious semi-darkness ; mysterious 
 reflections flicker on the wall; the red glow falls 
 upon the old clock case, and upon shining dish- 
 covers that might have been cunningly arranged in 
 order to concoct a Dutch painter's " bits " of light and 
 shade and " doubling of line." A collie blinks before 
 the fire ; the odour of the peat is exquisite. The 
 Young Man, with his fine face profiled in the un- 
 certain light, and a yellow tinge spreading over his 
 long grey beard, reminds me of the King of Borva. 
 Somebody, with her simple manners and natural 
 .grace, suggests Princess Shiela. Frank Lavendar
 
 150 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 is not in the group. It is difficult to think that we 
 are not somewhere up in Scotland; but we are at 
 least in Derbyshire. " If North Wales is not Switzer- 
 land, it is none the less North Wales," is one of the 
 \rise sayings of Charles Kingsley. 
 
 The Young Man is engaged in a deep conversa- 
 tion on yonder shadowy settle, open to the sky, with 
 a flaxen-haired philosopher of the advanced age of 
 seven. 
 
 " Now, what should you like to be, Joseph ?" we 
 hear the Y. M. earnestly ask. " A lawyer ?" 
 
 A shy shake of the head. 
 
 "A doctor?" 
 
 A shake of the head, with a shudder. 
 
 "A clergyman?" 
 
 "No!" emphatically. 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to be a soldier now, a 
 captain, you know, with a sword ?" 
 
 " No ! I should like to be a butcher." 
 
 " A butcher ! Why ? Oh why ?" 
 
 " Cos their 'osses goes the fastest." 
 
 It is time for Joseph to go to bed. Indeed, he 
 has been specially privileged in regard to remaining 
 up to-night. He retires, after marvellous draughts 
 of new milk. Somebody and the good wife are very 
 confidential. Our host is discussing with the Y. M., 
 slowly and deliberately, the question of the bygone
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOTJT COUNTRY. 151 
 
 allotment of the land to various adjoining owners. 
 "Luke at Kinder" he says with much honest 
 indignation "while the rich mon has received 
 according to his riches -',000 acres, the poor mon 
 has not bin geen a single yaerd o' land. In fact, 
 the poor hae been robbed on the 40 acres o' what 
 used to be knowed as t' Poor Mon's Pace (piece), 
 and oe'r which t' poor o' 'A} field 'ad the rights o' 
 turfery. But t' ole plot 'as bin absorbed in proivate 
 estates." 
 
 "Fairfield Common will be claimed next," says 
 Sweetbriar, with the mournful air of Cassandra 
 prophesying evil of her beloved Troy. No wonder 
 that so robust a religionist as Mr. Spurgeon is 
 incensed at this modern spirit of selfish exclusive- 
 ness, and that we find him writing : " I sometimes 
 " feel very glad when I look at the sea, and think 
 " that it belongs to the great and generous God, and 
 " not to greedy man. Here upon land every foot of 
 " earth is enclosed by somebody, and jealously 
 " guarded from trespass. The village had a breezy 
 " common, upon which a poor man might at least 
 " keep a goose ; but the great folks could never rest 
 " till every inch was put within hedges and made 
 " their own. You can scarcely walk anywhere with- 
 " out being met by ' Trc-^juKsers Beware. ,' Mountains 
 " and hills, which everybody ought to be allowed to
 
 152 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 " climb without leave, are fenced in and kept free 
 " from all intruders. . . . No such greed can 
 " appropriate the sea. The free sea cannot be 
 " parcelled out, nor hedged, nor ditched, nor dyked, 
 " nor walled. It has no lords of the manor, but 
 " remains free and unappropriated for ever." Such 
 grasping Conservatism is enough to make us Kadi- 
 cals, or Communists, or Land Leaguers, or something 
 equally wrong and revolutionary. I wonder, by the 
 way, if the red Phrygian Cap of Liberty would suit 
 Somebody as well as the Blue colours she wore at the 
 last General Election? It certainly makes a very 
 charming chapeau in M. Jean Gautherin's marble 
 impersonification of " The Republic." 
 
 To put an end to the grievance the Y. M. proposes 
 a song. After a little pressing, the farmer rolls out 
 the old strains of " The Vicar of Bray " in a hearty 
 baritone voice. Later on, Somebodj is persuaded 
 to attempt a song without accompaniment. We 
 have never heard it before, and the air she imparts 
 to the sweet homely Scotch pathos is her own. 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at niclit, 
 
 Wi' mucklefaucht an' din; 
 O, try and sleep, ye waiikrife rogues, 
 
 Tourfaitlier's comin' in. 
 They never heed a word I speal;; 
 
 I tnj to gie afroon, 
 But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 
 
 " O, bairnies, cuddle doon."
 
 IN THE KINDEESCOTJT COUNTRY. 153 
 
 Wee Jamie u-i' the curly heid 
 
 He aye sleeps next the too,', 
 Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece " 
 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 Irin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, 
 
 They stop awee the soun', 
 Then draw the blankets up an' cry, 
 
 "Noo, weanies cuddle doon." 
 
 But ere five minutes gang, wee Bab 
 
 Cries oot,frae 'neath the claes, 
 " SfitJier, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance, 
 
 He's kittlin' ioi' liis taes." 
 The mischief's in tliat Tarn for tricks, 
 
 He'd bother half tlie toon ; 
 But aye I hap them up an' cry, 
 
 " O, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 At length they hear their faither's fit, 
 
 An', as he steeks the door, 
 They turn their faces to the wa', 
 
 While Tarn pretends to snore. 
 " Hae a' the weans been gude ?" he asks, 
 
 As he pits aff his shoon. 
 " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 
 
 An' lang since cuddled doon." 
 An' just afore we bed oorsel's, 
 
 We look at oor wee lambs; 
 Tam Jias his airm roun' ivee Bab's neck, 
 
 An' Bab his airm roun' Tarn's. 
 I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 
 
 An' as I straik each croon, 
 I whisper, till my heart fills up, 
 
 " O, bairnies cuddle doon." 
 The bairnies cuddle doonat niclit 
 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
 But sune the big warl's cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee.
 
 154 IN THE KINDERSCOTJT COUNTRY. 
 
 Yet, come what will to ilka ane. 
 
 May He who sits aboon 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be baulfl, 
 
 " O, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 This piece is surely worthy of Eobert Burns at 
 his best, and that was certainly when he was most 
 simple and domestic in his lay. It is, we discover, 
 by Alexander Anderson, a platelayer on a Scottish 
 line of rails. . . The hour is late, for the country, 
 and urges that we, too, should "cuddle doon." The 
 girls retire ; but our host stays up to smoke with us 
 an ultimate pipe and drain an ultimate glass. We 
 are loath to leave the room ; the flickering lights 
 would enchant an artist. There are trembling re- 
 flections in every shadowy corner ; the face of the 
 Y. M. stands out of an ebony background, like the 
 study of "a head" in an ancient picture ; while the 
 lamp casts an alarming silhouette of the farmer's 
 head and shoulders on the wall behind. 
 
 What a great ghostly old bedroom the Young Man 
 and myself share ; a room big enough to run a 
 steeplechase in over the widely divided furniture. 
 And what a great ghostly old bed ; an antiquated 
 four-poster, heavily canopied and curtained, in which 
 one could get lost ; a bed almost as big as its over- 
 rated contemporary at Ware. But there is a pleasant 
 smell of lavender about the sheets, and the Young 
 Man is already snoring like a trombone hi trouble.
 
 IN THE KINDEB8COUT COUNTR.Y. 155 
 
 The moon peeps in weirdly through the lattice 
 windows. Once an owl flutters past with a hoot. 
 There is a scramble of mice in the wainscot. A 
 clock in the room ticks with a thrilling, throbbing 
 emphasis. The room seems full of corners, and each 
 corner boasts a closet, with great brass handles on 
 the doors. It is just the room for ghosts. I believe 
 I should see a ghost were it not for the T. M's solo- 
 on the nasal trombone. It has. been the dream of 
 my life to see a real respectable good-mannered 
 ghost. Speaking of dreams . . 
 
 The Young Man shakes me roughly in the early 
 dawn and bids me rise and see the sunrise. He ie 
 already dressed and humming 
 
 " As I was going to Darby, Sir, 
 
 All on a market day, 
 I met the finest Bam, Sir, 
 
 That ever was fed on hay. 
 Daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day, 
 Fal-de-ral,fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. 
 I wish he wasn't quite so vivacious. I am an old 1 
 young man ; he is a young old man ; and the 
 balance of spirits seems all in favour of thejlatter. 
 I am supremely sleepy. The strong mountain air 
 is more somnolent than poppies ; the long walks of 
 yesterday have made me stiff and tired. 
 
 " Get up, my boy, at once," continues the Y.M. r 
 with a voice of command, trolling
 
 156 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 " The Jaws tliat were in his head, Sir, 
 
 They were so fine and thin, 
 They were sold to a Methodist Parson, 
 
 For a j)ulpit to preach in. 
 Daddle-i-day , Ac." 
 
 "Just one more minute," I implore, with an 
 effort. He goes trampling down the broad echoing 
 stairs ; I hear the sound of life stirring in the yard ; 
 there is a confusion of farm voices, and after that 
 I am steeped in sweet sleep. . . . The Young 
 Man, with an assumption of temper, breaks in upon 
 my rest, hours after, to say that breakfast is waiting. 
 I never saw the sunrise, of course. If I had only 
 been left alone I might have got up just in time to 
 see it set ; like Mark Twain who, when up the Eigi, 
 missed the morning horn-blow at the Eigi-Kulu 
 hotel, and saw the rare spectacle of an evening 
 sunrise. Eeaders of A Tramp Abroad will recall 
 this critical incident in the life of the American 
 humourist. ... I suppose the sight of 
 the sun coming up over the bleak misty 
 shoulders of Kinderscout was a spectacle to be 
 remembered. I am rather glad I missed it, for 
 I should have lost the girls' enthusiastic des- 
 cription of it : how there was a cloudy wall 
 of dark mountain edged with a cold grey light ; 
 how that became a saffron, which warmed to a pale 
 arose and sent up lances of light, spreading in the
 
 IN THE KINDEKSCOUT COUNTRY. 157 
 
 shape of a fan ; how everything which had been 
 hitherto blurred, indistinct and spongy, slowly 
 emerged from its misty monotone, and showed 
 delicacy, sharpness, colour, and detail ; how the 
 sun itself a blood-red shield floated above the 
 topmost ridges, and swam higher and higher in a 
 bath of gold, till the whole heavens caught the 
 glamour and glory of a new day. 
 
 The chief sensation at breakfast is the appearance 
 of the young philosopher Joseph, drenched through. 
 He has fallen into the forbidden horse-trongh in the 
 yard. Soaked is he to the skin. The Y. M. is 
 severe. 
 
 "Now suppose you had been drowned and had 
 gone straight to God, what would He have said to 
 you?" he enquires. 
 
 " He'd a sed you'r very wet." 
 
 There is really no reasoning with such a boy ; 
 and the Y. M. takes his revenge by flying a kite 
 with the culprit's brother. In China the old men 
 only are allowed the pastime of kite flying. How 
 would it be to call the Y. M. the " Heathen 
 Chinee ? " 
 
 We get back to the Kinder Fall. Somebody must 
 have another hour or two at her picture. It is 
 another day white with heat; but there is a brisk 
 stir of wind which gives movement and light and
 
 158 IN THE KINDERSCOTTT COUNTRY. 
 
 shade to the panorama. Pleasant it is to sit and 
 watch the cloud-shadows sail in soft progress over 
 the hills, pursued by tidal-waves of strong sunlight 
 that bring out every gradation of colour, garnishing 
 the gold of the furze, warming the purple acres of 
 heather, picking out the green of the bracken, and 
 showing the sharp, shining greys of far-off rocky 
 ridges. 
 
 After luncheon our farming friends, who have 
 business at Castleton, drive us thither by rocky 
 devious roads, along the soft, sylvan Edale Valley, by 
 Mam Tor, and through the Winnats. At Castleton 
 we catch one of the big excursion breaks which ply 
 between there and Buxton, and avail ourselves of 
 the homeward journey of the vehicle. One side of 
 the break is ornamented by Young Manchester, a 
 dozen callow youths, slangy, shallow, sallow, whose 
 " loud " get-up is emphasised by their vulgar 
 manners. The other row is composed of young 
 couples who swoon on each others' shoulders and 
 encircle each others' waists. The Manchester line 
 is spirituous, and sings, amid the fume of much 
 cheap cigar, "Dear old pals, charming old pals." 
 The opposing rank of Joseph James' ; and Maria 
 Eliza Hannahs', is spiritual, and is singing in 
 debased tune : " We shall meet on that beautiful 
 shore," with quite vehement and unnecessary
 
 IN THE KINDERSCOT7T COUNTRY. 159 
 
 certainty. The effect is striking very striking. 
 Our companions are to us as the offensive unaspira- 
 ted Cockney bagmen were to Christopher North on 
 that memorable journey by the Dumfries mail-coach 
 from Edinboro' to Tweedside. Luckily the Y. M. 
 obtained seats for the girls on the box, with one of 
 the jolliest reminiscences of the old coaching times 
 that exists in these days of cads and paper collars. 
 
 The summer day is fast declining as we approach 
 our journey's end. The sunset is shining over the 
 wild western ridges of the Peak. The hills seem to 
 soar larger in the burning crimsons and purples and 
 golds of the glowing sky. As the conflagration 
 of colour spreads in splendour, our Philistine cargo 
 is silenced by its magic and wealth and wonder. 
 The beauty of the scene increases 
 
 " Till all the sordid earth 
 
 Is hued like Heaven, and Life's dull prison liouse 
 Turns to a golden palace." 
 
 The sun itself has now sunk behind the hilly ridges, 
 giving to their broken edges an embroidery of fire. 
 The sky cools from the radiance of flaming reds and 
 crimsons and carmines into delicate gradations of 
 orange and amber; but the hills facing the sunset 
 still reflect the glow ; a solitary chimney, set here 
 and there on a steep slope, becomes idealised and 
 shines like an Eastern minaret, while the gables of
 
 160 IN THE KINDERSCOUT COUNTRY. 
 
 a lonely house are magnified to twice their actual 
 height. The light dies ; the day is done ; and now 
 the infinite tranquility of a clear twilight comes over 
 hill and valley; and the peace and beauty of it 
 possesses us until it is broken by the life and move- 
 ment of Bnxton, stirring after the drowsy heat of a 
 tropical afternoon. 
 
 There is not much more to be said concerning 
 our two days' desertion of duty. All that does 
 remain Somebody begs to be allowed to offer. And 
 surely the readers whom I have rendered most 
 irascible by my intolerable prolixity will listen to her 
 brief postscript. She says : 
 
 " I am very vexed to think that you have associated 
 my poor little picture of the Kinder Downfall with 
 Sir Frederick Leighton and the Eoyal Academy. 
 It will never leave Derbyshire. It is already given 
 away, and when I have made it less imperfect it will 
 
 go to Mrs. , of Farm, near Bander, in. 
 
 memory of " Cuddle Doon."
 
 ROUND AND ABOUT 
 BUXTON. 
 
 " Buxtoiut, qucs calidce celebrabere nomine lympluz. 
 Forte milii postliac non adeunda, vale." 
 
 MABY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 I forget what was the nervous affection was it 
 rheumatism or neuralgia, sciatica or gout ? which 
 led to my residence at Buxton for two or three 
 months some time ago, " when this old cap was 
 new." It could not have been gout, for I was too 
 poor to afford the pleasure of such patrician pain ; 
 but whatever the ailment was I left it behind me 
 at Buxton. I wished I could have also left behind 
 me a large donation at least a thousand pounds 
 to the funds of the Devonshire Hospital, as a thank- 
 offering to the gracious virtues of St. Ann. But I 
 had more gratitude than gold. " Poor devils of 
 authors" are rich only in regrets. Brewers and 
 butchers, publicans and provision-merchants, people 
 who fill your belly, instead of your brain, are most
 
 162 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 able to write out that "leetle cheque" which I 
 should have liked to have enclosed to Doctor Robert- 
 son. Liquor before literature ; beefsteaks before 
 books. Do you remember the wealthy miller in 
 George Eliot's story who " didn't think much of 
 education," because he felt himself in a position 
 " to buy up most of the educated men he knew ? " 
 I have always admired that pregnant passage of 
 John Buskin's, which I am pleased to observe a 
 famous firm of publishers have prefixed to their 
 list of books. He writes: 
 
 " I say we have despised literature ; what do we, 
 " as a nation, care about books ? How much do 
 " you think we spend altogether on our libraries, 
 " public or private, as compared with what we spend 
 " on our horses. If a man spends lavishly on his 
 " library, you call him mad a bibliomaniac. But 
 " you never call one a horse-maniac, though men 
 " ruin themselves every day by their horses, and 
 " and you do not hear of people ruining themselves 
 " by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much 
 " do you think the contents of the book-shelves 
 " of the United Kingdom, public and private, would 
 " fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine- 
 " cellars ? What position would its expenditure on 
 " literature take as compared with its expenditure 
 "on luxurious eating? We talk of food for the
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 163 
 
 " mind, as of food for the body : now, a good book 
 " contains such food inexhaustible : it is provision 
 " for life, and for the best part of us ; yet how long 
 "most people would look at the best book before 
 41 they would give the price of a large turbot for 
 " it ! Though there have been men who have 
 " pinched their stomachs and bared their backs to 
 " buy a book, -whose libraries were cheaper to them, 
 " I think, in the end, than most men's dinners are. 
 " We are few of us put to such a trial ; and more 
 " the pity ; for, indeed, a precious thing is all the 
 " more precious to us if it has been won by work 
 " or economy ; and if public h'braries were half as 
 " costly as public dinners, or books cost the tenth 
 " part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and 
 " women might sometimes suspect there was good 
 " in reading as well as in munching and sparkling ; 
 " whereas the very cheapness of literature is making 
 " even wiser people forget that if a book is worth 
 " reading it is worth buying." 
 
 Since those early Buxton days, however, I have 
 realised a little mammon by one or two shares in the 
 Megatherium Mashtub and Thames Stout Company, 
 sufficient to induce me to establish my only son, 
 James Adolphus, in the malt trade. " There's mil- 
 lions in it," as the American play says. Doctor 
 Johnson, when taking stock, as executor under
 
 164 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 Thrale's will, of the old brewery which was to be 
 known to another thirsty generation as Barclay and 
 Perkins's, told Topham Beauclerek that he had at 
 last discovered, the " source of boundless prosperity 
 and inexhaustible riches." A splendid career awaits 
 James Adolphus. The mashtub will make him a 
 modern Midas and an M.P. He will give a Tempe- 
 rance Hall and a Working Men's Intellectual Insti- 
 tute to his native town ; become knighted ; and 
 bequeath, together with many thousand pounds ster- 
 ling, the real respectable hereditary gout to his 
 children. He and they will no doubt give according 
 to their gout and gold to the Devonshire Hospital, 
 which brings me back to Buxton, from whence I 
 ought not to have strayed. 
 
 I was anxious to remark, ere the demon of digres- 
 sion took possession of my pen, that when staying 
 at Buxton those two or three months, I met the 
 " oldest inhabitant," and he could give me a fresh 
 walk to a fresh place every day. Not long tiring 
 trips, mark you ; but short easy strolls, and every 
 morning a new walk. My friend has done more, 
 perhaps, for Buxton, more for her progress and pub- 
 lic improvements than any man, or any body of men, 
 in the neighbourhood. He has been the Haussmann 
 of the Peak. We that is a small coterie of con- 
 genial spirits who know something of the delights of
 
 KOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 165 
 
 the noctes caneeque deorum, knighted him out of 
 respect, " Sir John." He isn't " Sir" John, save 
 for the hearty heraldry of friendship ; but he ought 
 to be. There are, on the other hand, a great num- 
 ber of Sir Johns' who oughtn't to be ; so matters are 
 thus balanced. I have a rough diary of one or two 
 of the " tiny travels'" that Sir John took me in those 
 days, mere strolls to arouse the fames endendi, or 
 evening saunters before turning in for whist. That 
 diary started with the very best intentions of 
 presenting a full and faithful record of the year ; 
 but it fell off considerably from its early promise, as 
 most diaries do. What a barren history for instance 
 is this : " May 9th, warm natural bath (2s.) at St. 
 Ann's at eight ; breakfast at nine (ham and eggs 
 and coffee) ; lunch at one (chicken not tender) ; 
 dinner at six. Fifty sat down, which is rather good 
 for the Old Hall for May. Fine day ; but could not 
 get the Times." Here is another entry on a subse- 
 quent page : " May 29th. Bought bath ticket this 
 morning at shop under Colonnade." Speaking of the 
 sale of bath tickets, Sir John tells us a good story of 
 a Lancashire lad and his lass coming one Whit 
 Monday into the same shop. " Wiggin," " Bowton," 
 and "Blegburn," are masters of the situation at 
 Buxton at Whitsuntide. They used to repair to 
 Southport at this holiday season, until the sea retired
 
 166 BOTJND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 in disgust before their ardent addresses ; and now a 
 mournful steam-tram pier, which seems to stretch 
 half-way to America, must be traversed before you 
 can catch sight of the waves. The Mr. " Bowton" 
 of the story came into the dainty Colonnade shop. 
 He was decorated with a necktie that resembled in 
 its discordancy of hue an inebriated rainbow. His 
 amorata stood awkwardly behind in a festive shawl 
 and bonnet whose colours were sufficiently " warm"' 
 to justify the instant calling out of the local Fire 
 Brigade. 
 
 Quoth the elegant Mr. "Bowton." "Oi wants a 
 beth tickit." 
 
 "A lady's or a gentleman's ?" is the polite enquiry 
 from behind the counter, seeing that the applicant 
 is accompanied by a " lady." 
 
 An awkward pause. 
 
 "Is it a gentleman's ticket you require, sir ?" 
 
 " Noa. It's for ma." 
 
 But I am rambling without progressing. I think 
 I mentioned that Sir John found me a fresh walk 
 every day. We generally met in the Gardens. He 
 took such an interest in the birds that he could 
 summon round him by a low whistle all the ducks, 
 the water - hens, the Chinese geese, the coot, the 
 swan, and what not, off the water from a considerable 
 distance. The peacock, too, would come and peer
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 167 
 
 wistfully for Indian corn from his coat pocket ; the 
 trout would receive broken bread from his open palm ; 
 and as for the glossy pigeons I have seen their pretty 
 pink feet alight all over him, perch on his hat, fight 
 for a place on his shoulder, and stand in rows along 
 his outstretched arms. The Buxton pigeons are the 
 plumpest, prettiest, most prosperous birds I know. 
 They always remind me of the Pigeons of St. Mark 
 at Venice, that hover about the bronze well in the 
 courtyard of the Piazza. I have never been to 
 Venice, or beheld St. Mark's, or lingered in the 
 Piazza ; but still the Buxton birds remind me of 
 their Venetian cousins ; just as the Devonshire Dart, 
 or the Monmouthshire Wye, recalls the romantic 
 Rhine to people who have never visited the Father- 
 land. I think I said Sir John found me a fresh 
 walk every day. 
 
 The Corbar Woods, I mind me, was one of the 
 first spots to which I was introduced. Dear green 
 old Corbar ! First impressions go a long way and 
 last a long time ; and my early experience of the 
 deep peace, the secluded beauty, and the picturesque 
 charm of Corbar is only endorsed by each subsequent 
 visit. The wooded slope was, I thought, very steep 
 and sheer that morning, in the early summer time, 
 when first I clomb its sides ; but I was anxious to 
 "get up in the world" then; and what an ample
 
 168 ROUND AiVD ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 reward of far-stretching scenery did the wind-swept 
 summit bestow. Now I can find easy serpentine 
 paths tinder the labyrinth of leaves, and rustic seats 
 at intervals, where I can sit and listen to the tuneful 
 whisperings of the tremulous trees. Sir John did 
 not take the spirit of romance out of Corbar when 
 he told me that these plantations are laid over the 
 remains of an old gritstone quarry, which give the 
 rugged gorges that add to the wild charm of the 
 place. Corbar seems to have been invented by Pan 
 himself specially for lovers. Those narrow winding 
 walks beneath Gothic arches of green, with leaves of 
 lambent light above, shedding a tracery of chequered 
 shadow on the grass below, are just the paths for 
 whispered confidences and confessions ; for protests 
 and promises ; for youth and hope and love and 
 dreams. The foliage this early summer time is 
 unbudding ; there is a gentle hesitancy as to colour ; 
 in other trees there is that first translucent tint of 
 delicate green, as transient as it is tender. The 
 undergrowth is thick with uncurling ferns, and is 
 starred with primroses and forget-me-nots. The 
 latter might have sprung up in graceful compliment 
 to the romantic young people Phillidas and Cory- 
 dons that haunt the place. But I notice among 
 the forget-me-nots the yew tree. What does that 
 sombre growth in this sacred trysting place ? Ah,
 
 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 169 
 
 my brethren, the cypress comes quite as often as the 
 orange blossom in the history of young hearts ; and 
 that yew tree, I doubt not, could like Tennyson's 
 "Talking Oak" be eloquent of dreams that are 
 dissolved and ideals that are shattered, of broken 
 pledges, dead hopes, and the sad " might have beens." 
 Corbar has seen all the loyalty of love, and the 
 courage of constany, no doubt, " when girls were 
 girls and hearts were hearts ;" but it has beheld the 
 joke of the jilt, and the fatal flippancy of the flirt, 
 and witnessed Lady Clara Vere De Vere " break a 
 heart for pastime, ere she went to town." The 
 Saviour of Mankind was betrayed by a kiss ; and 
 many of his disciples have been since. 
 
 Leave we Armida's Garden, Celia's Arbour, 
 and the fateful Bower of Proserpine, for another 
 of Sir John's short strolls. Solomon's Temple ! 
 A place you would naturally associate with 
 oriental magnificence, with wealth and wisdom, 
 and the beautiful Queen of Sheba. But, as 
 Mr. Longfellow remarks, " things are not what they 
 seem." There is plenty of the " east " about 
 Solomon's Temple, but it is the " east wind ;" and 
 the bare mountain ridge overlooks miles of wild 
 moss and moor, and the shoulders of bleak, misty ; 
 hungry hills. Still it is a lovable spot for all that, 
 and seems to bid you come and climb its easy
 
 170 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 eminence and breathe the fluent blue air that bathes 
 its head. We are sure to meet and chat with two 
 or three pleasant people we know as we pass along 
 the Broad Walk. Having run this social blockade, 
 we take the path through the fields which brings us 
 to Grin Low, softly shaded with dark pine and fir. 
 It is grateful to saunter with pipe and a novel of 
 James Payn's through these deep wooded paths, to 
 rest on a felled tree, or a couch of rock cushioned 
 with moss. The shade of pine and fir makes a 
 " dim religious light ;" straight red columnar trunks 
 suggest cathedral pillars ; the branches arch in 
 retreating avenues ; there is a roof of green, with 
 patches of blue sky for window-panes ; ever and 
 anon the tremor of the wind is as the soft music of 
 a far-off choir. 
 
 A huge mass of stones on the top of the massy 
 hill, once forming a rude tower, is called Solomon's 
 Temple. The title is, of course, a ridiculous one. 
 It owes its origin, Sir John says, to the cairn 
 having been erected when the land was occupied 
 by one " Solomon " Mycock. Hence " Solomon's 
 Temple," applied with a caustic relish peculiar to 
 the tart yeomen of the Peak. The view from the 
 eminence of the Peaks of Axe Edge, Kinderscout, 
 Mam Tor, Lord's Seat, and Chelmorton Low, is a 
 dream of wild scenery ; while the thin buoyant air
 
 KOTJND AND ABOUT BT7XTON. 171 
 
 acts upon brain and nerve with instantaneous zest. 
 " Op'n thee mahth, Meary ; op'n thee mahth, an' 
 get aw't' air tba con !" is the advice attributed to be 
 given by a poor woman to her daughter in these 
 parts ; and Solomon's Temple is just the place for 
 such a lung bath. 
 
 Another walk, far less known than the others I 
 have indicated, Sir John once took me in May 
 time. Threading the Serpentine Grounds, we then- 
 struck along a path across the undulation of 
 meadow land that divides the Manchester and 
 Burbage Eoads. A white farm-house shines amid 
 a gloomy belt of firs on the hill right in front, 
 known as Watford. Tast this farm, and by the side 
 of the steep wood beyond, from which you can see 
 Buxton lying white and radiant in the sun, locked 
 in with the encroaching hills. One is in no hurry 
 to leave the sylvan seclusion of that deep old wood, 
 fragrant with fresh resinous odours. The lullaby of 
 leaves is music to the weary mind and the jaded 
 nerve. The gentle wind stirs a harp of pines, and 
 it responds in a sweetly sympathetic strain. The 
 sun is warm overhead ; there is the trill of birds in 
 the branches ; all around is the scent and colour of 
 wild-flowers. Turn your head which way you will 
 there is a green glade, a woody vista, ready made for 
 the artist. The walk is through a long lonely
 
 172 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 country road, called Bishop's Lane, since a by-gone 
 Colonial bishop once lived in yon house close by, that 
 is smothered in trees. And it is one of the most 
 deviously pretty lanes in the Peak. Hawthorn trees 
 line the path. Now they are in full white flower. 
 The air is heavy with their sweet intoxication. Just 
 an ideal lane ; a lane to loiter in and listen to the 
 birds, and pick up wild-flowers, and imagine you are 
 young again. 
 
 " The primrose takes a deeper hue, 
 
 The dewy grass a greener look; 
 
 The violet wears a deeper blue, 
 
 A lighter music leads the brooTf." 
 I am very sorry when the lane leads me out on to 
 the dusty highroad against Burbage Church, about 
 a mile from Buxton. Suppose we return the same 
 way. Come hawthorn fragrance ! come again deep 
 bowery wood ! 
 
 There is no place I can call to instant memory 
 -which is more immediately surrounded with " beauty 
 spots " than Buxton. It is the key to a hundred 
 picturesque places; the threshold of ever so many 
 scenic charms ; the centre of a number of natural 
 attractions. Belted with forest, wooded walks are 
 afforded in every direction. What a charming "bit" 
 of wood that is leading out of Ashwood Dale on the 
 left, and climbing, thickly carpeted with wild-flowers, 
 ;ip to Pig Tor. Here is a view worth coming many
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 173 
 
 miles to behold. You look sheer down from this 
 limestone scar on five distinct converging vales : a 
 startling coup d'ceil in landscape of exquisite beauty. 
 Close by here is Deep Dale, another favourite petit 
 pelerinage of Sir John's. Deep Dale branches off 
 the Ashwood Dale road on the opposite side and near 
 to Pig Tor. It is a deep, treeless, lifeless valley, 
 whose opposing sides dip sheer into the path that 
 winds at the bottom. Eugged and romantic through- 
 out, two or three curious caverns, without the 
 inevitable "guide," add to its attractions. I have 
 walked along its riven sides several times and never 
 met a human being. A capital carriage drive might 
 be made through it without much expense. . . . 
 Here you can gain access to Sterndale, a glorious 
 wooded walk, knee-deep in ferns and flowers. Few 
 visitors in Buxton ever discover it, yet it is close at 
 hand, steeped in poetry, a lyric of leafy loveliness. 
 . . . There are walks, too, round Fairfield not to 
 be despised. Seen under certain lights the golden 
 mellowness of an October sunset, or the red tinted 
 mist of a December afternoon the undulating com- 
 mon assumes a strange grey vastness and sense of 
 distance, that only a Turner, with his trick of 
 atmospheric glamour, and power of aerial perspective, 
 could hope to produce. I remember it in the tem- 
 pestuous twilight of a Christmas afternoon, when I
 
 174 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 had been skating on the pond there. Fog was 
 struggling with frost ; the plain then appeared like 
 a vast and billowy sea, whose waves were breaking 
 over a faint line of weird light reflected in the 
 eastern edge of the far horizon. The shadowy 
 church seemed like a spectral beacon tower ; the 
 white-washed houses on the edge of the common 
 became phantom fishermen's huts on the sounding 
 beach. In the grey dimness was a yellow speck of 
 light that might have been a ship's lamp. Every- 
 thing was in mysterious shadow. I never saw a 
 more suggestive, subdued, sad landscape. But for 
 strange atmospheric effects let me commend you, 
 Mr. Cobalt Blue, to the " Cat and Fiddle " on the 
 moors round Axe Edge. It is about six miles from 
 Buxton, this lonely hostelry among the hills ; but 
 there is a somewhat shorter cut by the lower road, 
 which has the added charm of a savage wilderness. 
 You often get a sea of pearly cloud below you, 
 shrouding in soft fleeces of white many a mountain 
 cone, rounded knoll, and pointed peak, while the sky 
 is blue and bright above. It is pleasant to walk 
 out to these western moors in the waning sunset 
 light, and to see the fading fire sink again and again 
 behind the hilly ridges to re-appear as soon as you 
 gain their summits, thus giving you a succession of 
 sunsets and sunrises ; and then as you turn back
 
 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 175 
 
 and see the moon rising over the yellow lights of 
 Buxton, a mere hint of a town in the hollow, the 
 return journey is full of artistic charm. The 
 "Cat" is just one mile in Cheshire; so it is 
 a Cheshire cat, and grins in the most approved 
 Cheshire cat style. The "Cat" stands low- 
 spreading and four-square against the winds. 
 No wider or wilder moors could surround a 
 human dwelling. Hills rise above hills ; rocks 
 oppose rocks ; moors mingle in moors. There are 
 valleys within valleys : hollows hide hollows. The 
 prevailing tint is grey ; but in the conflagration 
 of a stormy sunset there is a study of intense 
 tints a spread of fiery splendour that the boldest 
 artist would hesitate to attempt. ... Sir Walter 
 Scott, by the way, places the " Cat and Fiddle " 
 miles away from its site. The author of the 
 " Peveril of the Peak " never was in the Peak, and it 
 is difficult to trace Castleton at all by his description 
 of the place. But no matter. The northern Ariosto, 
 in dealing with his own country, made of Roseneath 
 an island. It is consoling to know that " Homer 
 sometimes nods," since it allows the humble scrib- 
 bler to take his "forty winks." 
 
 Poole's cavern, perhaps, hardly belongs to " Un- 
 discovered Derbyshire." The cheap-tripper is its 
 greatest patron ; but it is, indeed, worthy of more
 
 176 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 intellectual visitors. Sometime ago, the present 
 writer was staying at a little hostelry in Millers' 
 Dale, with Christopher Kenrick, the popular novelist, 
 better known as the " King of Bohemia." His gifted 
 artistic daughter was stealing away each day on 
 her sympathetic canvas (to take away to the great 
 city) such cool suggestive glimpses of rock and river, 
 hidden clough and hanging cliff, dreamy " bits " of 
 water-wheel and little studies of cottage life. His- 
 scientific son was out among the ravines with his 
 geological hammer, and coming in laden with so 
 much indifferent building material, which he turned 
 over with the gentle love which one might spend 
 upon sapphires and diamonds. A chip of old 
 millstone grit gave him a feverish felicity; a genuine 
 bit of Blue John was as a foretaste of heaven ; while 
 an atom of dirty bitumen was bliss ineffable. Hand- 
 Bome Mrs. Christopher Kenrick, was, I think, pining 
 for Piccadilly Circus ; for the cooking at our inn wa& 
 not the most dainty, and there was another draw- 
 back to our delight. It was a picturesque spot. 
 But angels have faults, and there was one discordant 
 note in the sweet harmony of Millers' Dale, one bar 
 sinister in the glorious heraldry, one blot upon the 
 pretty picture, one disfiguring cloud in the bright 
 sunshine, one bitter flavour in the way of our 
 happiness. Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! and a noise of
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 177 
 
 falling rock that reverberates like sullen thunder. 
 They are at it again those utilitarian limestone 
 quarrying men. They are despoiling the grand old 
 cliff opposite, robbing the hills of their Alpine 
 beauty. All day long the bombardment continues. 
 All day long there is the smoke from the lime-kilns. 
 Night brings no cessation of the din. One can surely 
 now appreciate John Euskin's righteous wrath 
 against all these Limestone Quarry Companies 
 (Limited) who are defrauding the scenery of its 
 greatest charm, tearing the graceful rocks in twain, 
 and filling the air with smoke and explosion. If you 
 want to see Millers' Dale, come at once, before it is 
 gone. It is perilous now to venture up to Chee 
 Dale by the Wye side. A new quarrying Company 
 have commenced operations in the midst of Arcadia 
 itself, and a warning in white paint on a black board 
 tells you of the danger of proceeding up the river 
 path. Millers' Dale will soon be destroyed, its 
 sylvan seclusion murdered. Topley Pike is being 
 reduced day by day to something closely resembling 
 a rammel heap. Where will these despoilers stop ? 
 Chee Tor, now, contains many cubic feet of mag- 
 nificent limestone. So does the High Tor at 
 Matlock Bath. Fortunately, Mam Tor at Castleton 
 ia not limestone; but Pickering Tor at Dove Dale 
 
 would prove a lucrative " working." The next 
 
 M
 
 178 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 generation will, peradventure, see these old glories of 
 our Derbyshire Dales measured out for destruction. 
 Their names, perhaps, will soon become a mere 
 tradition. Oh, yes, it is good for trade I grant you, 
 gentlemen, and Capital is power. Peg away, Mr. 
 Gradgrind. Yes, Sir, Facts, Sir. Away with senti- 
 ment. Sentiment is, of course, a mistake. Hurry 
 up your trucks, Mr. Alderman Cute. These "tors" 
 must be " put down." It is all for the good of the 
 country; and are we not a " nation of shopkeepers?" 
 It was, I remark, a picturesque spot. I revive the 
 picture. A weedy old waterwheel mixed up among 
 the trees on the banks of the Wye, just where a 
 landscape painter would have placed it. Limestone 
 cliffs rise from the water in a curve of grey and green. 
 The little reckless river, which has just slipped from 
 the cold restraint of its stony-hearted father Axe 
 Edge at Buxton, is running away to sea, like a 
 truant schoolboy, as fast as it can past weeping trees 
 and obstructing rocks. Everything outside is fresh 
 and green. The trees wear their first tender bridal 
 sheen of green. There are spring flowers on the 
 river margin. A blue moth sails past like a hare-bell 
 with wings. The flowers in the tangled bank are 
 like butterflies; the butterflies are like flowers. A 
 mayfly came sailing into the room just now. It 
 came in with a breeze that had just kissed the
 
 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 179 
 
 swathes of new mown hay. A river keeper in 
 velveteens drops in to gossip about the trout, and to 
 tell us how the hard winter had killed the fish. He 
 says the melted snow from the mountains afflicted 
 them with a strange disease. They sickened and 
 died, and the speckled beauties were brought up from 
 the river-bed in buckets full. 
 
 The river shines through the trees. Its music 
 comes through the open window. Sun and shadow 
 change the valley into a thousand different pictures 
 during the day. In the early morning, Christopher 
 Kenrick and myself find a secluded pool by a moss- 
 grown bridge that invites us to plunge into the heart 
 of its cool depths. 
 
 " Those brilliant sunny mornings ivhen we tumbled out of 
 
 bed, 
 Ami hurried on a few rough clotlies, ami to the river 
 
 sped ! 
 Wliat laughing joyaunce hung about tJiose merry days 
 
 agonc, 
 
 We clove the rushing torrent at the early flush of dawn I 
 * Tremendous lieaders ' took we in the waters bright and 
 
 clear, 
 And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off 
 
 oldBlankton Weir. 
 
 Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine, 
 
 As when we lounged in tliat old yimt and played with 
 
 rod and line ? 
 'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we 
 
 quaffed,
 
 180 BOUND AND ABOTTT BUXTON. 
 
 As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, 
 
 and laughed : 
 
 Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear, 
 For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream, that floived 
 
 through Blan'kton Weir. 
 
 And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and brigh t, 
 Wliat songs we sang whose voices rang that lovely 
 
 summer night. 
 Wliere are the heart]] voices now who trolled these tjood 
 
 old lays ? 
 
 And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days ? 
 Come back, tliat night of long ago! Come back, the 
 
 moonlight clear ! 
 Wlicn hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old 
 
 Blan'kton Weir." 
 
 But touching Poole's Hole. Sir John found us out 
 and we were inveigled over to Buxton. Christopher 
 Kenrick insisted on seeing Poole's Hole. It was his 
 first visit to this really grotesque geological miracle. 
 Pending the arrival of that ship of mine, which has 
 been so long overdue, and which has so frequently 
 been delayed by the "trade-winds," and so often 
 " sprung a leak," I should not object to rent a 
 cavern like this Poole's Hole. It must be quite a 
 mine of wealth to Mr. Kedfern, who rents the inter- 
 esting excavation from the Duke of Devonshire. 
 Men may come, and men may go, but the sixpences 
 come to Mr. Eedfern's turnstile for ever. Outside 
 the Hole are some tea-garden trumperies, white 
 figure-heads of ships from Liverpool, and two-penny-
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 181 
 
 (half-penny horrors in statuary whose precise con- 
 nection with geology it would be difficult to determine. 
 But the whole is good change for the entrance fee. 
 There is a curious Museum of odd, out of-the-way 
 prints and pictures, and a collection of fossils, coins, 
 -and relics of the Stone Age, the Koman Occupation, 
 and the Saxon Period, dug up from one time to 
 another in the cavern by Mr. Eedfern, who is an 
 intelligent curator. The latter are suggestive com- 
 mentaries upon history. They make a reflective 
 man think. What a rush of history occurs when 
 you pick up that little stone lamp, which once, 
 perhaps, lit a Eoman maiden to bed, but which was 
 extinguished for ever, before the birth of Christ ! 
 And what are your speculations, my friend, as you 
 look with curious eye upon that jaw of white shining 
 masculine teeth, imbedded in that piece of limestone 
 rock? Here are human bones of all periods and 
 ages. Sir John violates our reverie by profanely 
 suggesting what a confusion of bones there will be 
 at the Last Day when those labelled limbs upon 
 which scientists now speculate, will be rushing to 
 find their companions in osteology, and that skullery 
 of heads will start off in search of the missing 
 trunks. There is some black old furniture, too, 
 dating back some hundreds of years. Here is the 
 original Old Grandfather's Clock still going, "tick,
 
 182 ROUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 tack, tick, tack," although it is three hundred years 
 since its rude wheels were first set in motion. Here 
 moreover, is an old bedstead, ancient enough to be 
 the bed of Procrustes. A heavy over-hanging 
 canopy is suspended over the head, like the threat- 
 ening sword of Damocles. A date of the sixteenth 
 century is carved on the bed, together with grinning- 
 cartoon faces that are enough to frighten you out of 
 your sleep by their Satanic leer. Here, too, is an 
 old oak desk, whose worm-eaten drawers must have 
 contained many an old family secret, and enshrined 
 many a sturdy yeoman's " last will and testament." 
 
 But the greatest curiosity Mr. Kedfern produces- 
 is the guide. I hate guides. They ought to be 
 suppressed by Act of Parliament. They render 
 Matlock miserable, and make Castleton a cruelty. 
 But there are guides everywhere and guides there 
 always have been. Mark Twain insists that " within 
 " a hundred years after Adam left Eden, the guide 
 " probably gave the usual general flourish with his 
 " hand and said : ' Place where the animals were 
 "named, ladies and gentlemen; place where the 
 " tree of the forbidden fruit stood ; exact spot where 
 " Adam and Eve first met ; and here, ladies and 
 " gentlemen, adorned and hallowed by the names and 1 
 " addresses of three generations of tourists, we have the 
 " crumbling remains of Cain's altar fine old ruin ! "*
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 183 
 
 But stay! our Guide is waiting to escort us to 
 the Cavern. Button up your coat, I beg of you. 
 How cold it is ! We seem to have stepped at once 
 from the torrid zone to the glacial mean. The 
 cicerone is a small boy with a big voice. A fierce 
 falsetto voice. The basest treble voice I ever heard. 
 
 " Whose Hole is this ? " asks Christopher Kenrick 
 with solemn curiosity. 
 
 " Poole's Hole," says the small boy. 
 
 " Fool's Hole ? " remarks Christopher gravely. 
 
 " Poole's Hole," exclaims the big voice pitched 
 to a shriek. 
 
 "Ah, yes, Poole's Hole. His 'den,' in fact. Is 
 it Mr. Poole, the author of Paul Pry ; or Mr. Poole, 
 the tailor of Saville Eow ? Are you Mr. Poole's son, 
 my boy ? " 
 
 The juvenile stares. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Poole ? Is he at home ? " 
 
 Another stare that reaches over the boy's face 
 and spreads itself all over Buxton. 
 
 " Is he dead ? " asks our friend sorrowfully. 
 
 " Yes, mony a year. He wor a bandit, 'undreds 
 o' years ago." 
 
 " What did he die of ? " 
 
 " Dunno." 
 
 " ' Derbyshire throat,' maybe ? " 
 
 This banter was continued until the Small Boy
 
 184 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 
 
 gave Christopher Kenrick over as a monster of crass 
 ignorance. Then we proceeded to explore the weird 
 darkness and spectral formations of the curious 
 cavern, with its Kembrandt-like shadows and Dante 
 horrors. But the demon of unbelieving levity had 
 been aroused in Christopher Kenrick's bosom, and 
 would not be still. The guide began the description 
 which I had heard a dozen times before. He gave 
 it without the variation of a word, or the change of 
 a gesture. He showed us stalactites and stalagmites, 
 encrinites and ammonites. 
 
 "Have you any Adullamites? They hide them- 
 selves in caves," said Christopher Kenrick in a voice 
 of innocent enquiry. 
 
 " Here are some," said the boy, pointing out a 
 cluster of fossils that bore no flattering likeness to 
 Mr. Lowe and Mr. Horsman : that " party of two," 
 which bore so striking a resemblance to the young 
 lady's terrier, " which was so covered with hair that 
 you could not tell which was the head and which was 
 the tail of it," to quote John Bright's irresistible 
 description. 
 
 " Here you will see the resemblance to a dome," 
 said the shrill voice, as its owner pointed a species 
 of lamplighter's stick to the wet roof. 
 
 "Where ? I cannot see it," said C. K., earnestly. 
 
 " There !" responded the boy with furious emphasis,
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 185 
 
 astonished at finding his oft-repeated descriptions 
 for once challenged. The most excruciatingly 
 ridiculous names have been bestowed upon the 
 stalactite and stalagmite petrifications. " Here you 
 see the resemblance to a poached egg." Again we 
 objected to the comparison. We could not discern, 
 the similitude. A serious crisis was reached when 
 we stopped at another winding in the wet vault, and 
 the little boy with the large voice turned on a jet of 
 economical gas, and said : 
 
 "Here you see the resemblance to the hind part 
 of an elephant." 
 
 Christopher Kenrick adjusted his eye-glass and 
 scrutinised the petrification critically. 
 
 " No, my boy, this will not do. You are too rude. 
 Trot the animal round and show us his tusks. You 
 are positively indecent." 
 
 Presently came " Mary Queen of Scots' Pillar." 
 
 "What was that?" asked Mr. Kenrick, as if he 
 had missed an important announcement. 
 
 The guide repeated the description. 
 
 " And what" indignantly " did Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, do here, boy ?" 
 
 " She came to Buxton to get cured of rheumatism." 
 
 " Yes, yes. We know all about that," Christopher 
 Kenrick rejoined. "But what was this Queen's 
 particular business with regard to this pillar?"
 
 186 KOUND AND ABOUT BT7XTON. 
 
 " She leaned agen it, sur." 
 
 " Leaned against that damp, dirty stone ! Im- 
 possible ! Did she wear a mackintosh ? Perhaps not. 
 How imprudent. She might well have rheumatism." 
 
 The boy regarded it as a really serious question. 
 But we could not preserve our gravity any longer ; 
 and when next the shrill voice announced : 
 
 " Here you see the resemblance, &e.," Christopher 
 Kenrick put his hand in his pocket, and imitating 
 the boy's falsetto voice, said : 
 
 "Here you see a remarkable resemblance to a 
 shilling ;" and the juvenile Troglodyte at once saw 
 the likeness, and as he pocketed the coin, we left the 
 cavern and entered the waves of warm air outside, 
 now apparently parched as the atmosphere of a 
 Turkish bath. 
 
 The dark rushing water that lends such poetic 
 horror to Poole's Cavern is theKiverWye. Its baby 
 life is one of trouble. It only runs away from the 
 grim Axe Edge, to get lost in the mysterious gloom 
 of this great cavern. Nearly frightened to death, it 
 escapes from this gruesome vault to be tortured in 
 the Buxton Gardens into unnatural leaps and wind- 
 ings. The dirty coal-measures of Burbage then 
 take the shining colour from its young face, and 
 daub it with a sickly ochre. Then it is inveigled 
 under the town of Buxton through slimy holes
 
 BOUND AND ABOUT BUXTON. 187 
 
 where sewage poison takes away its health. Strange 
 that it should outlive all this ill-treatment to make of 
 Millers' Dale a romance, and of Monsal Dale a 
 dream, where one could almost sigh for the revival 
 of the classic days, so that one might turn river-god, 
 or naiad, to revel in the crystal current as it makes 
 music under the crags, and mirrors fern and foliage 
 and flower bending low and lovingly to see their 
 reflected beauty in its liquid light.
 
 CHATSWORTH 
 
 AS A 
 
 TREASURE-HOUSE OF ART. 
 
 " Chatsworth ! thy stately -mansion ami the pride 
 Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
 To house and home in many a craggy rent 
 Of the wild, Peak ; where new-born ivaters glide 
 Through fields wliose thrifty occupants abide 
 As in a dear and chosen banishment, 
 With every semblance of entire content." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 I am, for this day only, the Guide to Chatsworth. 
 My service to you, ladies and gentlemen. This way, 
 if you please. Did I conduct the readers of The 
 Magazine of Art through the palace of the Peak 
 corporally, instead of in the spirit, I am afraid my 
 ill-trained voice would only reach a few of the fore- 
 most fringe of the good people pressing to see the 
 art-treasures of the palace. Indeed, the great house 
 itself would hardly hold the throng, which would 
 spread over the green acres of the glorious park, and
 
 CHATSWOETH. 189 1 
 
 cause the General Manager of the Midland Eailway 
 Company to run a special service of trains to- 
 Eowsley station, the threshold of Chatsworth. But, 
 donning the cap of Fortunio, and assuming the stilts 
 of Asmodeus, I ask you to follow me invisibly. It 
 shall be my endeavour to repay the honour by being- 
 as unguide-like a guide as possible, neither repeating- 
 cut-and-dried descriptions, like a parrot with a 
 mechanical memory, nor bursting forth at inoppor- 
 tune moments with inapposite quotations of un- 
 punctuated poetry. But here are the keys, and I 
 present you my service again ; together with a 
 welcome to Chatsworth in the name of His Grace 
 the Duke of Devonshire, E.G., whose liberal spirit 
 fences the place round with no selfish exclusiveness, 
 but throws open both park and palace so freely that 
 one is like a public picnic-ground, and the other is 
 more suggestive of a popular museum than a 
 princely mansion. 
 
 One or two of our party are loitering behind 
 among the green glories of the park, I see. We 
 must forgive them for lingering among such leafy 
 loveliness. However poetical may be the landscapes 
 that brighten the walls of Chatsworth, none can be 
 so fascinating as the pictures framed by the gilded 
 windows of the house. Vignettes, these of wood 
 and water, rock and river the soft acres of the
 
 190 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 park, with the fallow deer wandering among the 
 soothing shadows of gnarled old trees ; the dark 
 wooded masses of hill flanking the ducal mansion, 
 topped with a wind-swept shooting-tower; the 
 Derwent gliding through the wide meadows fronting 
 the house, the river here showing white and broken 
 water over a weir, there shining in still pools under 
 overhanging branches ; the House itself starting 
 with fluted columns from the bosom of the scene, 
 a stately mass of beautiful buff stone, which the 
 tinting hand of time has toned down to an harmoni- 
 ous cream colour that contrasts with the green 
 gloom of the forest foliage behind ; the Peak country 
 climbing up to the sky in the picturesque perspective. 
 " How old is the present house?" Well, the existing 
 mansion only dates from the latter half of the 
 seventeenth century, being built by that William 
 Cavendish, Earl of Devonshire, who played so heroic 
 a part in the Revolution of 1688, and who retired to 
 Chatsworth from an historic criminal information 
 and employed his time as Lord Macaulay phrases 
 it "in turning the old Gothic mansion of his family 
 into an edifice worthy of Palladio." " His magnifi- 
 cence," says the same historian, " his taste, his 
 talents, his classic learning, his high spirit, 
 and the urbanity of his manners, were admitted 
 by his enemies." Chatsworth House is, indeed,
 
 CHATSWORTH. 191 
 
 the monument of that munificent nobleman. He 
 scarcely survived the completion of the palatial 
 pile twelve months. Dr. White Kennett, the Bishop 
 of Peterborough, in preaching the funeral discourse 
 of the departed Duke, said the prodigious expense 
 incurred in the structure of the building was the least 
 expense "if regard be made to his gardens, water- 
 works, statues, pictures, and other the finest pieces 
 of art and nature that could be obtained abroad or 
 at home." The Duke appears to have engaged the 
 best contemporary artists of the day in the em- 
 bellishment of his Derbyshire mansion. The classic 
 allegories on wall and ceiling are the conceits of such 
 painters as Verrio, Laguerre, Sir James Thornhill, 
 Richard Highmore, Price, and Huyd. The chief 
 worker in iron was M. Tijou, whose daughter was 
 the wife of Laguerre. The carving was divided 
 between Cibber, Watson, M. Nadould, Geeraerslius, 
 Harris, Xost, Davies, M. Auriol, Lobb, and Lans- 
 croon. William Talman and Sir Christopher Wren 
 were the architects. William Cavendish's successors 
 have enlarged the building, and enhanced decade by 
 decade its art-glories. The northern wing was 
 erected by the late Duke. Some of you may, 
 perhaps, contend that the architectural tont-emcnible 
 of the Ionic facade is not improved by the addition. 
 The house is like a body with only one arm. A
 
 192 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 wing on the other side is wanted to give the building 
 completeness and perfect repose. The old house 
 was one of the prisons of Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 The captive princess was then in the custody of the 
 Earl of Shrewsbury. In the park there is a sombre 
 bower, with a moat, which is linked with her name 
 and misfortunes. As, however, there is scarcely an 
 ancestral seat in the kingdom but what is said to 
 have served as a place of durance for the northern 
 queen, her association with Chatsworth has no 
 particular charm. More interesting, you will think, 
 is the testimony of another illustrious prisoner 
 which relates to the present pile. The captive was 
 Marshall Tallard, who submitted to the Duke of 
 Marlborough at Blenheim. He was kept a prisoner 
 in England for some years, and spent a short time 
 at Chatsworth. The compliment he paid the reign- 
 ing Duke, when he left hia hospitalities, was worthy 
 of a Frenchman. " My Lord Duke," he said, "when 
 I compute the days of my captivity in England, I 
 shall leave out those I have passed at Chatsworth." 
 If it please you, we will now enter the house itself. 
 The entrance hall is not a chamber of imposing 
 proportions, nor does a stately staircase meet the 
 view over which you can work yourselves up into 
 raptures. The ceiling glows with a copy of Guide's 
 "Aurora," the work of Miss Curzon. That is a
 
 CHATSWORTH. 193 
 
 statue of Domitian; these are busts of Homer, 
 Jupiter, Ariadne, Socrates, and Caracalla. A corri- 
 dor with floor of inlaid marble gives access to the 
 great hall, a truly noble apartment extending the 
 entire length of the eastern side of the quadrangle. 
 The floor is of black and white and veined marble, 
 artistic in design, and exquisite in polish. There 
 is much that is interesting in this superb hall. 
 Inspect the immense marble table in the centre of 
 the room. It is of Derbyshire marble, as also is the 
 massive chimney-piace. The tablet surrounding the 
 fireplace gives in a sentence the history of Chats- 
 worth House. The inscription is in tedious Latin ; 
 but the translation reads, " These well-beloved ances- 
 tral halls begun in the year of English Freedom 
 1688, William Spencer, Duke of Devonshire, inherited 
 in 1814, and completed in the year of Sorrow 
 1840." The "year of sorrow" is an allusion to the 
 death of the much-loved and lamented wife of the 
 present Duke. The walls and ceilings of this spacious 
 chamber are enriched by Laguerre and Verrio, in a 
 series of vast paintings illustrative of episodes in the 
 life of Julius Cresar, with colossal characters, like 
 the prodigious Petera and Pauls that Sir James 
 Thornhill (whose work we shall presently meet) 
 painted suspended in a basket two or three hundred 
 feet high m the dizzy dome of St. Paul's, or standing
 
 194 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 on a frail platform up in the empyrean, covering 
 with classic gods areas of ceiling and staircase greater 
 than the Flemish ells of theatrical scene-painters.* 
 There are bronzes, and other objects of artistic 
 interest, in this grand hall, and on the exterior are 
 some notable stone carvings in alto-relievo by 
 Watson. 
 
 Leaving the hall, and passing down a corridor 
 containing some cabinet pictures, Swiss views, and 
 an exterior by Hogarth, the chapel is before us. 
 Here all that painting, sculpture, and carving can 
 do to enrich a room with artistic beauty has been 
 elaborately employed. The sacred room is fragrant 
 with the smell of cedar-wood with which the walls 
 are wainscoted, and of which the reading-desk is 
 
 * " In or out of our Eoyal Academy, we have not a single 
 painter sufficiently acquainted with the geometrical 
 canons of foreshortening and concave perspective to paint 
 a ceiling. Those canons are clearly and explicitly laid 
 down in scores of books published in the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries; but those books find no English 
 students. We console ourselves for our impotence by 
 repeating Pope's pert sneer about the sprawling saints of 
 Verrio and Laguerre, and by preparing to scrub out Sir 
 James Thornhill's paintings from the dome of St. Paul's. 
 We choose, in our complacent ignorance, to forget that the 
 grandest achievement of pictorial art in the whole world 
 is the painted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican." 
 George Augustus ffala: "Paris Herself Again." Vol. I., 
 Page 90.
 
 CHATSWOBTH. 195 
 
 composed. The floor is of black and white marble 
 in mosaic work. The altar is made of the finest 
 Derbyshire spars and marbles, with sculptured 
 figures of Faith and Hope, the work of Caius Gabriel 
 Cibber, the father of the lanreate-poet. The same 
 sculptor executed the celebrated figures of " Madness" 
 and "Melancholy" over the gates of Bedlam, which 
 his son Colley refers to as "the brazen, brainless 
 brothers." There are exquisite sculpturings round 
 the altar, and ornamental wood-carvings by Grinling 
 Gibbons, more of whose skilful work we shall soon 
 encounter. The fine painting over the altar of " The 
 Incredulity of St. Thomas" is Laguerre's. The same 
 artist, together with Verrio, has filled the upper 
 walls and ceiling with Scriptural scenes. As we 
 leave the room pause to look at the wood-carving 
 over the door of Cupids with musical instruments, 
 with the entwined vase of flowers and foliage. 
 
 Now the house is all before us where to choose. 
 I need not be tediously topographical in describing 
 the position of the various suites of apartments, 
 nor need we go over them in any classified order. 
 Sketches before pictures. Let us visit the sketch 
 gallery. It contains the largest private collection 
 of original studies by old Masters in existence. The 
 collection was amassed by the second Duke, the 
 nucleus being secured at a great outlay at Rotterdam.
 
 196 CHATSWOETH. 
 
 dam. The gallery comprises two large apartments, 
 and the walls are completely covered with original 
 sketches, divided into departments the French, 
 German, Dutch, Bolognese, Florentine, Venetian, 
 and Eornan schools. The collection is so exhaus- 
 tively comprehensive that to merely mention the 
 names of the contributors would be to give a cata- 
 logue of all the old Masters. These interesting 
 drawings, some of them the initial experiments in 
 sepia, pencil, or crayon, of great masterpieces, de- 
 mand a whole day's thoughtful inspection ; but 
 they must be dismissed in a few minutes. Still 
 note, I beg of you, the spirited studies of figures 
 by Michael Angelo. They were for the ceiling of 
 the Sistine ChapeJ. There is a head of the Virgin 
 by Leonardo da Vinci. Eaffaelle's pencil contributes 
 the sketch for the picture by Pinturicchio at Sienna 
 of "JEneas Silvius kissing the foot of Pope Eugenius 
 IV. at the Council of Basle," the figure of St. Paul 
 for the cartoon of the " Sacrifice -at Lystra," the 
 original sketch for " St. Catherine" (the picture nov^ 
 in our National Gallery), " The Virgin and Child," 
 " Joseph discovering himself to bis Brethren," and 
 several others. Holbein is represented by such 
 examples as his " Fall of Phaeton," " The Last 
 Judgment," " Hagar and Ishmael," and " Diana 
 and Actaeon." Look, too, at the excellent specimens
 
 CHATSWORTH. 197 
 
 by Albert Diirer, Eubens, Eembrandt, Titian, Claude, 
 Vandyke, Salvator Rosa, and Correggio, the study of 
 which is an art-education. Adjoining the sketch 
 gallery, and really part of it, considerable space 
 is devoted to a choice collection of coloured 
 paintings of birds. The artist is not known, but 
 his acquaintance with the feathered tribe was large 
 and minute, for every species of bird is presented, 
 and the drawing and colouring are most merito- 
 rious in their fidelity and spirit. 
 
 Proceeding now to the state rooms, pause we at 
 the entrance for a moment to admire the collection 
 of specimens of ceramic art, represented by English 
 and foreign makers, and then to behold the striking 
 vista of the superb series of the -state apartments, 
 which occupies the whole length of the building. 
 The first room in this splendid suite is the dressing- 
 room. The floor, as in all the rooms before us, is 
 of polished oak parqueterie, in which the light is 
 reflected as in 'a mirror. The door cases are of 
 carved marble. It would be difficult for the most 
 constrained and prosaic of persons, for the coldest 
 professor of the nil admirari school, to describe the 
 state apartments at Chatswortb without falling into 
 the language of superlatives. One requires the ruby 
 adjectives that glitter in Ouida's or Lothair's 
 "jewelly haemorrhage of words" to express his
 
 198 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 sensations. The coved ceiling is adorned in the 
 centre with a painting of the flight of Mercury on his 
 mission to Paris, and on the coving aie groups 
 depictive of the arts and sciences. But the most 
 attractive feature is the wood - carving. Wood- 
 carving, indeed, may be said to be the distinguishing 
 characteristic of Chatsworth. It is sui generis, and 
 none but itself can furnish its own parallel. Here 
 is Grinling Gibbons' masterpiece. Horace Walpole 
 has described it. It is a group comprising a cravat 
 of point - lace, a woodcock, pendent leaves and 
 flowers, and a medal with a bust in relief. Exquisite 
 in its delicate clearness is the lace, while bird and 1 
 foliage are wrought with a skill that makes the work 
 indeed a cJief-tfauvre. It has been disputed whether 
 the carving in question really is the work of Gibbons. 
 More than one authority attributes it to the genius 
 of Samuel Watson, a Derbyshire craftsman, who^ 
 with Thomas Young, William Davies, and Joel Lobb, 
 shared with Gibbons much of the wood-carving at 
 Chatsworth. Over the doorway is another group of 
 carving, excellent in design and execution, represent- 
 ing a collection of carvers' tools globe, compass, 
 brace and bit, square, augers, chisels, gouges> 
 together with a bust. On the west side of the room 
 are several pendants and a group ; and before passing 
 on note that clever picture in mosaic, those artistic
 
 CHATSWOKTH. 199 
 
 Japanese cabinets, and the curious specimens of old 
 earthenware. Come we now to the old state bed- 
 room. t^VIore sights for the curious. Aurora 
 chases away Night in the coved ceiling in great 
 splendour of colour. Embossed leather of rich 
 arabesque pattern, heavily gilt, covers the walls. 
 The wood - carving again calls for admiration. 
 There are cabinets, vases, and old beakers that 
 would gladden the soul of a virtuoso; and there 
 is a particularly interesting model of the tomb of 
 Madame Langlan, at Hildebank, near Berne, in 
 which the spirits of the mother and her child are 
 seen bursting the barrier of their grave. This bed- 
 room has no bed. But no matter. There is a noble 
 state chair with ancient embroidery, marvellously 
 worked by a countess whose fingers now are dust ; 
 together with the coronation chairs and foot-stools 
 of George III. and Queen Charlotte, of William IV. 
 and Queen Adelaide, and shade of Sartor Resartus ! 
 the wardrobe of Louis XVI. The state music- 
 room : more wood-carving, more mythological gods 
 sprawling in allegorical clouds on more coved ceiling, 
 more embossed leather walls, this time relieved by 
 blue. Here is the vigorously painted portrait of the 
 first Duke of Devonshire, which is attributed to 
 Vansomer. But the special object of interest in this 
 room is a clever piece of painted delusion, executed
 
 200 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 on one of the double doors leading to the gallery. 
 It is a fiddle painted with such vraisemblance on the 
 door that, in the subdued light of the hajf-closed 
 door, it has all the appearance of a violin hanging 
 upon a peg. Everybody at first sight concludes it is 
 a rare old fiddle, a priceless Stradivarius, one of the 
 treasures of the place. Everybody is taken in by 
 the happy forgery, just as everybody is duped by the 
 deceptive paintings in the Museum at Brussels, from 
 the morbid yet marvellous brush of Wiertz. Some 
 people must touch like Thomas the incredulous 
 disciple before they can be brought to believe. The 
 tradition is that the fiddle was painted by Verrio to 
 deceive Gibbons, who, in one of his carvings, had 
 deceived Verrio. How anecdotes of art repeat them- 
 selves. Century endorses century. Did not Apelles 
 induce a horse to neigh in recognition of the steed 
 he had drawn? Did not Zeuxis imitate fruit so 
 closely that the birds came and pecked at his painted 
 grapes ; and was he not himself deceived by thinking 
 the painted curtain of Parrhasius real? Another 
 exquisite carving is a feather by Watson. It is as 
 light as swansdown. A gentle zephyr, you might 
 almost think, would ruffle the hard wood. 
 
 Here we are in the state drawing-room. The walls 
 are hung with Gobelin's tapestry from the cartoons 
 of Baffaelle, representing Jupiter and Antiope with
 
 CHATSWORTH. 201 
 
 the Muses on Parnassus. Phaeton is driving the 
 horses of the sun across the ceiling with much spirit. 
 The principal wood-carving is a military trophy. 
 The sumptuousness of the appointments in this 
 room gives one a sense of overpowering splendour on 
 the brain. The furniture is richly carved and gilt. 
 There is old china that would drive an ordinary 
 collector wild with envy. There are cabinets of 
 ebony and ormolu of great beauty. Behold, in addi- 
 tion, this table of sea-green. It is of pure malachite, 
 rarest of minerals, and is the largest in the world. 
 Look, too, at this table of polished black marble 
 inlaid with a mosaic of various coloured marbles, 
 forming a wreath of flowers lilies of the valley, 
 convolvuluses, wild roses, blue-bells. The effect on 
 the black ground is charming. Here is a copy of 
 the Venus de Medici in marble displayed in the 
 centre of a round ottoman. In the state dining- 
 room, which next awaits your inspection, the ceiling 
 is done by Verrio. It is a conception in classic 
 allegory of the Fates cutting the thread of life, and 
 is regarded by competent critics as one of the best 
 paintings of the kind. There is an embarrass de 
 ricliesse of choice wood-carving that almost palls 
 upon one by its profusion. Do not let me hurry 
 you through this apartment. Look at the fragile 
 delicacy of the festoons of flowers in the panelling
 
 202 CHATSWOKTH. 
 
 of the wainscoted walls ; turn your attention to the 
 doorways : over that docrway a group of leaves and 
 corn, over the other two entrances groups of crabs, 
 lobsters, fish, and shells. Then admire we the fire- 
 place. Framing that octagonal tablet is the triumph 
 of the wood-carver's art. It is a study of dead game. 
 The summit is crowned with heron, pheasants, 
 grouse, and other birds. Over these the net of the 
 snarer is dexterously thrown. This, hanging down 
 the sides of the tablet, forms festoons on which 
 suspend snipe, quails, partridges, and pheasants. 
 Each bird is a picture. Feathered wing and soft 
 plumage are produced with a fidelity to nature which 
 bewilders the spectator by its absolute perfection. 
 Yes, I should say that this is no doubt wrought by 
 the crafty hand of Grinling Gibbons, although the 
 criticasters, who would deprive Shakespeare of the 
 authorship of " Hamlet," and would persuade we 
 puzzled Philistines that the statues of Praxiteles 
 were done by vicarious assistants, are of opinion 
 that the work was shared by the other carvers in 
 wood to whom I referred a few minutes ago. Did 
 not Horace Walpole write : " There is no evidence 
 of a man before Gibbons who gave to wood the loose 
 and airy lightness of flowers, and chained together 
 the various productions of the elements with a free 
 disorder natural to each species ?" The busts in
 
 CHATSWORTH. 203 
 
 this room are by Chantrey and Nollekens of the 
 Emperor Nicholas of Russia and his Consort, Fox, 
 Canning, the Duke of Bedford, and others. On the 
 central table is the rosary of Henry VIII., together 
 with ivory carvings, silver filigree, and antique 
 bronzes. There is a clock in pure malachite, the 
 gift of the late Emperor Nicholas, and a charming 
 marble model of the Victoria Eegia. Carved marble 
 doorways give access to the grand staircase. Here 
 is a room worthy of a visit from the fact that when 
 the doors are closed the entire apartment is a picture, 
 the whole surf ace from floor to ceiling, doors included, 
 presenting one painting. The subject is " The Rape 
 of the Sabines." 
 
 Now we proceed to the grand drawing-rooms (we 
 have left the state apartments now). Here are 
 several notable acquisitions of art. Among pictures 
 is Sir Joshua Reynolds' portrait of "The Beautiful 
 Duchess " of Devonshire. There is a powerful head 
 of a Jewish Rabbi by Rembrandt, and Titian gives a 
 full-length portrait of Philip II. There are fine 
 portraits, too, of the Archbishop of Spalatro, and of 
 the Admiral Nicola Capella, in Tintoretto's best 
 manner. Holbein gives us a striking full-length of 
 bluff King Hall; and here is a life-size portrait from 
 life of Mary, Queen of Scots, by Zucchero, certainly 
 one of the most pleasing of the presentments thafc
 
 204 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 iavecome down to usof the pathetic Scottish princess. 
 There is, farther, an expressive portrait of Charles 
 I. as a young man by Cornelius Jansen; while 
 Dobson gives us the Duke of Albemarle. There are 
 several striking family portraits, one by Vandyke, 
 another by Kneller. Observe, likewise, the unfinished 
 picture by Sir Joshua of Georgina, Countess Spencer, 
 and her daughter Georgina, afterwards the Duchess 
 of Devonshire. The noble lady is almost a finished 
 portrait, but the child's face is amusingly inchoate. 
 At the end of the room is the Hebe of Canova. 
 It is a poet's dream of beauty and grace. The spot- 
 less daughter of Jupiter and Juno is descending from 
 the skies, and lightly touches with one foot the 
 throne of Love. In her left hand she holds a cup ; 
 in the right is a pitcher from which she is pouring 
 out a libation of nectar for a festival of the gods. 
 In purity of conception and skill in execution this is 
 a masterpiece of chiselled loveliness. The attitude 
 is at once easy and animated, and has all the " soft 
 Paganism " of the Italian master while not lacking 
 in nerve and force. 
 
 "Here stands the statue that enchants the world," 
 -wrote the Poet Kogers of the Venus de Medici. The 
 Chatsworth Hebe runs the Florentine statue very 
 closely in the contest of surpassing beauty. Chats- 
 worth is rich in classic chimney-pieces, but the two
 
 1 CHATSWOKTH. 205- 
 
 in the dining-room are particularly notable. Both 
 are of large dimensions, and executed hi the purest 
 Carrara marble. One is the work of Westmacott 
 the younger, and is embellished with life-size 
 figures of Bacchus and Bacchante. Sievier con- 
 tributes the other, and in this Bacchus is crowned 
 with vine-leaves, and an attendant priestess is 
 replenishing his wine-cup. A Hopton marble plinth,- 
 of beautiful colour and lustre, surrounds this apart- 
 ment ; the doorways are of African marble and 
 Siberian jasper. Family portraits adorn the walls. 
 Now, if you please, the picture gallery, the library, 
 and the sculpture gallery await our attention. 
 
 We will first visit the Gallery of Paintings, the 
 ceiling of which is painted boldly and well by Sir 
 James Thornhill, who regarded art by the acre, and 
 was the master of one, William Hogarth, a pupil 
 who showed his gratitude to his Gamaliel by running 
 away with his daughter, Mistress Jane. It is not a 
 wild supposition to conjecture that Hogarth himself 
 had something to do with the " historico-allegorico- 
 mural decorations" of Chatsworth while he was serving; 
 his apprenticeship under the King's Sergeant -Painter 
 and M.P. The present apartment occupies two sides 
 of the quadrangle, and a profitable hour may be 
 devoted by the earnest art student to its canvases. 
 Here is the original of a picture, with which-
 
 206 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 engravings have made you all familiar, and you ap- 
 proach it as an old friend. It is Sir Edwin Landseer's 
 "Bolton Abbey In the Olden Time." This elaborate 
 composition is certainly one of the most ambitious 
 and most successful of Landseer's efforts. In it you 
 will observe all that charming delineation of animal 
 life which was the painter's distinguishing metier. 
 It is shown in the present for the Abbot's table : 
 the dead buck, the fish and fowl, and in the eager 
 dogs held in leash. But combined with this there 
 is an expression of human character in which Land- 
 eeer surpasses himself. This is seen in the portly 
 Abbot, standing with the quaint breviary under his 
 arm, as he peruses the letter accompanying the gift 
 for the Abbey larder. A study, this portly prelate. 
 He evidently evinces his great gratitude to his 
 Creator by the hearty zest with which he enjoys His 
 gifts ; for while monastic culture and strong qualities 
 are displayed in the broad expressive forehead, the 
 luxurious mouth and the Falstaffian corpulency, 
 betray the gourmand. Landseer's Abbot is the ideal 
 of the Friar of Orders Grey. 
 
 " And why I'm so plump the reason Fll tell, 
 Wlio lives a good life is sure to live well, 
 Wliat Baron or Squire, or Knight of the Shire 
 Lives half so ivell as a Holy Friar ? 
 
 After supper of heav'n I dream 
 
 But tliat is fat pullets and clouted cream;
 
 CHATSWOETH. 207 
 
 Myself by denial I mortify 
 
 With a dainty bit of a ivardenpie. 
 
 I'm cloth'd with sackcloth for my sin, 
 
 With old sack-ivine I'm lined witliiit, 
 
 A chirping cup is my matin song, 
 
 And the vesper bell is my bowl, ding dong." 
 
 This Abbot is the central figure, but not less studies 
 are the accessories : the attendant Monk, who bears 
 a salver with a wine-glass and flask to refresh the 
 sturdy gamekeeper in charge of the dogs, and the 
 peasant girl offering a basket of speckled trout no 
 doubt fresh from the Wharfe, " the swift Werfe " of 
 Spenser. Unfortunately this modern picture shows 
 signs of deterioration, which are painfully evident in 
 another of Sir Edwin's masterpieces in the same 
 collection: " Laying Down the Law." The colour- 
 ing in this famous conclave of dogs, this canine 
 Vehmgcricht, painted within years so recent, is sadly 
 cracking and tesselating, leaving black disfigurements 
 underneath. This premature decay is attributed to 
 defective pigments. Close by this picture you will 
 notice a " Jesus," by Murillo, the tints of which are 
 as pure and as fresh as if laid on but the-day-before- 
 yesterday. Yes, Sir, you are quite right. The old 
 masters painted for posterity, and their colours 
 stand and defy time. Their colour-grinders must 
 have been artists. In a few years, unless the pro- 
 gress of decay is at once arrested, the Chatsworth
 
 208 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 masterpieces of Landseer will be dear at the price of 
 the frames in which they are hung. Age adds value 
 to the picture of the old master. The worth of the 
 work of the modern painter deteriorates with time. 
 Turner's pictures at the National Gallery are a 
 melancholy example of the reckless adulterating 
 spirit of the age invading Art, and making the 
 painter's colours fleeting frauds. Mr. Holman Hunt 
 is, I am glad to know, interesting himself largely in 
 this question of purity in pigments. It is of vital 
 importance. The posthumous fame of the modern 
 artist is bound up in its issues. 
 
 Here you will notice the original of Collins' 
 pleasing picture " Rustic Civility," which a thou- 
 sand and one engravings and woodcuts have made 
 familiar to us. Here is the " Spartan Isidas," by 
 Eastlake, and represents the youthful Grecian with 
 sword and spear engaging the Theban warriors. 
 It is a very spirited picture. Pass we " The Temp- 
 tation of St. Anthony," by Tenniers ; and a number 
 of family likenesses by Sir Joshua Eeynolds, Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence, and other notable portrait 
 painters, to pause before what is, I take it, who, 
 being only "a Guide," and no "art critic," and 
 unable to talk glibly of the corregiosity of Corregio, 
 the most striking picture in the gallery. Here it 
 hangs, and the title is " Monks at Prayer." This.
 
 CHATSWOBTH. 209 
 
 surely is one of those examples of art which Mr. 
 Buskin would say teaches us " what is meant by 
 " painting, as distinguished from plastering, from 
 "rough-casting, from cromo-tinting, from tray- 
 " varnishing, from paper- staining, and from the 
 " sort of things that people in general do when you 
 " put a brush in their hands and a pot within reach 
 " of them." Observe, if you please, the wonderful 
 lighting of the chapel from the upper window at its 
 extremity. The sombre monkish figures are executed 
 in high relief. Every expression of reverence and 
 attitude of devotion is presented. What humility 
 is shown in that bowed head ; what intensity of 
 earnest aspiration in those clasped hands, and what 
 pleading fervour of face ; what utter self-abnegation 
 in that prostrate figure ! The depth of the dark 
 shadows, and the sharp light piercing the window, 
 and the mellower reflection of the tapers, would 
 suggest that the picture is the subtle inspiration of 
 the joint geniuses of Kembrandt and Schkalken. 
 But the painter was Tranet, and the painting for- 
 merly belonged to the collection of the Duchess de 
 Berrie. There are other good pictures in this 
 gallery, but I do not wish to give you an " Academy 
 Headache," so hie we to the Library, the pride of the 
 Palace of the Peak. 
 
 The perfume of Russian binding, sweetest of 
 odours to Charles Lamb, greets us. The room itself
 
 210 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 in its structural arrangements and decorations is 
 unique. The circular paintings on the ceiling are 
 the work of a Frenchman of genius. Louis Charon. 
 This Library enshrines, perhaps, the most perfect 
 private collection in the country. Here are books 
 and MSS. so rich and rare that it is impossible to 
 reduce their value to money. The growth of this 
 grand collection has been gradual. Mr. Alfred 
 Wallis, in his appreciative essay on the " Chatsworth 
 Library : Its Founders and Maintainers," remarks : 
 " This store-house of books was not put together 
 " like one of the palaces of the Thousand-and-one- 
 " Nights. It has been formed by the taste and 
 " learning of several successive generations of the 
 " Cavendish family from its very start, for some of 
 " the books are known to have belonged to Sir 
 " William Cavendish, second husband of the famous 
 " ' Bess of Hardwick,' who sold his own estates in 
 " the South of England in order to purchase lands 
 " (Chatsworth amongst the rest) in Derbyshire, 
 " where his wife had inherited vast territorial pos- 
 " sessions, and where her own friends and kindred 
 " lived. A copy of Vitruvius' De Architectura, libri 
 " A'., 4to, Argent., 1550, bears his autograph dated 
 " 1557, the year of his death ; and we may suppose 
 " that the work was consulted by Mm iu designing 
 " the new house which he founded upon the site of
 
 CHATSWORTH. 211 
 
 " the old hall of the Leches, from whom Chatsworth 
 " was purchased, and which remained to be finished 
 " at his decease. Other books there are in the Library 
 " which, judging from their date, together with their 
 " old and worn bindings and the initials, W.C.,' 
 " impressed upon their sides, most probably also 
 " belonged to him." 
 
 These four large volumes are the catalogue of the 
 Library. They are the composition of Sir James 
 Lacaita, and the work is one of the most sump- 
 tuous of modern contributions to bibliography. A 
 fifth volume in course of preparation will be 
 devoted to the Duke of Devonshire's dramatic 
 rarities. The initial letter of each division of this 
 magnum opus is, you will perceive, embellished 
 by a choice quartering from the Cavendish arms. 
 The vignettes adorning the head of each section 
 illustrate the scenery of Chatsworth. In addition 
 to thus tabulating his literary treasures for the benefit 
 of bibliographers, His Grace has cheerfully assented 
 to MM. Braun & Co., of Paris and Dornach, 
 reproducing in permanent autotype about two 
 hundred of the drawings by the old masters which 
 we saw in the Sketch Gallery; while Mr. Richard 
 Keene, of the Art Repository at Derby, has photo- 
 graphed with much success the pictures, the statuary, 
 and rooms of Chatsworth. Books, books, books ; to
 
 212 CHATSWOKTH. 
 
 the right of us, to the left of us, in front of us, behind 
 us. In a library of 25,000 volumes even the principal 
 works are too many to enumerate or even to epito- 
 mise. Among the MSS. is the Anglo-Saxon MS. of 
 Caedmon, a Benedictionale, executed for J5thelwold t 
 Bishop of Winchester, from 970 to 984. It is a small 
 folio book of 118 leaves of vellum, and Mr. Llewellyn 
 Jewitt, the trustworthyDerbysbire antiquarian, speaks 
 of it as being the most important and finest MS. of 
 the Anglo-Saxon period. The pictures, beautifully 
 coloured, are numerous ; the borders are illuminated ; 
 and gold and silver are introduced in the illumina- 
 tions, much in the Byzantine manner. There are 
 other valuable relics of illuminated monastic cali- 
 graphy. There is the oldest Florentine edition of 
 Homer, printed on vellum. There is the Mazarine 
 Bible, the first book ever printed. There are the 
 first quartos of dear Will. Shakespeare, and rare 
 impressions of the first productions of Caxton, 
 Wynkyn de Worde, Pynson, and other pioneers of 
 the printing press. But to the artist the most 
 interesting volume is, you will think, the famous 
 Liber Veritatis of Claude Lorraine. The extrava- 
 gant sum of 20,000 was once bid for this unique 
 production. It contains the famous Frenchman's 
 memorandum drawings and sketches of all the 
 pictures that left his easel, and was never intended
 
 CHATSWORTH. 213 
 
 for the public eye. At his death he left it entailed 
 to his nephews and nieces. Cardinal D'Estrees tried 
 in vain to purchase it. for Louis XIV. ; but the House 
 of Cavendish secured the " Koh-i-noor of Art " at the 
 expiration of the entail. There is only one other 
 book in the world to compare with it, and that is the 
 wonderful Liber Studiorum of Turner's, intended as 
 a rival companion to Claude's volume. It is, 
 perhaps, even more valuable. The colours on 
 Claude's canvasses seem immortal in their soft 
 smoothness; but Turner's pictures are perishing 
 with pathetic completeness, so adulterated were 
 his pigments ; and before many years have passed 
 we shall have to turn to the pages of his beautiful 
 Liber Studiorum as the only abiding memorial of 
 the painter's poetic genius. 
 
 The next room is the Ante-Library. The ceiling 
 is enriched with the paintings of Hayter and Charles 
 Landseer. This compartment in turn gives access 
 to the Cabinet Library, smaller than its companion 
 rooms, but, perhaps, you will regard it as the more 
 beautiful. It has, you see, an ornamented, domed 
 ceiling, divided into decorated apartments, and sup- 
 ported by columns of alabaster and marble, sur- 
 mounted by Corinthian capitals heavy with gold. 
 The doors are painted to resemble the adjoining book- 
 cases. When closed, all the walls in consequence
 
 214 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 present an apparently unbroken continuity of 
 books. The sham titles of the "dummy" volumes 
 are the droll conceits of Thomas Hood the Elder. 
 The comic spirit of Momus sports among philo- 
 sophical tomes, grave histories, and scientific treatises ; 
 tickling theologians under the ribs, and behaving 
 with positive levity before solemn jurists and senten- 
 tious statesmen. Examine the titles of Hood's 
 merry mock library. How should you like to read 
 "Lamb on the Death of Wolfe"? Are your tastes- 
 scientific? Here is "Boyle on Steam." Are you 
 an epicure? Here is "Cooke's Specimens of the 
 Sandwich Tongue." What do you think of "Eecol- 
 lections of Bannister by Lord Stair" ? Imagine the 
 contents of " Cursory Eemarks on Swearing ;" and 
 how entertaining must be "Barrow on the Common 
 Weal," "Inigo on Secret Entrances," " Chronolo- 
 gical Account of the Date Tree," and "John Knox 
 on Death's Door " ! Among other odd titles you 
 have a choice -of such bizarre books as the 
 following: "On Cutting off Heirs with a Shilling, 
 by Barber Beaumont ;" " Percy Vere, in forty 
 volumes ;" " Tadpoles, or Tales out of my own 
 Head;" " Malthus' Attack of Infantry;" "The Life 
 of Zimmermann, by Himself ;" " Pygmalion, by 
 Lord Bacon;" "Dirge on the Death of Wolfe, by 
 Lamb;" " Haughty cultural Eemarks on London
 
 OHATSWOBTH. 215 
 
 Pride;" "Voltaire, Volney, Volta, three volumes;" 
 "Campaigns of the British Army, by one of the 
 German Leg.;" " Horn Took on Catching Cows ;" 
 " Wren's Voyage to the Canaries ;" "Dyspepsia and 
 Heartburn, by the Bishop of Sodor;" "Dibdin's 
 Cream of Tar;" "Minto's Coins;" " Merry's Gay ;" 
 "Plane Dealings;' 1 "Bay's Light of Eeason;" "Egg, 
 by Shelley;" "Skye, by Me. Cloud ;" "Beveridge on 
 the Beer Act;" "D. Cline on Consumption." This 
 h'brary is in itself a picture ; but there are other 
 pictures the design of a greater artist framed by 
 the gilded windows of the palace, in which the 
 entranced eye wanders over light terrace and graceful 
 lawn, sculptured columns and sunlit fountains, 
 to rest on the green undulations of the glorious 
 Park, and the dreamy reaches of the river radiant 
 among the trees, and to the great burly heights, 
 softened with wood, that rise close up all round, 
 like an investing line, to jealously protect the en- 
 chanting place from the indignity of the beseiger. 
 Nearly every window at Chatsworth affords a pictu- 
 resque prospect ; and it is a relief sometimes to turn 
 from the overwhelming profusion of splendour within 
 to the repose of the fair landscape without. 
 
 And now may I ask your company to the Sculpture 
 Gallery, which, if your stock of admiration is not 
 quite exhausted by the repeated demands already
 
 216 CHATSWORTH. 
 
 made upon it, will call forth your wonder and praise. 
 A fine gallery more than 100 feet in length and 
 30 feet in width, lit from the roof, and approached 
 from either the Dining Boom or the Orangery. 
 Walls of finely-dressed sandstone ; doorcases of 
 marble ; entablatures supported by Corinthian 
 columns and pilasters of marble with capitals of 
 gold. We are greeted by the marble figures of 
 two heathen deities which Lord Clare sent from 
 Guzerat. There is a statue of Buddha not artisti- 
 cally noteworthy, but remarkable for the exceeding 
 beauty of the material, which is an almost white 
 nephrite, the Jade of the East. At the other end 
 of this Gallery are two colossal lions in Carrara 
 marble. One is the work of Binaldi, the other is 
 by Benaglia. Both are copied from Canova's monu- 
 ment to Clement the Fourteenth in St. Peter's at 
 Eome. When I mention that the contributors to 
 the sculptures at Chatsworth include Canova, Thor- 
 waldsen, Schadow, Finelli, Trentanove, Kessels, 
 Tadolini, Albacini, Pozzi, Tenerani, Gibson. Wyatt, 
 Gott, B. Westmacott, Bartolini, Barruzzi, Prosalendi, 
 T. Campbell, Binaldi, Bennie, Wickmann, Nollekens, 
 Bonelli, and Dantan Jeune, you will admit that the 
 collection is thoroughly representative of both the 
 Continental and English schools, and demands 
 careful inspection and study, and especially so in
 
 CHATSWOKTH. 217 
 
 these days when the significant decadence of the 
 nohle art is attracting so much attention and regret 
 in art circles. 
 
 It would be difficult to say which of Canova's 
 pieces commands most approval : his Endymion 
 sleeping, with his dog watching at his feet, or his 
 statue of the mother of the first Napoleon. The 
 classic shepherd is a very poetical conception, poeti- 
 cally executed, and on the marble face of the young 
 sleeper is that magic beauty that drew Diana to the 
 slopes of Mount Latmos to gaze on its loveliness. 
 The Mater Napoleonis, on the other hand, is a 
 masterpiece of pose and expression. The historic 
 Corsican lady is represented in a position half- sitting, 
 half reclining, an attitude of meditative composure. 
 One arm rests upon the back of an antique chair, 
 and the figure is clothed with drapery that is a study 
 in the natural grace of its lines. The face is 
 beautiful, but intellectual strength and commanding 
 dignity are the leading characteristics of the features. 
 It is a sad, pensive face, that bears no resemblance 
 whatever to that of her son, the Warrior-Emperor, 
 which is close by, a colossal bust also by Canova. 
 This characteristic likeness has also much of the 
 ideal character of ancient Greek sculpture, and 
 invites comparison with Antonio Canova's other 
 conception of " The Little Corporal," the undraped
 
 218 CHA.TSWORTH. 
 
 one in the possession of the Dnke of Wellington at 
 Apsley House. Napoleon naked, and yet noble in 
 his nudeness ! Such was Canova's power ; and it 
 was of this classic craftsman that an empty English 
 aristocrat asked upon his decease " who is going to 
 carry on his business ?" Who, indeed? * 
 
 The same chisel gives us likewise a bust of the late 
 Duke of Devonshire, and a bust of Petrarch's Laura. 
 Now behold " The Filatrice, or Spinning Girl," by 
 Schadow a young girl diverting herself with a ball of 
 thread and a spindle. Ideal beauty and natural ease 
 are combined in the figure with great success. This 
 
 * In this connection " G. A. S.," whose critical know- 
 ledge of graphics and plastics is greater than that of any 
 of his contemporaries, writes : "I may ask fairly, without 
 fear of contradiction, whether, with the exception of 
 Napoleon, there is a single historical personage of modern 
 times whose form could be practically presented un- 
 draped? What should we say to a naked Brougham, a 
 naked William Pitt imagine their noses ! an undraped 
 Peel, a disrobed Gladstone, a Beaconsfield ' mid nodings 
 on ' ? Napoleon I. in Canova's statue bears, with trium- 
 phant success, the crucial test of the nude. You forget 
 that he is a little man not only little, but actually 
 ' stumpy 'you forget all the spiteful libels of Michelet 
 about his having had no eyebrows, and his hair being 
 normally of a sandy-brown, but darkened by pomatum. 
 You see only the classic hero, as classic as the Antinous, 
 as classic as the Apollo Belvedere, as classic as the 
 Discobolos, and heroic enough to hold, as Canova's statue 
 holds the effigy of Victory in his conquering right hand."
 
 CHATSWOBTH. 213 
 
 Venus is Thorwaldsen's ; that Wyatt's. Passing on 
 we come to Gibson's " Mars and Cupid." Here is 
 the " Cymbal Player" by Westmacott, the "Wounded 
 Achilles " is by Albicini, and the " Cupid and Psyche " 
 by Finelli. Full of artistic grace is the group by 
 Tanerani : " Cupid Extracting a Thorn from the 
 Foot of Venus ;" and I would particularly invite your 
 attention to the bas-reliefs of surpassing excellence 
 by Thorwaldsen, the severe sculptor of the north, 
 representing " Night" and " Morning ;" then we will 
 proceed to the Orangery where sculptured marble 
 shines white among the dark and light greens of the 
 plants. 
 
 We have now seen all that portion of the House 
 which is thrown open to the public. Other apart- 
 ments, not less beautiful, are occupied by the Duke 
 of Devonshire's and the Marquis of Hartington's 
 private suites of rooms. These are rich in art 
 glories, and include, among many other treasures, 
 a series of landscapes and sea-pieces by Carmichael, 
 and a wonderfully sculptured fountain-piece repre- 
 senting " Venus at the Bath." But with these 
 rooms we have nothing to do. Still our tour of 
 inspection is not completed. If Chatsworth is de- 
 lightful indoors, it is none the less charming out-of- 
 doors, with its terraces and lawns, its French 
 Garden : a forest of tall columns crowned with
 
 220 CHATSWOETH. 
 
 busts and trellised with leaves ; its fountains and 
 cascades, and its great conservatory, from which 
 the idea of the Crystal Palace was taken. A visit 
 to Chatsworth would be woefully incomplete without 
 a glance at these, and lo ! here is Mr. T. Speed 
 himself, who succeeded Sir Joseph Paxton, as 
 Gardener in Chief, and he will take us from the 
 bleak moors of the Peak into sun-fed palm lands, 
 and we shall wander in a glass-closed world among 
 flowers and fruits and fountains, sweet smells and 
 pleasing colours.
 
 HADDON HALL : 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL VIGNETTE.. 
 
 1 Tlie light still shines through the latticed pane 
 
 As it shone to them, and the shadowed door 
 Is the shadow they saw, and the stains remain 
 
 Of the wine they spill' d on the dais floor. 
 The river that runs by the old Hall's walls 
 
 Murmured to them as it murmurs now; 
 The golden glow of the sunlight falls, 
 
 As it fell for them, on glade, river, and bough ; 
 The hall wliere they feasted, the church where they 
 prayed, 
 
 Their cradles, and chambers, and gravestones, stay; 
 While lord and vassal, youth and maid, 
 
 Knight and lady, have passed away." 
 
 The Peak district is rich in historic piles. If it 
 be true that .Mr. Kuskin said he could not get along 
 in a country where there were no castles, Derbyshire 
 should be his delight. There is William Peveril's 
 crumbling fortress at Castleton ; the old abbey ruin 
 at Deepdale ; while Hardwicke Hall, Bolsover Castle, 
 and Wingfield Manor may be said to be neighbours.
 
 222 HADDON HALL. 
 
 But Haddon Hall stands pre-eminent among these 
 histories in stone, an ancient anthem in architecture. 
 Behold its grey battlements and turrets and towers, 
 half-smothered in fading foliage, looking over the 
 windings of the Wye. It is an October afternoon, 
 and the autumn-time is, perhaps, the best of all 
 periods of the year to see Haddon Hall. The colour 
 of the woods is now in harmony with the pensive 
 grey stone of the baronial battlements. The foliage, 
 no longer an uniform, monotonous green, is a study 
 of intense tints. The tresses of the lady-birch are 
 spangled with yellow. Bronzes and russets and 
 coppery reds are mixed up with the dark green of 
 the solemn yews. The beech-trees gleam with rose- 
 colour. The brilliant beads of the mountain ash 
 burn amid the soft brown of ripening nuts and the 
 sober hues of wild berries. The woods are silent. 
 A solitary robin's note on the terrace intensifies the 
 stillness. Faded leaves fall at our feet with a 
 musical sigh. The river is running away with 
 argosies of yellow leaves. The autumnal sadness 
 suits the deserted old towers of Haddon. The castle 
 itself is almost as perfect now as in the feudal days 
 of chivalry, when its walls echoed the noisy revelry 
 of retainers, and the wassail-cup went its merry 
 round. The place seems as if Sir George Vernon, 
 "the King of the Peake," and his retinue had just
 
 HADDON HALL. 223 
 
 left it for a day's hunting in the woods, and would 
 be back again anon. The marks of their whittles, 
 and the stains of their trenchers, are on the massive 
 tables in the old banqueting hall. One of the 
 huntsmen has left his horn behind him in yonder 
 little room. The modern tourist could no more 
 sound it than bend Ulysses' bow. There are also a 
 gigantic pair of jack-boots, and a thick leathern 
 doublet, should you wish to follow Sir George's party 
 into the forest. That fireplace in the kitchen, with 
 its incalculable capacity for fuel, is ready to deal 
 summarily with a fat stirk ; but coals are now, alas ! 
 twenty shillings a ton, and steaks are at famine price. 
 In the state bed-room, where Queen Elizabeth slept, 
 the bed seems to have just been made. The old 
 ball-room, with its oaken floor and big window 
 recesses, is deserted ; but it does not need a wild 
 imagination to people it with the guests of the past. 
 I can hear the echo of the bygone revelry. The 
 minstrel is tuning his harp in praise of a "ladye 
 faire." Young squires and country belles are 
 dancing, who have been dust these two hundred 
 years. The sun shines on the silent terrace, where 
 the mind's eye sees a peacock spreading the rainbow 
 glories of its tail, and beholds a garden party that 
 might have lent inspiration to Watteau. In the 
 quadrangle yonder, to which that vassal in buff
 
 224 HADDON HALL. 
 
 jerkin is hurrying, is a hunting group that Wouver- 
 manns might have immortalised. Dorothy Vernon 
 has just stolen past to have a whispered interview 
 with John Manners. Here is the spreading elm, 
 under whose leafy gloom he used to wait at night 
 for a hushed word of love, or a warning wave of the- 
 hand, from the little oriel window in the tower 
 above. He is cutting her initials on the bark, just 
 as Kosalind's name was carved on the trees by a 
 man who haunted the forest. A pretty " bit " for an 
 artist is Dorothy Vernon's doorway, from whence 
 she eloped : 
 
 "Into the night, and the arms of love." 
 A painter has placed his easel in front of it, and 
 the heavy old oaken door, and eleven worn stone 
 steps, are having their picturesque sadness thrown 
 upon the canvas. Haddou Hall is indeed haunted by 
 painters. I never pay it a visit but some artists are 
 breathing the ancient air of the place. To-day, a 
 lady of the easel has found a fascinating study in 
 the old tapestry of " My Lady's Chamber ;" another 
 artist is sketching an old doorway, with quaint stone 
 carvings, and bleached timber, studded with nails 
 red with rust. A third painter is in love with the 
 avenue of lime-trees forming the upper terrace, and 
 known as " Dorothy Vernon's Walk." Haddon Hall 
 does not depend upon a love legend for its fame, but-
 
 HADDON HALL. 225 
 
 the story of Dorothy Vernon gives it a human 
 interest that still more endears the baronial mansion 
 to the followers of the picturesque. We are told 
 that there is no foundation for the tender tradition ; 
 and even so respectable an antiquarian as Mr. John 
 Charles Cox is of opinion that Dorothy "never 
 eloped at all, but was married after the usual hum- 
 drum fashion." This is the age of unbelief. Eobin 
 Hood is regarded as a myth ; Shakespeare is voted 
 an impostor ; even the Bible is reduced by scientists 
 and sceptics into a piece of Hebrew mythology ; and, 
 of course, the sweet old romance of Haddon Hall 
 must be duly dispelled, Mr. Gradgrind, by " facts, 
 sir, facts." But, nevertheless, the Goths and 
 Vandals will not quite destroy the old romance. It 
 is one of the poems we must not willingly let die. 
 Three hundred chequered years have passed, but 
 still the legend is charming and new ; and many 
 budding springs shall bloom into summer, and the 
 summers soften into autumn, and the autumns 
 wither into winters wild and cold, before we discredit 
 the sweet story of John Manners donning the wood- 
 man's garb, and sleeping with the hinds of the 
 forest, in order that he might be near his Dorothy ; 
 of the midnight elopement from the brilliant ball- 
 room ; of the runaway ride through the black night, 
 and of the marriage in Leicester Forest, where
 
 226 HADDON HALL. 
 
 Dorothy's heart promised far more than was de- 
 manded by the Prayer Book. 
 
 It is a walk for poet and painter by the Wye side 
 from Haddon either to Kowsley or Bakewell. There 
 are pictures all the way suggestive studies of old 
 gnarled trees hanging over the voiceful water, ideal 
 vistas of meadow with wooded heights beyond, 
 "bits" of the old-world mixed up with trees and 
 torrent. At Bakewell, if the Haddon Hall romance 
 is still strong within you, there is the fine old church, 
 with the Vernon monuments. There rest in their 
 long sleep Sir George Vernon, and his two wives, the 
 Dames Margaret and Maud. Beside them are " Sir 
 John Manners, of Haddon, Knight," and " Dame 
 Dorothie, his wife." The runaway daughter awaits 
 the Resurrection morning at her father's side ; and 
 the austere step-mother and the proscribed lover are 
 reconciled in death.
 
 HUNTING IN THE 
 HIGH PEAK. 
 
 ' Tliere are soul-stirring cliords in tlie fiddle and flute 
 
 When dancing begins in tlie liall, 
 And a goddess in muslin, that's likely to suit, 
 
 Is mate of your choice for the ball ; 
 But tlie player may strain every finger in vain, 
 
 And the fidler may rosin his bow, 
 Nor flourish nor string such a rapture sliall bring, 
 
 As the music of sweet Tally-ho ! 
 
 Tliere's a melody, too, in the whispering trees 
 
 Wlien day ha-s gone down in the West, 
 And a lullaby soft in tlie sigh of the breeze 
 
 That huslies tlie woods to their rest : 
 Tliere are madrigals fair in the voices of air, 
 
 In the stream with its ripple and flow, 
 But a merrier tune shall delight us at noon, 
 
 In the music of sweet Tally-ho 1" 
 
 WHTTE-MELVILLE. 
 
 " I think the girls have gone mad," was the Old 
 Lady's remark as every room at Limecliffe Firs 
 seemed to resound with silvery shouts of "Hark 
 forrard!" "Tally-ho!" "Yoicks!" "Hey, ho,
 
 228 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 chevy !" and other exclamations, ecstatic but inex- 
 plicable, peculiar to the vocabulary of huntsmen. 
 
 It was a December evening preceding a meet of the 
 Buxton and Peak Forest Harriers. The Young Man 
 was to join the hunt. It had also been arranged that 
 the two young ladies and the present writer should 
 drive to the scene of action hi the pony carriage. 
 
 This had not been settled without some protest 
 from the prudent Old Lady. She remembers the 
 gloom of a certain grey November day in the years 
 agone when the dangers of the chase were personally 
 illustrated at Limecliffe Furs. But a broken limb 
 has not diminished the Young Man's ardour. It was 
 amusing to hear the animated logic with which he 
 overcame the opposition of the solicitous Mother of 
 the Gracchi. His arguments were founded on both 
 moral and physical grounds. 
 
 " A run with the harriers " he contended "pro- 
 motes health, fosters courage, requires judgment, 
 teaches perseverance, developes energy, tries patience, 
 tests temper, and exercises every true virtue. It is 
 recreation to the mind, joy to the spirits, strength to 
 the body. To be a good huntsman was to be a fine 
 manly fellow: a 'muscular Christian,' if you like, 
 but a ' muscular Christian ' as was Charles Kingsley, 
 the patentee of the phrase. Fishing teaches patience ; 
 but just look, my nephew, at the numberjof moral
 
 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 229 
 
 lessons inculcated by hunting. Care and diligence 
 are required ' to find.' ' Look before you leap ' was 
 an aphorism of practical wisdom derived from Nimrod 
 and not Solomon ; while ' Try Back ' was another 
 phrase which might be wisely applied to daily life. 
 ' Try Back ' when an obstinate hound misleads a 
 pack, and it is found that the trail so diligently 
 sought is hopelessly lost. ' Try Back ' renews hope 
 and rewards perseverance. ' Try Back,' then, in the 
 larger field of life, with its vexations, disappoint- 
 ments, lost chances, and broken hopes. If led into 
 error, ' Try Back ;' if success is denied thee in that 
 wearisome up-hill toil, ' Try Back ;' baffled, blighted, 
 broken-on-the-wheel, ' Try Back.' Is thy trust be- 
 trayed, and thy love false ? Then ' Try Back.' There 
 ia a false scent somewhere ; a mistake has been 
 made at some critical juncture, so Try Back,' and 
 a second quest shall give thee splendid recompense." 
 There was much more of this eloquent hunting 
 homily, which threw such a glamour of sentiment 
 over hares and horses and harriers that the Old 
 Lady, fond of sermons, gradually relented in her 
 scruples. She finally surrendered when she heard 
 that hunting the hare took precedence of fox hunting, 
 since the fox did not afford half so much genuine 
 sport, and while the flesh of the former was delicious, 
 that of the latter was so much filthy vermin.
 
 230 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 I cannot go the length of giving the hunting of 
 the High Peak a place before that of the Quorn 
 Country ; but the wild pic'turesqueness of North 
 Derbyshire, with its loose stone walls and steep 
 mountain declivities, imparts a charm and an 
 excitement to the sport which is unknown to the 
 red-coated horsemen of the monotonously flat fields 
 of Leicestershire. The wonder is that Buxton in the 
 winter season does not become as much a hunting 
 centre as Melton Mowbray or Market Harbro'. There 
 are three packs of harriers of established reputation, 
 meeting twice or thrice a week within easy distance 
 of the popular watering place. These are the Dove 
 Valley Harriers that answer the wild "Tally-Ho!" 
 in the picturesque landscape watered by the Dove ; 
 the High Peak Harriers that have their meets either 
 at Parsley Hay, a "Wharf on the High Peak line of 
 railway, Newhaven, a solitary hostelry at the meeting 
 of several roads, and a famous house enough in the 
 coaching days, or at Over Haddon, by the Lathkill 
 Dale ; and the Buxton and Peak Forest Harriers, 
 which generally start from Peak Forest, or from 
 Dove Holes, and pursue the rough and romantic 
 country side historically famous as the hunting 
 ground of kings. 
 
 It was the latter pack that the Young Man had 
 elected to follow on the morning after that December
 
 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 231 
 
 evening when the house was alive with silvery 
 echoes of the hunting field. The weather had 
 during the past week or two attested that there was 
 something radically wrong with the Zodiac ; but on 
 that night, as we looked out from the glow and 
 warmth of the room, the air was keen and clear ; 
 the moon shone with an intense white electric light ; 
 the roofs glittered in the cold radiance ; every detail 
 of architecture was revealed in a sharp relief that 
 made the shadows ebony in their deepness ; the gas 
 lamps burned with a dirty yellow ; but there was not 
 enough frost to affect the morrow's enjoyment. 
 
 A grey morning follows that glistening night. 
 The mist lies thick upon the hills. The meet is at 
 Dove Holes at twelve ; and the Young Man, with the 
 snow of sixty winters in his beard, seems part of his 
 chesnut cob as he rides in black coat, green vest, and 
 corduroys, by the side of our pony carrriage. Eaw 
 and cold is the dull ride across Fairfield Common ; 
 but we have foot warmers in the conveyance, and 
 quite a panoply of soft shawls ; while it makes one 
 feel quite snug and warm to contemplate the seal- 
 skin of Somebody and the furs of Sweetbriar. Who 
 is it who writes : 
 
 " The sleekest otter cuffs 
 
 The rosiest of real skin 
 The sable-est of muffs 
 The softest gloves of sealskin.
 
 232 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 The quaintest Iwse with clocks, 
 A cloud like a mantilla 
 
 TJie velvetest of frocks- 
 Wears little siveet Chinchilla." 
 
 Presently the sun warms the grey fog until the 
 country seems to float in a golden mist ; a mellow 
 amber light, such as Turner and Claude Lorraine 
 loved to introduce in a poetic atmospheric effect. 
 There is animation at Dove Holes. A score or more 
 well-mounted horsemen make picturesque patches 
 against the ridges of sombre hills ; there are one or 
 two farmers on well ribbed-up horses ; there is a 
 lady, well-known to the county as a bold rider, on a 
 sturdy grey mare that is pawing with impatience to 
 charge the stone walls; there is an old gentleman 
 with the gout in a bath-chair, who is anxious to 
 witness the "throw off;" there are one or two 
 carriages and antiquated gigs ; while the number of 
 camp-followers on foot show how potent is the spell 
 of sport among all classes when " the Horn of the 
 Hunter is heard on the Hill." The keen harriers are 
 with the huntsman, Joe Etchells, the men and boys 
 on foot are grouped around, and take an intelligent 
 interest in the preliminary proceedings. There is 
 the Judge Thurlow look of wisdom on canine 
 countenances, solemn in its sagacity. Presently the 
 Master is seen riding along the road from Buxton, 
 with other well-known members of the Buxton and
 
 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 233 
 
 Peak Forest Hunt. Somebody, who regards every- 
 thing from what Thackeray called " a paint pot 
 spirit," talks of the hunting groups of Wouvermann, 
 and the horses and hounds of Eosa Bonheur. 
 Sweetbriar is intently silent : but she makes, never- 
 theless, a very pretty element in the picture. 
 
 And now, behold! the first quest is successful, 
 and cavalry and infantry are instantly scattered in 
 picturesque disorder. It is a picture full of move- 
 ment ; and the broken undulating features of the 
 country, with broad valleys and bold hills, show it 
 up in all its artistic charm. The present hare, how- 
 ever, soon succumbs, and the hounds are thereby 
 "encouraged." And now the wiry Master of the 
 Pack gives the order for a second quest. The cry 
 comes that another hare has " gone away !" She is 
 in full flight ; the alert hounds follow in swift 
 pursuit ; this time the chase grows exciting. 
 People who derive their notion of Puss from Cowper's 
 hares have an attractive lesson in natural history 
 prepared for them by a hunt with the harriers. The 
 celerity of the mountain hare is only exceeded 
 by its subtlety, which exceeds even the cunning 
 of Master Beynard. The intellect of the hunter 
 and the instinct of the hounds are taxed to the 
 uttermost by the shifts and doubles and dodges of 
 their " quarry." The buck hare, now, after making
 
 234 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 a turn or two about his " form," will frequently lead 
 the hunt five or six miles before he will turn his 
 head. But madam is more wily. She delights in 
 harrassing and embarrassing the hounds. She 
 seldom makes out end-ways before her pursuers, but 
 trusts to sagacity rather than speed. See ! now she 
 is off and the harriers are in hot pursuit. Riders 
 are spurring their horses up the slope. A good run 
 at last, we say. The harriers are well-nigh their 
 prey. Puss sees the intervening distance lessening ; 
 for a hare, mark you, like a rabbit, looks behind ; 
 and suddenly she throws herself with a jump in a 
 lateral direction and lies motionless. The manoeuvre 
 is a success. The hounds fly past deceived by the 
 diplomatic twist. They pull up at last exasperated. 
 The scent is lost. 
 
 " These 'ill 'ares is as fawse as Christians," says a 
 beefy-faced country man, with steaming breath. 
 Pedestrians appear to have an advantage over the 
 horsemen. Only at intervals comes the wild and 
 thrilling cross-country " charge of the light brigade," 
 the spurred galop that belongs to stag or fox-hunting. 
 The rest is made up of occasional spurts and pauses, 
 for the hare's flight is made in circles. The infantry 
 can thus keep the cavalry in constant sight. Some- 
 times, indeed, they have better chances than the 
 mounted Nimrods.
 
 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 235 
 
 Another " find." The harriers are now " getting 
 down" to the deceptive turnings of Puss. The wild 
 rush clearly won't do, they intuitively argue ; and so 
 with strange intelligence they resolve to keep them- 
 selves in head, and, with nose to ground, determine 
 to checkmate the craft of the game with a responsive 
 craft. They take the trail up with intellectual 
 sagacity. Finding her "doublings" of little use 
 now, Puss makes across a turnip field for the hill. 
 " She's for Peak Forest or Sparrow Pit ! " is the cry of 
 the crowd. The pack plod up hill. " Hark to 
 Watchman ! " " Follow Watchman ! " is the hurried 
 command. The lady of the hunt is now neatly 
 leading. Esau follows. The young man is showing 
 his sturdy back to a field of flagging horses. A 
 narrow stream, tumbling between steep banks over 
 rocky boulders, presents itself. Some of the horse- 
 men seek an easier avenue. One, more adventurous, 
 
 who rides in a long mackintosh coat, takes a 
 
 < 
 "header" in the water. He scrambles out soaked to 
 
 the skin. "A good job tha' browt thi' macintosh 
 wi' thee!" says a consoling country friend to the 
 dripping rider as he seeks the bank of the stream. 
 
 It is "bellows to mend" before the steep stony 
 summit of Beelow is reached. We can see the white 
 steam from the horses' nostrils. The hare, being 
 able to run faster up hill than down, has the pull
 
 236 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 over horse and hound. Before the top of the stubborn 
 hill is gained, however, she has a premonition of 
 danger ahead. A sudden turn ; and she bounds 
 through a flock of sheep and under the very legs of 
 the horses toiling up the ungrateful ascent. The 
 hounds turn and tear down after the scent in relent- 
 less pursuit. A stout farmer comes a crucial cropper 
 over a stone wall. Half of the loose limestone 
 boulders fall over him. " Oh ! is he hurt?" demands 
 Somebody with startled solicitude, while horse and 
 rider lie together. " Noa, not 'im ; he's non hurt ; 
 ha fell on 'is yed," says a sympathetic yeoman at 
 the post of our observation. 
 
 Now puss takes the wall, and passes down the 
 road. She skirts the very wheels of our carriage. 
 We see her startled brown eyes, the long hair about 
 the quivering mouth, the beautiful silky ears thrown 
 back in an agony of strained alertness ; the soft 
 colour of her winter fur. Fly past the dogs. Come 
 the hunters. Boys on foot beat galloping horses in 
 their fleetness. There is a wild clamour as the pack 
 pelter down hill. It is irresistible. The excitement 
 is intoxicating. Somebody and Sweetbriar are racing 
 after the pursuers. Even the gouty old gentleman 
 in the bath-chair gets out and hobbles along as if he 
 had lost his head. A woman from a cottage close 
 by rushes out with a frying pan in her hand ; while
 
 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 237 
 
 among the crowd is a village bootmaker, with hia 
 hat off and his apron on. I have known staid 
 tradesmen on similar occasions also take to flight at 
 the thrill of the clear " Tally-ho !" men, mark you, 
 who are as sedate and phlegmatic as Dutchmen 
 under any other circumstances, and never knew a 
 faster pulse of life. 
 
 Lo ! the hare doubles again ; but the harriers are 
 upon her. We are close by at the finish. Poor 
 Puss utters a death-cry, piercing in its helpless 
 pathos. It is like the sobbing appeal of a child. 
 Sweetbriar begs for the doomed life to be saved; 
 and the exasperated harriers, eager for blood, are 
 driven off, so that she may have the beautifully 
 shaded coat. But the timid creature is dead, and 
 the frightened eyes are glazed. 
 
 When the hunters get together in close company, 
 there are one or two black coats, green vests, and 
 corduroys that are dabbed in dirt, and nearly every 
 horse is blowing, after the sharp burst over the hilly 
 country. Eefreshment is in demand at a roadside 
 tavern. The beverage most in favour is a curious 
 alcoholic mixture, very popular among Derbyshire 
 huntsmen, and known as " thunder-and-lightning." 
 It is composed of hot old ale, ginger, sugar, nutmeg, 
 and gin. On paper this appears a dreadful draught, 
 worthy of Lucrezia Borgia ; but the eagerness with
 
 238 HUNTING IN THE HIGH PEAK. 
 
 which it is quaffed this December afternoon is prac- 
 tical proof of the inspiring effect of the stirrup-cup 
 on the exhausted Actseons of the Peak. 
 
 This is the last run of the day, for the short-lived 
 sun is setting in red behind the moorland edges, and 
 the amber mist is deepening into fog. We drive 
 home in the waning light, exhilarated with the 
 stirring incidents of the day. The young Man has 
 much to tell us, as he ambles along by our side, of 
 spirited passages in the hunt which had escaped us, 
 and which sound like an Iliad to our ears. 
 
 At Limecliffe Firs to-night we discuss at supper 
 the plump hare of the hunt, whose pitiful cry of pain 
 we heard as it died. And we find that the healthful 
 air, the joyous freedom, the excitement and the 
 exercise of the day, have made us too grossly gastro- 
 nomical to feel sentimental over devouring our 
 victim. 
 
 But why is Sweetbriar absent from the table ?
 
 A CRUISE ROUND 
 CASTLETON. 
 
 " Those grim and horrid caves, 
 
 Whose looks affright the day, 
 Wlicrein nice Nature saves 
 
 What she would not bewray, 
 Our better leisure craves 
 And doth invite our lay." 
 
 MICHAEL DBATTON. 
 
 A bit of Blue John spar! I use it as a paper- 
 weight. It must be dismissed from that office. It 
 has such a tendency at times to catch my eye and 
 send me wandering off on the wings of Memory far 
 away from the business concernments to which I 
 should be applying myself with engrossed earnest- 
 ness. This inanimate thing has a motive power 
 that carries me away up to Peveril's Castle in the 
 Peak, and to " A Cruise on Wheels," Kalmat and I 
 took through the valleys of the Castleton country, 
 and the flight opens out recollections of other 
 pleasant trips I have taken in the same good
 
 240 A CRUISE KOITND CASTLETON. 
 
 company. I am thus wafted away from practical 
 pursuits, and am rudely aroused from the rapture of 
 retrospect to discount myself as a very dreamy and 
 ideal individual who wants a lot of romantic rubbish 
 knocking out of his head by Mr. Gradgrind. There 
 was an enchanted carpet in the Arabian Nights' 
 Entertainment which transported you wherever you 
 would be at a wish. The most commonplace things 
 possess this talismanic power to carry you away 
 mentally to other scenes and back to other days. 
 The law of association links things which to the eyes 
 of other people seem trite and trivial with the most 
 glowing memories, recalling pleasures of the past to 
 gild the gloom of the present, and borrowing the 
 sunshine of yesterday to chase away the clouds that 
 have gathered to-day. An alpen-stock, mixed up in 
 a dusty litter of fishing rods, gaff-hooks, and landing 
 nets, is, for instance, an Aaron's rod of magic that 
 summons back all the glow and inspiration of a 
 Swiss holiday, and revives some half - forgotten 
 passages of life in bright and minute detail. The 
 sight of the binding of a neglected copy of Murray 
 transports you from worry and trouble and sombre 
 surroundings to the far-off mountain side and remote 
 sea-shore. It seems to carry with it an aroma that 
 is as the ozone of the ocean and the ether of the 
 moorland. The fast fading photograph of a yacht
 
 A CRUISE KOTJND CASTLETON. 241 
 
 hanging up in your study acts like necromancy to 
 take you again amid the lonely islands, the lovely 
 colours, and the magical sunsets of the Western 
 Highlands, and has the power to make the weary 
 Faust of matter-of-fact life fresh and buoyant as the 
 crested waves that tore past that pleasure craft. 
 The same law of association imparts the poetry and 
 pathos of a life to a withered forget-me-not crushed 
 between a faded letter ; and endows a, tress of soft 
 hair, treasured in the sacred recesses of a secret 
 drawer, with a spell of sentiment that the lapse of 
 long years only renders stronger. That hidden 
 baby's glove, bitten at the thumb, and that tiny pair 
 of blue shoes, start sobs that the mother thought 
 had long ago been stifled. The sight of an old 
 letter to the most unemotional of us will restore 
 with a strange thrill " the touch of a vanished hand, 
 and the sound of a voice that is still." A photo- 
 graphic album crowds your lonely room with a jovial 
 company, and fills it with many a cheery laugh, good 
 old chorus, and wholesome joke. Tears flood the 
 eyes of Charles Reade's rough outcasts in the 
 Australian bush, as they listen to an English lark 
 pouring out its full soul in an ecstacy of song from 
 a wicker-cage hung over the door of a settler's log- 
 hut; for the little feathered minstrel is connected 
 
 by no common ties with fond ingle-nooks and quiet 
 
 Q
 
 242 A CETJISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 churchyards left behind thousands of leagues of 
 stormy sea. One of Bret Harte's rough miners in 
 the Western land remarks apologetically to his 
 partner " I must write a letter home," as he sees a 
 fresh-faced English girl passing the gulch at a 
 crossing where they are working. The same 
 subtle spirit of association was at work in both 
 instances. 
 
 And so it is that this piece of fluor spar touches 
 the chords of Memory, and they respond in a sym- 
 pathetic song of other days. It calls forth sweet 
 perfumes from the flowery fields of retrospect. It is 
 like the simple sea shell on your mantle-shelf, which, 
 although exiled many miles from its shingly shore, 
 still echoes the murmur of the waves. A bit of Blue 
 John ! It is an unfailing index to the volume of 
 recollection : an entertaining book to read, notwith- 
 standing Mr. Alfred Tennyson's philosophy, which 
 is borrowed from Malesherbes, who borrowed it from 
 Dante, that "a Sorrow's Crown of Sorrow is remem- 
 bering happier things." There is, indeed, no 
 pleasanter pastime than that of visiting the sunny 
 spots of memory when 
 
 " Our yesterdays look backward with a smile, 
 Nor, like the Parthian, ivound us as they fly." 
 
 But a truce to these digressive didactics. Let Blue 
 John tell his story.
 
 A CBUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 243 
 
 Kalmat, the traveller in many lands, who is at 
 last finding out the neglected beauty spots of his 
 own country, has before been introduced, and is now 
 on speaking terms with you. He is my comrade for 
 a Whitsuntide Trip. Whitsuntide, of the three 
 great English holidays, is surely the most delightful. 
 While Christmas is purely a festival of the fireside 
 and of sentiment ; and Easter is a chilling compro- 
 mise between winter and spring ; Whitsuntide has 
 all the green beauty of opening summer. And the 
 Whitsuntide of our wandering is all that the holiday 
 maker could desire. Kalmat had often heard of 
 Castleton and its caves, and the romantic dales 
 frowned upon by Abney and Derwent Edge ; and we 
 had months before decided to drive there from 
 Buxton, and from thence back, by pleasant stages 
 and a roundabout route, through the heart of the 
 healthful hilly country. The delights of "A Cruise 
 upon Wheels," are known only to those who have 
 read the breezy book of that name, and to the greater 
 constituency who have been charmed with "The 
 Strange Adventures of a Phaton," although they 
 have found nothing particularly "strange" of 
 "adventurous" in that tempting trip taken by Queen 
 Titania, Bonny Bell, and Count Von Kosen, along 
 the old country highways and sweet- smelling lanes 
 from Middlesex to Mid-Lothian. The word " Cruise"
 
 244 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 aptly describes our journey. The mountain air is 
 as exhilarating as a sea hreeze ; and how often does 
 the immensity of moorland meeting the sky suggest 
 the ocean to our fancy ? We are, moreover, bound 
 to no beaten track. We can steer into out-of-the- 
 way bays, and call at will at little havens of the 
 direct line of travel. We are not obliged to sail 
 straight on, but can drop our anchor as an idle 
 caprice takes us, and leave the ship (I mean the 
 trap) in charge of the cabin-boy (that is the stable 
 lad), whenever we choose to fish or sketch. We have 
 our fishing rods on board, and carry two guns. 
 
 " Give 'er 'er 'ed," is the admonition of Twitty, 
 the barrel-like Boots at Kalmat's Hotel, who might 
 have stepped out of Charles Dickens' pages as a 
 living illustration of Mr. Samuel Weller. A pungent 
 humourist when occasion demands is the familiar 
 functionary. I tell Kalmat some of his stories as 
 we bowl across Fairfield Common in the fresh fluent 
 air and vivid blueness of this June morning. The 
 most Twittyesque relates to a time when he carried 
 the luggage of a celebrated but selfish old lawyer 
 from the Old Hall Hotel to the railway station. The 
 legal luminary had been staying at the hotel for 
 several weeks. During that period Twitty had given 
 unwonted lustre to his boots, and the services of no 
 common valet. At the station the departing visitor
 
 A CRUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 245 
 
 "tipped" him with the stupendous sum of six- 
 pence ! Twitty regarded the insignificant silver with 
 a gaze in which astonishment mingled with con- 
 tempt. Then he said 
 
 " What is this for, sir ?" 
 
 " For you, my man." 
 
 " For me, sir," said the baffled Boots, with ex- 
 asperated voice and defiant manner, " Do you know 
 what I have done for you, sir ?" 
 
 " Do not be impertinent ! Eemember to whom 
 you are speaking," remonstrated the future judge, 
 astonished at Twitty's impudence. 
 
 " I do not forget it, sir !" rejoined Boots to the 
 Bar, with a withering scorn that was in itself a 
 lesson in elocution. " I don't forget it, sir. You 
 are a Lawyer I'm a Boots. You black paper I 
 black boots. You use a pen I use a brush. 
 Mine takes a polish yours don't. TJierc's not so 
 
 much d d difference when you come to hanalyze 
 
 it!" and the repudiated sixpence was tossed into 
 the air, and Twitty walked away with offended 
 dignity expressed in face and figure. 
 
 Stories of this Wellington de Boots have taken us 
 past Fairfield, when we come to the conclusion 
 that twelve more uninteresting miles could not 
 well be found in Derbyshire than the dozen which 
 serve to separate Buxton from Castleton. But it is
 
 246 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 something to be out on such a day as this, and oar 
 mare seems to know it, and at a merry pace we skirt 
 the old road once traversed by Eoman chariots. We 
 bowl along past the lime-kilns at Dove Holes, past the 
 bygone Barmoor Clough toll-gate, and then, leaving 
 the main road, turn at a sharp angle to the right and 
 breast the hill. Close here is the Ebbing and Flow- 
 ing Well, celebrated by a thonsand-and-one guide 
 book writers surer of their genius than their 
 grammar, and finer in their fancy than faithful in 
 their facts as one of the Wonders of the World. 
 But there is nothing now about this pool for the pen 
 to cry out " eloquent in the elegancies of Iambics," 
 as Mr. Buskin's double put it to the studious youth 
 of classic Chesterfield. Truth, like murder, must 
 out. The famous Ebbing and Flowing Well is in 
 truth a horse-pond which serves as a watering- 
 place for the cattle of the adjoining pastures. This 
 pond is supplied by a spring of intermittent action, 
 from which water flows at intervals. The wetness 
 or dryness of the weather governs the frequency 
 of the action of the well. Sometimes as much 
 as 120 hogsheads of water are reputed to rise 
 and disappear. Bustic ignorance connects the 
 phenomenon with the ebbing and flowing of the 
 tide at Liverpool. Practical science, however, 
 explodes the wonder by illustrating the motion of
 
 A CKUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 247 
 
 the spring by that of a common syphon. In the 
 same neighbourhood the same mystery is repeated. 
 "Water-swallows" is the same locally given to 
 these springs. When Mr. Charles Middlewick was 
 at Vesuvius, the fiery mountain was not in a state 
 of eruption, much to the subsequent disappointment 
 of Papa Perkyn Middlewick, who contended that his 
 son ought to have " hinsisted on a ruption. I spared 
 no hespense, Charley ; I didn't stint ye ; I told yer 
 to go in for everything." The Derbyshire Ebbing 
 and Flowing Well is not flowing for Kalmat to-day, 
 and I want him to go in for everything. But no 
 matter. The mare responds to the crack of the 
 whip. The sun smiles upon the stony scenery as if 
 to soften its bleak stern character, and to melt with 
 sympathetic warmth its rigid angularities ; smiles 
 upon sheep asking for bread and getting stones, for 
 the limestone crops up in boulder growth above the 
 scanty grass ; upon treeless fields ruled out in low 
 rising and falling walls of cold grey stone that strike 
 harshly to the eye accustomed to the grateful green 
 hedges of southern pastures, and the lavish luxuri- 
 ance of southern lanes ; upon the hard-faced outline 
 of swelling hill and sweeping valley, in which the 
 sun searches out dainty tones of colour, communi- 
 cated by lichen and moss, heathbell and bracken. 
 Comes the village of Sparrow Pit. The diverging road
 
 248 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 leads to Peak Forest, where the chapelry was once 
 extra-parochial and extra-episcopal. This made the 
 village an English Gretna Green. Eunaway couples, 
 and politic people desirous of contracting hasty 
 marriages, hastened here from all parts of England. 
 Legend has lent the horror of a romantic murder to 
 one of these clandestine marriages at what was in 
 the " good old days " a lonely hamlet lost among 
 the hills. It is a tale of bur-r-1-lud ! Dithery music. 
 Lights low. Dress of the last century. Two run- 
 away lovers, as rich in money as in love, returning 
 from a matrimonal visit to the Peak Forest Parson, 
 who if he brought no soul to salvation, was, no doubt 
 instrumental in bringing a good many couples to a 
 state of repentance. They are on horseback on their 
 happy way Hallamshire-ward. In the gloomy pass 
 of the Winnats are a band of murderers, who waylay 
 them and still their warm hearts for ever, simply for 
 the sake of their personal possessions. Kalmat says 
 English civilization has not improved so much since 
 then, for an old man was murdered the other day in 
 one of the Home Counties for sixpence. We shall 
 soon be at the scene of the dreadful deed. The place 
 is supposed to be still haunted by the victims of the 
 tragedy. When the winter wind screams down the 
 narrow pass on a wild night, local superstition 
 associates the weird sound with the death cry
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 249 
 
 of the lovers, and shiveringly cowers under the 
 bedclothes. 
 
 Here is Perryfoot. What a beautiful green, soon 
 to be dimmed into a dingier hue, has spread over the 
 plantation to the left. The mass of bleak limestone 
 mountain to the right, standing out in rounded out- 
 line in the sunny air, is Eldon Hill. Midway up its 
 steep side is Eldon Hole : a chasm once reputed to 
 be fathomless. Poetry has made it one of the 
 Profundities of the Peak in the Latin verse of 
 Hobbes. Science has invested it with awe and 
 mystery in Catcott's " Deluge." Tradition establishes 
 it as a place of blood-curdling horror. Among other 
 terrible tales told of this perpendicular abyss, it is 
 said that in the reign of Queen Elizabeth the Earl 
 of Leicester had a man let down with ropes into the 
 dark cavity. When drawn up he was dumb and died 
 in mad contortions. He had seen But no matter. 
 "A good joke for the mighty Earl, but rather hard 
 lines for his human plummet," says Kalmat. Some 
 of the guide books have worked themselves up into 
 throes of thrilling excitement over similar traditions ; 
 but much of the " thunder " is taken away when it 
 is known that the hole has been thoroughly explored 
 by capable scientists, and that the bottom was found 
 at a depth of 70 yards. So we will not, Kalmat, 
 steer out of our course to inspect the awful abyss.
 
 250 A CRUISE HOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 Polyphemus no longer dwells in this Cave of the 
 Cyclopes, and we have no Achfflmenides to let down 
 with the sacrificial rope. 
 
 The road winds among the treeless hills, beautiful 
 in their very bleakness. The pasturage of the 
 moorland sheep is enamelled with the gold of the 
 mountain pansy. A lark is the only spot in the 
 bright blueness of the sky. The vertical sun reveals 
 every undulation of the landscape in its strong white 
 light. There is the hum of bees. Young plovers 
 are making trial trips on their newly-fledged wings. 
 All round a hundred pictures of hill and valley,. 
 lonely peak and deep hollow, rounded knoll and 
 sweeping ridge ; here and there a clump of storm- 
 rent pines ; now and again a solitary farmstead. 
 Presently we reach the head of the path leading 
 through the romantic paths of the Winnats. We 
 disembark at these straits, and, sending our craft 
 round to Castleton by the steep Mam Tor road, 
 proceed on foot. There is excellent anchorage at 
 the Bull's Head, and the midshipmite unfurls his 
 Sag (that is his whip) and gets under way in good 
 style. " The best and most forcible sense of a word 
 " is often that which is contained in its etymology," 
 says Coleridge ; and this mountain pass giving 
 access to Castleton is described in itsjname : Winnats, 
 or " windgates." The ravine presents a natural
 
 A CKUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 251 
 
 passage for the mountain winds that sweep through 
 it and wail and moan and howl and scream ; while its 
 particular situation is such as to collect hi hollow 
 and angle the breezes from each point of the com- 
 pass. This rift is one of Nature's romantic openings 
 in the mountain limestone. Narrow is the path 
 between the perilous and precipitous crags. The 
 rocky confinement brings out in beautiful chiaroscuro 
 the gleam of grey limestone, the green of clinging 
 verdure, and the gloom *f changing shadows. 
 Kalmat accustomed to some of the wildest passages 
 in Alpine scenery, and familiar with the Sierras of 
 the Far West stands enchanted in this grand nook 
 which is an hour's journey only from swarthy Shef- 
 field, and but half-a-day's trip from toiling and 
 moiling Manchester. It is a romance in rock; a 
 petrified poem ; a lyric in limestone. The rock- 
 ribbed gorge grows more striking hi its revelations 
 of savage sublimity as we pursue the pathway. The 
 rocks tower to greater and wilder heights. They 
 assume castellated shapes. Now there is the crude 
 suggestion of cathedral turret and tower ; then 
 threaten fortress and bastion. The carving might 
 be the rough sculpture of the Giants and Gods of 
 mythology. Near the extremity of the pass which is 
 something like a mile in length, a huge sentinel tor 
 disputes further progress. We seem locked in-
 
 252 A CRUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 
 
 among the lonely limestone precipices, awful in their 
 stony solitude; when, lo! a sudden turn, and a 
 narrow passage telescopes a dream of scenery. The 
 vista for the moment stuns the eye with the abrupt- 
 ness with which it bursts upon the sight ; a blow of 
 beauty. The vision is the Vale of Hope. Castleton 
 clusters immediately below, and the country around 
 spreads a broad picturesque panorama of undulating 
 pastures, white homesteads, and distant hills, all 
 revealed in a sunny light that brings out every 
 distant contour in delicate outline. "It is like 
 passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death 
 to behold the Promised Land," says Kalmat as he 
 stands entranced against the vast rocky screen that 
 veils the vision from the view of those who have not 
 Faith enough to follow the Narrow Path until the 
 open Heaven of Hope spreads out in rich reward ! 
 
 The valley of Hope is certainly one of the finest 
 of those Derbyshire Dales whose rich beauty Eliza 
 Cook has sung in enthusiastic verse. Perhaps it is 
 one of the most pleasing vales that English scenery 
 can present. Its fascination lies in its peaceful 
 repose ; in its sweet, serene, soothing tranquility 
 placed in strong contrast with storm-rent rocks, 
 -wild uplands, bare peaks, and hungry wind-swept 
 moors. The sun to-day intensifies every line of the 
 scenic contrast, and imparts a gladder green to the
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 253 
 
 breadths of level meadow on which the warm light 
 lies. The little river Nowe ripples hi silver curves 
 past white cottages and sheltered farmsteads. There 
 are those harmonious gradations of green sensitive 
 chords of colour in the scattered patches of copse, 
 and in the low-lying woods, which belong to the 
 sunny days intervening between the asperity of early 
 Spring and the rich monotonous fulness of Summer, 
 The pastoral peace is at once a picture and a poem. 
 
 " I found the poems in the fields, 
 And only ivrote them down" 
 
 Says John Clare, the poor Northampton poet of 
 Nature. The contrast between the fertile and for- 
 bidding, realises in one view "the land flowing with 
 milk and honey" and "the land of gall and worm, 
 wood ;" and one is inclined to quarrel with the genius 
 of etymology after all, when we find that the word 
 "Hope," in this instance, is derived from the Celtic 
 hwpp a slope, or the side of a hill, instead of having 
 the sweet allegorical signification the Vale suggests, 
 as it smiles on confident and happy amid the 
 frowning wilderness and flinty rocks. Not only is it 
 the strong contrast with its savage surroundings that 
 commends this Derbyshire valley. There is also the 
 theatrical suddenness with which its beauty breaks 
 upon the astonished eye. It is a surprise that holds 
 Ealmat captive, as many other people less emotional
 
 254 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 have been enchained before him. The fertile valley 
 is, perhaps, a mile and a half hi breadth. Extending 
 in an easterly direction, for about sis miles, it 
 embraces Castleton, Hope, Brough, Bamford, and 
 Hathersage. At Hathersage the Nowe joins the 
 dun-coloured Derwent, where another deep and 
 devious valley intersects the hill country. We cruise 
 the next day about these grey, old-world villages of 
 the valley, sometimes fishing, sometimes sketching, 
 and anchoring for the night at Castleton, just as the 
 last crimson farewell of the sun flushes the west. 
 
 And what about Castleton, yon ask ? There are 
 some show-places you may exhaust in a couple of 
 hours ; but to see all that will repay inspection at 
 Castleton demands two or three days. And the 
 expenditure of that time is at once pleasant and 
 profitable. Surely in no other place has Nature so 
 concentrated her curiosities as in this antiquated 
 mite of a town, shut in from the world by the austere 
 hills. Where else is there such a world of wonder 
 in a space so confined ? Castleton is a repository of 
 romance. It is a natural museum. Geology in the 
 abstract is an attractive study ; but it becomes a 
 passion when pursued amid these Derbyshire rocks 
 and caves. " The fairy tales of science " are here 
 wedded to "the long result of Time." To 
 describe the sights of Castleton, one requires the
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 255 
 
 dimensions of a large volume. Kalmat says that if 
 he were only the Perpetual Curate of Mr. Joseph 
 Hatton's Valley of Poppies, it would be the absorb- 
 ing occupation of his learned leisure to do Castleton 
 descriptive justice. Its history under the Romans, 
 its penal settlement under the Saxons, its association 
 with the proud Peverils, its wonderful caverns, its 
 deep lead mines, its geological and mineralogical 
 revelations, its Shivering Mountain, and its old 
 Castle supply attractive themes for the appreciative 
 pen. 
 
 What happy writer was it who, when staying at 
 Niagara, appended to one of his letters the foot-note : 
 "There are some water-falls hereabouts, which are 
 said to be pretty?" In a similar manner, recalling 
 our Castleton experiences, I might remark of the 
 place that there are some caverns there supposed to 
 be curious. For I must lacking the space of the 
 Encyclopedia Britannica dismiss in a few lines 
 what form the special pride and glory of Castleton. 
 Besides it would be a difficult, if not an impossible 
 task, to say anything new, or even fresh, about a 
 subject so exhausted by a multiplicity of writers who 
 have paraphrased and plagiarised each other. Even 
 the local guide-books cannot " overdo" the Castleton 
 Caverns, although the " high - falutin " reaches 
 rhetorical altitudes too lofty for the safe pursuit of
 
 256 A CEUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 the ordinary follower of the English language, for 
 the most inventive pen, in its most hysterical 
 raptures, would find it impossible to make the weird 
 wonders of these caves more sublime in poetic horror 
 than is the romantic reality. The caverns, be it 
 observed, are not a repetition of one another. While 
 the entrance to the Great Peak Cavern is a stupen- 
 dous span a sublimity in stone a vast vestibule of 
 natural stone-work a Cyclopean porch, the approach 
 to the Speedwell Mine is but a narrow insignificant 
 passage. The grim, grand portal of the former, 
 however, dwindles down into a mere fissure in the 
 hill ; while the threshold of the latter broadens out 
 into a majestic Pantheon-like space that is awesome 
 in its suggestive immensity. And while these two 
 caverns stun the sensitive mind by their solemn 
 grandeur, their Cimmerian gloom, and their constant 
 premonition of the awful Styx and Dante's infernal 
 Ferryman, the Blue John Mine appeals to you by its 
 pure spectacular beauty. It is a series of glistening 
 chambers. Stalactites and crystals make fairy halls. 
 The stony encrustations gleam like a fretwork of 
 frost. Kalmat gives way to the weakness of verse, 
 and says of the guide : 
 
 "His foot is on the marble floor, 
 And o'er Ms head the dazzling spars 
 Gleam like a firmament of stars."
 
 A CRUISE KOTJND CASTLETON. 257 
 
 No wonder that the Blue John Mine has been 
 compared to the grotto of Antiparos. The Odin Mine, 
 again, an old obsolete lead working, is interesting 
 because of its historic renown. The Romans worked 
 the lead; and in Saxon times the place became a 
 local Siberia to which prisoners were sentenced to 
 labour out their lives in the mines. 
 
 If Castleton is interesting underground, it is none 
 the less attractive above. What an idle, healthful 
 time we spend on the top of Mam Tor, watching 
 the silent shadows sail over hill and hollow, while 
 we discuss the meaning of the name of this shaly, 
 crumbling, "shivering mountain." Does "Mam 
 Tor " mean " rocky height " derivable from " mor," 
 "rnaen," or "mannin," the Celtic for rock, and 
 "tor," the Anglo-Saxon for height? Or is it the 
 "mother rock," " mam " being the Celtic for mother 
 or dam ? We incline to the latter, for Mam Tor is a 
 hill with such a distinct individuality about it. 
 Over the other hills it assumes a strong maternal 
 command. But why will Kalmat persist in his 
 discussion upon derivatives? He wonders now 
 whether " Tor" is not an abbreviation of "Tower," 
 coming from the Latin turns, a tower, and through 
 the Anglo-Saxon torr, a tower. And when this 
 dispute is concluded, controversy is again aroused 
 over the remains of the ancient British encampment
 
 258 A CRUISE ROTTND CASTLETON. 
 
 on the top of the hill. The frequent shivering of 
 the shale has taken away most of the camp on the 
 side facing Castleton ; but there is still much of the 
 double trench to be clearly remarked ; and we drink 
 at the north-east corner of the waters of the perpetual 
 spring quaffed by thirsty Celt and Eoman and 
 Saxon. The centuries have passed; history has 
 unrolled its record of good and ill ; the whole world 
 has changed ; but still this water sparkles in the 
 sun an abiding emblem of Eternity. An important 
 military position this precipitous hill, yet scarcely 
 more unassailable than the situation of Peveril 
 Castle, which is only approached from one side of 
 the crag : that from the south, which is a very 
 narrow isthmus defended by the keep. The castle 
 is but a rude shell ; but the view from the height of 
 the concert of mountains and the concentration of 
 valleys around is not one that will be easily effaced 
 from our memory. Such mental photographs never 
 fade. The older they grow, the brighter becomes 
 their colouring, the distincter the delicacy of their 
 half-tones, the more decided their touches of light 
 and shade ; and they can be produced at will, years 
 afterwards, and miles away from where the mental 
 camera " metagraphed " them upon the memory. 
 Kalmat is curious as to the locality of 
 Sir Walter Scott's scenes in the Peveril of the Peak.
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 259 
 
 He enquires with eager interest for the ruins of 
 Moultrassie Hall, Bridgnorth's residence, and for 
 Martindale Castle, the home of Sir Geoffry Peveril. 
 Where are they indeed? Where are many other 
 ideal places ? Where is Utopia ? What time is 
 there a train for Arcadia ? Where can we find the 
 Happy Valley of Easselas ? Can you direct me to 
 the Elysian Fields? Where is the Idle Lake of 
 Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queene ? Where, in 
 fact, are all our Chateaux en Espagne ? I cannot 
 find that Sir Walter Scott ever visited Derbyshire. 
 The local topography of his Peveril shows ignorance 
 of the Peake Countrie, although the great Magician 
 has illuminated its hills with his imagination, and 
 invested it with 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream." 
 
 Castleton should rather -be associated with Lord 
 Byron than Sir Walter Scott. Indeed it was 
 connected with an affecting episode that turned the 
 current of Manfred's miserable life. It saw the 
 rupture of that deep affection which "would have 
 healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our 
 fathers." Castleton is coupled with the breaking of 
 Byron's union with the beautiful Miss Chaworth. 
 Writing of a visit to one of the caverns about this 
 time, the poet remarks : " I had to cross in a boat a 
 stream which flows under a rock so close upon the
 
 260 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 water, as to admit the boat only to be pushed on by 
 the ferryman (a sort of Charon) who wades at the 
 stern, stooping all the time. The companion of my 
 transit was M. A. C., with whom I had been long in 
 love and never told it, though she had discovered it 
 without. I recollect my sensations, but cannot 
 describe them, and it is as well." .... And 
 idling on the top of the castle crag in the still 
 sunny air of this emancipated holiday time with 
 the Hope Valley spreading before us in the full 
 richness of its pastoral beauty, the bleak mountains 
 meeting around, and the deep ravines and the 
 clustering houses of Castleton below Kalmat talks 
 with some feeling of the effect of the "might have 
 been" on Byron's character, of the noble purpose 
 poisoned, the yearning heart steeled, the generous 
 trust betrayed, the better life blighted. Byron's, 
 alas! is not the only bright career that has been 
 dishonoured by an affection that was a fraud, and a 
 love that was a living lie ; and yet his aspiration for 
 Mary Chaworth stands alone, or keeps company 
 only with Dante's passion for Beatrice. . . But a 
 truce to sentiment. It is again a bright June 
 morning; a blithe breeze favours our sails; the 
 steersman is at his place; our harbour dues are 
 paid ; and once more we get under weigh for another 
 " cruise on wheels."
 
 A CRUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 261 
 
 Looking at the Ordnance Map of Derbyshire, 
 there is to be seen, some seven miles north of 
 Castleton, a broad and remarkable patch of white, 
 deeply shaded with black. It is distinguished as 
 " The Peak," as if it were an isolated hill, or the 
 North Pole. But the ardent discoverer in search of 
 some solitary eminence towering in austere, am- 
 bitious altitude above the rest of its fellows, such as 
 the Government " chartists " have indicated, will be 
 disappointed. The expected mountain giant is not 
 to be found. The expression " The Peak " is a 
 generic title, and comprehends the whole of the hilly 
 country of North Derbyshire, with the encroaching 
 uplands of Staffordshire, Cheshire, and Yorkshire. 
 But it is to the distinctive " Peak" of the Ordnance 
 Survey that we now steer. (Speaking of that map 
 Kalmat is tickled with the curious fact that while 
 " the writing is by J. "W. Froggatt "comes he from 
 Froggatt Edge ? " the hills are by S. Peake !") We 
 meet with but few holidaying mariners in this ocean 
 of heather. Excursion steamers ply not on these 
 unfrequented seas. Aristocratic yachts know not 
 these sheltered rocky havens and deep valley sound- 
 ings. It is rough voyaging over the billowy roads 
 cut through the heather, and gritstone boulders 
 threaten the bravest springs. 
 
 We traverse the exquisite Edale Valley, with the
 
 262 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 bold hills rising above the little river, tumbling in 
 white under wooded shade, until we are stopped by 
 the huge steep plateau of Kinder Scout, bounding 
 its whole northern side, a black and morose platform 
 of gritstone even on this joyous June morning, 
 when all the idyllic charms of the opening summer- 
 time are smiling in their soft sweetness over the 
 land. Nowhere, Kalmat admits, could you find a 
 wilder chaos of moor and hill, a more savage sub- 
 limity of solitude than among the stern peaks and 
 passes and moorland wastes of this Kinderscout 
 country. He is stunned by the boldness and im- 
 mensity of the prospect on every side ; and we agree 
 in wonder how it is that artists go so far afield in- 
 search of sketching grounds, while the moors 
 frowned upon by the Scout, so near and yet so 
 remote, remain practically unpainted. What pic- 
 tures are presented by these misty crags, and deep 
 water- worn cloughs ! Bring thy palette here, disciple 
 of Turner, and give us the gloom and grandeur of 
 these secluded uplands and valleys ; give us the wild 
 scenic revelations of Seal Edge and Fairbrook Naze, 
 the strange colours and atmospheric effects of this 
 chaotic upheaval of another world ; give us the 
 hidden beauties of Bamford, Derwent, Allport, and 
 Ilallam Moors, and the pretty pastoral paths of the 
 Woodlands, and the Highland vale of Ashop. The
 
 A CRUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 263 
 
 Peak has many a magic secret awaiting the touch of 
 thy pencil, and though the paths are rough, and the 
 inns few, Nature affords thee glorious recompense. 
 
 By devious and declivitous roads we find ourselves 
 later in the day at the village of Derwent, where the 
 scenery is more soft and sylvan. It is an ideal 
 hamlet among the hills, and after our long cruise we 
 anchor for the night. Derwent Hall is of itself 
 worthy of a special pilgrimage. A picturesque 
 bridge over the Derwent, foaming and brown from 
 the peat moss, gives access to the old mansion, 
 so altered and restored by successive owners that 
 it now resembles Sir John Cutler's silk stock- 
 ings, which had been so often darned with worsted 
 that no portion of the original fabric remained. 
 Derwent Hall was originally in the possession of the 
 Balguys, a Cheshire family. Afterwards it became 
 the property of the Newdigates ; now it is owned by 
 the Duke of Norfolk, who uses it as a shooting box, 
 and has spent recently a sum exceeding 30,000 in 
 adding a new block to the old hall, and decorating 
 the whole. Over the old doorway is the Balguy 
 arms and the date 1672, and the unique ancient oak 
 furniture with which the place abounds dates back 
 five or six hundred years. Such a wonderful collec- 
 tion of genuine old pieces, calculated to drive the 
 least covetous of mortals into sinful envy. The
 
 264 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 house is crowded from roof to basement with antique 
 furniture collected from all parts of the world by His 
 Grace of Norfolk. Kalmat speculates as to what 
 raptures aesthetic Kensington would work itself over 
 these quaint, artistic wonders. This oak furniture is 
 the real thing, and not the hideous mock medievalism 
 over which Mr. Postlethwaite and the disciples of the 
 "intense " school posture in " consummately utter " 
 delight. Note the tapestry from Worksop Manor, 
 with which the entrance hall is hung, my friend, 
 together with the quaintly carved doors opening to 
 the suites of apartments. What a fine oak chimney 
 piece that is from Norton Hall which enriches the 
 new dining-room, a delightful place with superb 
 carvings, oak ceiling, and diamond-paned windows 
 framing beautiful natural water-colours. I cannot 
 catalogue all the charming old pieces that render 
 Derwent Hall a romance. Here is a marvellous old 
 English four-poster, consummate in carving, bearing 
 the inscription "Kex Carolus I Anno Do 1646;" 
 study these six figures of clever German craft dated 
 1216; contemplate a cabinet, dated 1634, which 
 would send an ordinary collector crazy ; regard this 
 corner receptacle for books and china, inscribed 
 " God with us, 1653," and pause to minutely examine 
 this fine hall settee, with a royal hunting-party 
 carved upon its panels, and dated 1598. A surpassing
 
 A CRUISE KOTJND CASTLETON. 265 
 
 study for an historic novelist this hall of old 
 furniture. All the cabinets, and even the bedsteads, 
 have hidden drawers that have refused to yield their 
 secrets of family and State in the bygone days of 
 conspiracy and peril. How Sir Walter Scott would 
 have revelled amid all this quaint, suggestive, 
 imaginative upholstery, eloquent of poetry and 
 romance, feud and intrigue, love and revenge. 
 
 We spend an idle, careless time in the Derwent 
 Valley, fishing, or sketching, or shooting. It is a 
 country of such a concentrated glory of moor and 
 valley, of old Roman roads and Druidical remains, of 
 ancient barrows, strange tumuli, and rocking stones, 
 of tors and cloughs and scars, that one devoutly 
 hopes that the projected railway, which is to give 
 Sheffield a new route to Manchester, will never break 
 the seclusion of so much sealed charm. Wordsworth 
 was incensed when the locomotive entered the Lake- 
 land, and Mr. Buskin regards the modern engineer 
 as an emissary of the Evil One, although both poet 
 and art-prophet are answered in the earnest lines 
 of Lord Houghton , 
 
 " But thou, the Patriarch of these beauteous ways, 
 Can'st never grudge that gloomy streets sends out 
 The crowded sons of labour, care, and doubt, 
 To read these scenes by light of thine own lays." 
 Still the possibility of the Iron Horse snorting amid 
 the sequestered beauty of the Derwent Valley fills
 
 266 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 the artistic mind with alarm, and I agree with the 
 eloquent protest of my friend Mr. W. C. Leng, of 
 Sheffield, when he writes: "You must not tell 
 " anybody that I hare failed to work myself into a 
 " state of enthusiasm over the prospect of seeing 
 " the steam horse running wild by the side of the 
 " shimmering Derwent, and waking the echoes of 
 " Millstone Edge with its snorts, and grunts, and 
 " screams. It is a weakness of mind to be senti- 
 " mental, and I doubt whether the aesthetic effect of 
 "a paper mill or two, a few wire mills, a vitriol 
 " manufactory, and an odoriferous tannery, supple- 
 "mented by a dainty manufactory of artificial 
 " manures inevitable products of progress these 
 " wherever a streak of water and a streak of railway 
 " are found together would entirely compensate 
 " Sheffielders for the privilege of leaving the old 
 " road between the purple heather and travelling to 
 " Froggatt Edge underground. At present the view 
 " from Millstone Edge is like a glimpse of Eden the 
 " Happy a vision of beauty a revelation of loveli- 
 " ness a thing to dream about aye, a thing to 
 " thank God for. I have shown it to Scotchmen 
 " born Highlanders on days when the axiled light 
 " spread a golden fretwork over the slopes of that 
 " valley within a valley, where hills rise upon the 
 " shoulders of other hills, and where many valleys
 
 A CBUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 267 
 
 "meet; and I have heard those Highlanders born 
 " express, in tones touched with emotion, their 
 " enforced praise. Do forgive me, sir, I know I am 
 " behind the times, and I fear that were I a Duke of 
 "Butland or of Devonshire, I should be like Sir 
 " Hickman Bacon, who when offered a large sum for 
 " a portion of his estate upon which to erect iron- 
 " works and sink a colliery, said, in effect, " Get 
 " thee behind me, Satan." Now do have patience, 
 " and I will recant this fearful heresy of mine ere I 
 " am tied to a stake and burnt alive like my admired 
 " friend the Turk, for being incapable of appreciating 
 " some aspects of our modern civilization. There ia 
 " something to be said for putting manufactories in 
 " rows by the side of the now translucent river. At 
 " present the water shines like liquid glass, and has 
 " neither taste nor smell, and the vegetation on its 
 "banks glistens like an emerald; but when the 
 " manufacturers get at the foliage and the water, 
 " these defects will soon be toned down, for they 
 " will toss their sweepings and furnace ashes into 
 " the river to save cartage, will carpet the footpaths 
 "with cinders, and will subdue the verdancy of the 
 " foliage on the trees by smudging it into sobriety." 
 It would be as difficult to contemplate with com- 
 posure the money-changers in the Temple as Hather- 
 sage made a second Attercliffe, and Grindleford
 
 268 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 Bridge a screaming railway junction. There is, 
 however, sweet consolation in knowing that the 
 much agitated "Core, Has sop, and Castleton Kail- 
 way" belongs to the distant future, and that the 
 poetical picturesqueness of Derwent's pastoral dale 
 is safe from immediate defacement. 
 
 Hathersage and Grindleford Bridge ! The names 
 recall glowing memories of our " cruise on wheels." 
 The former old-world village supplied Charlotte 
 Bronte with much of the fine moorland scenery 
 which fascinates the reader in the pages of Jane 
 Eyre. The Moor House of that strange, subtle 
 story is still to be seen in the neighbourhood. The 
 vale of Hope is thus referred to in that fine novel : 
 " The pebbly bridle-path wound between fern-banks 
 " first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little 
 " pasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of 
 
 " heath The purple moors 
 
 " The hollow vale I saw the fascina- 
 
 " tion of the locality, I felt the consecration of its 
 " loneliness : my eye feasted on the outlines of 
 " swell and sweep on the mild colouring commu- 
 " nicated to ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, 
 " by flower- sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and 
 " mellow granite crag." It should be gratifying to 
 local pride to know that the two greatest lady 
 writers the world has yet produced have largely
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 269 
 
 drawn their inspiration from the Peak of Derby- 
 shire, for while Currer Bell has given us the moor- 
 land solitudes around Hathersage, George Eliot's 
 Adam Bede is laid for the most part about Wirks- 
 worth. And while Hathersage is connected with 
 literature, it is also linked with legend. The village 
 claims fame as being the birthplace of Little John, 
 and the churchyard is said to contain the bones of 
 the Sherwood hero. It is even maintained that the 
 sturdy lieutenant of Bobin Hood himself chose the 
 spot where he desired to rest, while he stipulated 
 that his bow and cap should be hung up in the 
 church, when he passed to his rest. 
 
 " His Itoiv was in the chancel hung ; 
 
 His last good bolt they drove 
 
 Down to the rocke, its measured length, 
 
 Westward fra' the grave. 
 
 And root and btid this shaft put forth 
 
 Wlien spring returned anon ; 
 
 It grew a tree, and threw a shade, 
 
 Wliere slept staunch Little John," 
 Kalmat is, however, somewhat sceptical concerning 
 the tradition. The antiquaries have certainly agreed 
 to differ over Little John's grave, and it is a " burial 
 question " awaiting settlement. One authority 
 maintains that he died in Scotland ; a second that 
 he was hanged near Dublin ; while others doubt his 
 existence altogether. Anyhow, Hathersage is the 
 key to the Bobin Hood Country. Bobin Hood's
 
 270 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 Hill rises above the vale of Castleton ; Robin Hood's 
 Stride is among the scattered tors on Stanton Moor, 
 some rude rocks on Coombs Moss are connected 
 with the valiant outlaw ; while Loxley Chase is but 
 a few miles from Hathersage, away in the Eivelin 
 Valley, Hallamshireward. Little John's green cap 
 and bow erst hung up in Hathersage Church ; while 
 a sepulchral stone was dug up bearing the conclusive 
 initials " L. J.," which was pointed to with pride by 
 the simple villagers as being those of their forest 
 hero ! Mr. John Charles Cox sums up the evidence 
 in the controversy as to Little John's place of burial 
 by saying " the opponents of the accuracy of the 
 " tradition seem to us to have far more difficulties 
 " with which to contend than those who accept it." 
 
 All this forms the subject for mighty pleasant 
 discourse as we cruise again down the Derwent 
 Valley to Grindlef ord Bridge ; now making a detour 
 to visit the grand rocky platform of Hu-Gaer (" the 
 city of God ") and the Stonehenge-like mysteries of 
 Caelswark ("the work of the Gaels") and to bask 
 on Millstone Edge ; then breaking away in the west 
 to climb "Sir William" one of the most stately 
 and personal hills in the Peak who rewards the 
 ascent with a surpassing pictorial map, that is what 
 an American would call " a big eyefull of scenery," 
 and in the east to Froggatt Edge, until we are sorely
 
 A CRUISE BOUND CA.STLETON. 271 
 
 puzzled as to which upland should be awarded the 
 prize for grandeur. Perhaps Froggatt Edge claims 
 the guerdon ; but we would dispose of the difficulty 
 like Thackeray did a similar one when visiting the 
 Killarney lakes : " When at the smaller lake, we 
 agreed that it was more beautiful than the large one ; 
 then when we came back we said, ' No ; the large 
 lake is the more beautiful,' and so, at every point 
 we stopped, we pronounced that particular spot was 
 the prettiest. The fact is they are too handsome." 
 Throughout our cruise each hour has given us a 
 fresh picture ; we have proceeded from " beauty- 
 spot " to " beauty-spot," and one artist's " bit " has 
 been suddenly surpassed by its successor. 
 
 Another day with the sportive little moorland 
 . trout, and then we set sail back to Buxton, calling at 
 Eyam, for ever sanctified by Mompesson's sacrifice, 
 and at Tideswell, with its cathedral-like church. 
 The sunset during this return journey burns itself 
 into our memory. It has been a silvery, sunny day 
 of mirthful sparkle, with all the strong, brilliant 
 lights that Paul Veronese loved to introduce in his 
 compositions. As evening comes apace, there is a 
 sight to be seen in the west which must make all men 
 for the moment Sun Worshippers. It is such a spec- 
 tacular sunset that, if it were thrown upon canvas by 
 a fearless painter of genius, the sages of the Royal
 
 272 A CRUISE HOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 Academy would reject the picture, and Mr. Mahlstick, 
 the art critic, would pronounce it exaggerated, un- 
 natural, and impossible. The western sky is one 
 wild glare of burning red, spreading from north 
 to south, brightening into light, golden wave- 
 ripples, and then deepening to a dusky smoky red 
 again. The vast conflagration of flame gradually 
 fades, until all that is left of its glory is a dim blood- 
 red line against the hill tops. The strong colours 
 the crimsons and carmines are loath to let the day 
 die ; but they grow restful and weary at last ; and 
 an exquisite symphony of faint pale tones enchants 
 us with a sense of tender sadness and gentle repose. 
 And now, in the moonlight, come the familiar 
 features of Millers Dale, and we pursue the Wye 
 valley up to Buxton, which we begin to regard as 
 not belonging to the Peak at all. Kalmat had 
 thought Derbyshire was done when Matlock and 
 Buxton, Haddon and Chatsworth, were visited ; but 
 a new and undiscovered Derbyshire has been opened 
 to us, and he protests that the tourist, who knows 
 the show-places, but is ignorant of the high moor- 
 land country of Kinderscout and Castleton, of 
 Ashopton and Hathersage, of Learn and Longshaw, 
 is only in the alphabet of the educational course 
 awaiting him. The tourist is ignorant, too, of the 
 inhabitants.
 
 A CRUISE ROUND CASTLETON. 273 
 
 The character of the people is as fresh and healthy 
 as the scenery. The abusive adage which endows 
 Derbyshire arms with strength at the expense of 
 Derbyshire heads has no application to the shrewd 
 hill-farmers and stolid lead-miners of the High Peak. 
 They appear to speak in aphorisms. When some- 
 one was extolling Charles Lamb as a humourist to 
 Thomas Carlyle, the great philosopher said, " I have 
 known scores of Scotch moorland farmers, who for 
 humour could have blown Lamb into the zenith." 
 This power of caustic humour, expressed in a broad 
 dialect that gives it additional force, is one of the 
 leading characteristics of the lusty, long-headed, 
 loyal-hearted men of the Peak ; and it is combined 
 with a cordial warmth of feeling which is all the 
 more noticeable coming, as it does, from rough 
 exteriors and inhospitable hills. 
 
 Our ship is paid off ; the Whitsuntide cruise is 
 over all too soon ; and now the express to the South 
 is to take one of us at least away to the " desk's 
 dead wood." And so we bid adieu to the Peak, 
 
 "... a vain adieu ! 
 There can be no farewell to scene like thine, 
 The mind is coloured by thy every hue." 
 
 And to-night the piece of Blue John spar revives 
 all the incidents of the holiday, and all the scenes 
 come up for review. The prospect through my
 
 274 A CRUISE BOUND CASTLETON. 
 
 window is one of monotonous houses looking dismal 
 in the misty rain, and of dingy streets of slush and 
 mud, with the movement of one or two dripping 
 umbrellas, a cheap funeral, and a melancholy police- 
 man. But what I see is the vale of Hope lying 
 radiant and green under the austere hills. The 
 summer breeze makes an JEolian harp of the stony 
 Windgates. The mountains sketch their shapes 
 before me ; the scowling masses of Kinder, with a 
 shaft of strong sunh'ght athwart their gloom ; the 
 haughty peaks of Win and Lose Hills ; the familiar 
 features of Mam Tor ; the towering shoulders of " Sir 
 William," with the white mist bearding his face. And 
 now come the sweet fresh valleys most dear to the 
 inward eye of Memory : you Ladybower, you romantic 
 Edale, and you fair vale of the Derwent, who can 
 fling the heart's affection for you into words ? 
 
 FINIS.
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 PRICE HALF.A-CROWN. 
 
 PILGRIMAGES 
 IN THE PEAK: 
 
 ERBYSHIRE Ti/SSAYS. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWAED BRADBURY. 
 ("StrepJion") 
 
 BUXTON: J. C. BATEJS, and all Booksellers. 
 
 Opinions of l|e |jim 
 
 A cheery little manual of Derbyshire essays, beginning 
 with the old love-story of Dorothy Vernon, the heroine 
 of Haddon Hall, and wandering thence, by pleasant paths 
 and easy stages, into a district every foot of which Mr. 
 Bradbury evidently knows and venerates. A Week at 
 Buxton is temptingly described ; and instructive hints 
 are not wanting for the visitor to this city of health, or 
 to any of the spots in proximity to the Wye, the Derwent, 
 or the Dove. Without pretending to the methodical 
 service of a guide-book, Mr. Bradbury's little volume is 
 a pleasant travelling companion, and a not less acceptable 
 friend of the morning stroll and the evening fireside. 
 Daily Telegraph. 
 
 T
 
 11. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury rambles here and there, keeping up all 
 the time a running fire of amusing, friendly chat. He 
 has considerable descriptive power. The little book is 
 worth perusal, and visitors to the beautiful scenery in 
 which Derbyshire abounds will do well to obtain it. 
 Graphic . 
 
 An eminently-valuable addition to local literature. 
 The writer's descriptive power is of the highest order. 
 He fairly carries the reader with him through the lovely 
 scenery he paints so well. A more enjoyable book we 
 have seldom had the pleasure of perusing. Brief. 
 
 In " Pilgrimages of the Peak : Derbyshire Essays" the 
 author gives us a taste of his best quality. His first title 
 is such a good one that it causes one to regret that he 
 should have thought fit to supplement it with a second. 
 The word " essay" is so typical of boredom in the present 
 day, it is so suggestive of pinchbeck sentiment, of second- 
 hand ideas, of tedious verbosity, and platitudinous twad- 
 dle that it seems a pity that the additional title was 
 super-added. However, it is ungrateful to quarrel with 
 the picture outside the booth when the show within is 
 so excellent. In " Strephon " we look in vain for tedious 
 verbosity and platitudinous twaddle, therefore he has no 
 right to entitle his volume "essays." The author has a 
 somewhat rare qualification he knows what he is writing 
 about ; every stick and stone, every highway and byway 
 of Derbyshire he has at his finger's end, so to speak, 
 before putting his pen to paper. Whether he is going 
 up the Wye, along the Via Gellia, giving us views of 
 Matlock, tearing through the Peak on an express engine, 
 taking a Shoemaker's Holiday, sketching on the Banks 
 of the Dove, or passing a pleasant Week at Buxton, we 
 are well assured that he is an excellent cicerone, who has 
 known all these spots from his youth up, and that his 
 peripatetic discourse will be vastly entertaining. Full 
 of good spirits, with a light hand and a graphic pen, 
 Mr. Bradbury has produced a very charming volume. 
 "Pilgrimages in the Peak" will not only be read in 
 Derbyshire, but it will be as popular elsewhere, and it will 
 doubtless induce many to pay a visit to that picturesque 
 county, and study more closely the beautiful spots the 
 author loves so deeply and so well knows how to describe. 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 Of late years the majestic beauty of Derbyshire has 
 received a more adequate share of popular appreciation,
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. III. 
 
 and the credit of this re-distribution of esteem belongs, 
 first, to the Midland Railway Company for performing 
 the difficult and costly task of burrowing under its crags, 
 and sweeping over its valleys, and secondly to Mr. Brad- 
 bury, whose naturally keen perception of the picturesque 
 has been nursed and trained by the incomparable pictures 
 of tor and torrent, dale and purple moorland which con- 
 stitute " The Peak." As the " Strephon " of the provincial 
 press and the monthly magazines, Mr. Bradbury has made 
 many thousands of people familiar with the character of 
 Derbyshire scenery, who otherwise would have been 
 oblivious of its inviting retreats. "Pilgrimages in the 
 Peak " is the work of the matured artist in words, and 
 places n evidence promise fulfilled and realised. It is 
 not a guide-book disfigured by a reckless shower of in- 
 apposite poetry, nor padded out with garrulous anecdote, 
 like a literary wedge to balance an unskilful story. It is 
 a series of finished pen photographs, with a delightful 
 soupron of romance thrown in, much after the manner 
 of Mr. Black's " Strange Adventures of a Phaeton." The 
 author describes his scenes in a rich and crisp style, 
 clothes traditions with new phraseology, and when he 
 makes a joke which often occurs it is worth its natural 
 reward. To Derbyshire tourists the book is almost in- 
 dispensable ; to those who appreciate English scenery it 
 is more than worth its price. Public Opinion. 
 
 Another reason for Buxton's growing position is the 
 increased interest that the English people are evincing 
 in the neglected beauties of Derbyshire. The hill and 
 dale scenery of the Peak is almost unrivalled in romantic 
 beauty. Chatsworth and Haddon Hall, Matlock and 
 Eowsley, Dove Dale and Millers Dale, are " fetching " 
 people who know their Switzerland as well as Dr. John- 
 son knew his Fleet-street. Mr. Edward Bradbury, better 
 known in the provinces by his literary nom of " Strephon," 
 has done much to awaken this active appreciation by his 
 picturesque and popular " Pilgrimages in the Peak," one 
 of the happiest departures from guide-book writing it 
 has ever been my pleasure to peruse. Society. 
 
 We are constantly being reminded of the vague inscrip- 
 tion on the great Egyptian library as to books being " the 
 medicine of the mind." No doubt they are ; but to know 
 something of the hygienic chemistry of books, and to 
 apply the medicine, is the main thing. Bearing this in 
 mind, "Pilgrimages in the Peak" can be safely recom- 
 mended as an excellent restorative for these dull foggy
 
 IV. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 days. It is a series of essays and sketches descriptive of 
 the scenery and traditions of Derbyshire, full of rich 
 imagery, and written in a chatty, crisp style. The author 
 is an artist with an artist's love of the romantic and the 
 picturesque, and never fails to make his readers charm- 
 ingly interested. "The Story of Dorothy Vernon " is full 
 of deep pathos. "A Visit to the Via Gellia" and "Up 
 the Derbyshire Wye" are as full of poetic fancy as 
 " With the Multitude a Good Friday Sketch," at Mat- 
 lock, is humorous. " Through the Peak on the Engine 
 of the Express " might have come from the prolific pen 
 of George Augustus Sala, it is so vivid, and so entirely free 
 from that strained style of descriptive writing now become 
 so common. South London Gazette. 
 
 A graphic picture. The Globe. 
 
 There are many curious and lovely spots in Derby- 
 shire off the regular track of travel. . . . No writer 
 on the picturesque is more likely to make them known, 
 than Mr. Bradbury, who has made himself a reputation 
 as a literary guide to the county. " Strephon" wrote 
 tine clever papers on Chatsworth which appeared in the 
 Magazine of Art. The British Empire. 
 
 Travelling the other day through the beautiful county 
 of Derbyshire, I picked up at Buxton a little volume, 
 entitled "Pilgrimages in the Peak." It is by Mr. E. 
 Bradbury, who writes some capital things, and has a 
 place in several London magazines. The Pilgrimages 
 are descriptive narratives of the lions of the Peak, 
 cleverly written, and they are full of suggestions that 
 are worthy of historical notes. If any of my readers 
 want a holiday, and an idea of thoroughly English 
 character and scenery, they could not do better than 
 take a run through the Peak. The Boulevard (Paris). 
 
 A keen appreciation of the beauties of Nature in 
 general, and the beauties of picturesque Derbyshire in 
 particular, is shown in the various descriptions of scen- 
 ery round about the Peak. We like the chapter headed 
 "Our Week at Buxton" best of all, and the following 
 "bit" vividly recalls certain experiences of our own in 
 that locality. . . . This is very pretty word painting. 
 MRS. LEITH-ADAMS in Kensington. 
 
 A clever young English writer. Chicago Times. 
 
 Skill as a literary landscape painter, combined with 
 an intense love cf his native county. Freemason.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. V. 
 
 We have delightful sketches of the Peak of Derby- 
 shire. There is an abundance of antiquarian notes, and 
 such other information as the tourist in those parts 
 requires in order to appreciate the charms of the scenery. 
 Every part of the ground over which Mr. Bradbury tra- 
 vels is familiar to him, hut all this might have been true 
 aad the book might not have been so interesting to 
 the general reader as it is. The author has, in addition 
 to ample knowledge, a real insight into the beauties of 
 the landscapes which he describes, and a literary style 
 which makes his descriptions breezy and sparkling. We 
 have the story of Dorothy Vernon and the traditions of 
 Haddon Hall told with great charm and spirit. Man- 
 chester Evening Mail. 
 
 This is a very useful little book. Mr. Bradbury is by 
 no means a novice at the work. He displays considera- 
 ble power of word painting, and skilfully interlaces 
 with his sketches of notable districts, such references 
 to their leading historical incidents and associations, as 
 to impart quite a charm to its pages. The story of 
 Dorothy Vernon is, of course, told in connection with 
 the account of Haddon Hall, and we may say the tourist 
 in Derbyshire could hardly have a more useful com- 
 panion than Mr. Bradbury's compact little volume. 
 Manchester Courier. 
 
 The book, "Pilgrimages in the Peak," opens appro- 
 priately with the story, charmingly told, of Dorothy 
 Vernon's flight from Haddon Hall. The other articles 
 are vivid and successful sketches of beauty-spots in the 
 Peak, of which Mr. Bradbury is an enthusiastic and 
 poetic admirer. All the places known to fame have been 
 traversed by this pleasant guide, and many a picturesque 
 nook as yet uninvaded by the ordinary tourist or plea- 
 sure-seeker is rescued from its ordinary solitude. It 
 must not be thought this is a guide-book, though the 
 author would be one of the most agreeable of cicerones 
 in his native county. He loiters by the brink of the 
 winding Wye, and bathes in the beauty of the dun- 
 coloured Derwent. He pauses in adoration before the 
 majestic High Tor, and gazes with an artist's eye on 
 the unfolded loveliness of some grand panorama or the 
 wild luxuriance of some sequestered glen. These he 
 paints with harmonized power and grateful fancy, and it 
 is impossible to avoid the fascination of his enthusiasm. 
 His descriptions are " word paintings," but destitute of 
 " gush." His music is worthy of the theme, but he does
 
 Yl. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 not allow his judgment to wander and indulge in mis- 
 placed rhapsody. His style is fresh, clear, animated,, 
 and attractive. As a descriptive writer he is particularly 
 at home; and in " Pilgrimages in the Peak" some of his 
 best work is seen. He does not rely merely on the 
 fluency of his pen, hut expends upon his work patient 
 care, and neglects no interesting detail. His completed 
 efforts give promise of future successes, and we trust he 
 will not rest contented with present laurels. Man- 
 chester Evening Neics. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury is a writer who couples with, a full ap- 
 preciation of the charms of beautiful scenery a very easy, 
 unaffected, and agreeable manner of describing them. 
 The work is an excellent guide, and is always pleasant 
 reading which is more than can be said for many of 
 the guide books. Birmingham Daily Mail. 
 
 A gracefully written work, full of vivid descriptions of 
 Derbyshire scenery, word-pictures of the beauteous hills 
 and dales, and rippling brooks, and darksome caverns, 
 and quaint old grey-stone villages that lie sheltering in 
 the quiet valleys of a county that has long been 
 noted for its natural loveliness. It gives a peep at Buxton, 
 and the life the strong and weak lead there, amid crutches, 
 and bath-chairs, and mineral waters ; it takes you up the 
 valley of the Wye, past the towers and turrets of Haddon 
 Hall, under whose ivy-clad walls Dorothy Vernon plighted 
 her troth to brave Sir John Manners ; it leads you through, 
 the dreamy old-fashioned town of Wirksworth, where 
 George,' Eliot roamed in quest of character, and guides 
 you into the romantic valley of Via Gellia ; then, after 
 two glimpses at Matlock, it decoys you to the banks of the 
 Dove, and it is in this charming sketch that the author 
 gives perhaps the most conspicuous evidence of his 
 descriptive power. The little book, which is very prettily 
 got up, with a view of Haddon Hall on the cover, is a 
 valuable addition to the literature dealing with the Peak 
 district, and is la companion that no tourist anxious to 
 see the "beauty spots" of Derbyshire ought to be 
 without. Sheffield Independent. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury is out with his "Pilgrimages in the Peak." 
 It is a handsomely got-up little book, adorned with two 
 admirably-executed illustrations, the one being of Haddon 
 Hall and the other of the Concert Hall and Pavilion in the 
 Buxton Gardens. But the best pictures in the book are 
 those from Mr. Bradbury's own artistic pen. He works-
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. viL 
 
 with a bold and free hand, and his dashing style of treat- 
 ing his subjects is associated with a skill which produces 
 the happiest results. There is decision in every touch of 
 his pen, and in these pen-pictures of his he achieves by a 
 few skilful strokes the success which the artist who works 
 in oil colours finds it passing hard to obtain light, air, 
 liquidness, distance, the sense of exciting movement as 
 in the rush of the express train, or the rapture of repose 
 as realised in the purple hollow of some Derbyshire 
 moorland by the wanderer who flings himself down there 
 among the heather to enjoy the dreamy quiet of a summer 
 day's still afternoon. " Strephon " has the stuff in him 
 which will enable him to go up higher in the world of 
 literature by-and-by. The careless confidence, and the 
 redundant luxuriousness of some of his passages denote 
 the exuberance of spirit and of strength which is. if a 
 fault, a good fault in a young writer. Sheffield Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
 We may at once say that we like " Strephon's" style of 
 production as exhibited in his latest work "Pilgrimages 
 in the Peak." A lightness of touch, and a delicate yet 
 complete method of treating the scenic beauties of the 
 Peak make the book peculiarly acceptable. Nottingham 
 Daily Express. 
 
 No county in England is so rich in the picturesque as 
 Derbyshire; very few have a better show of historical 
 associations. Mr. Bradbury is evidently an admirer of 
 Nature, at once intelligent and enthusiastic, and he has 
 studied the history of his county with diligence and care. 
 These papers of his which come to us in clear type and 
 convenient form, are very interesting, and his companion- 
 ship amid scenes with which we are familiar is most 
 congenial. He is chatty without being garrulous, racy 
 without being pedantic, and occasionally he is humorous. 
 Nottingham. Journal. 
 
 Mr. Edward Bradbury is an author possessing a high 
 local reputation, and his work certainly merits all the 
 praise that has been bestowed upon it. To say that he 
 possesses gifts of no mean order is not to advance too 
 much in his behalf, but we may go further than this, and 
 assert that the author of " Pilgrimages in the Pe;ik " is a 
 writer of graphic and original power. It is not every 
 man who writes a book that can be accredited with the 
 faculty of skilful or even adequate literary expression; 
 but Mr. Bradbury communicates what he has to say in a
 
 VU1. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 rery bright and sparkling way, in short, his method and 
 style are admirably adapted to the subject he deals with. 
 Mr. Bradbury is a man of large information and con- 
 siderable culture ; possessing, too, a warm and vivid 
 imagination and undoubted literary instincts and tastes. 
 Nature never fails to charm him, and in some moods and 
 aspects she moves him as only those who are finely 
 sensitive to her charms can be moved. Nottingham 
 Daily Guardian. 
 
 The tourist through Derbyshire could not take with 
 him a more pleasant companion. The writer, in a 
 series of word-pictures, tells, with pardonable pride, 
 of the beauties of the wooded water-valleys, the shady 
 glens, the sparkling streams, and the craggy heights of 
 his native county, and so vivid is his description at times 
 that the reader has no difficulty in accompanying him 
 in imagination in his enjoyable wanderings. Yorkshire 
 Post. 
 
 This is a charming little book. We expected that it 
 would be, and we are not disappointed. Individuals 
 who have followed "Strephon" in his wanderings in 
 different parts of the country, know that he does his 
 work well. It is always entertaining, and the mind is 
 improved after being in such company as his sketches 
 provide. Those which refer to Derbyshire have been 
 collected, and they are now presented to the public 
 in a neat little volume brimful of descriptive writing of 
 the most accomplished and delightful character. Every 
 sentence is a picture ; every page is a gallery of pictures 
 painted in the imagination by an artist of superior taste, 
 and having almost a divine love of the beautiful. Brad- 
 ford Chronicle and Mail. 
 
 Of the many districts in England to which tourists 
 resort, few are more popular than Derbyshire, and Mr. 
 Edward Bradbury can confidently be recommended as a 
 guide to follow through the Peak. In his "Pilgrimages 
 in the Peak" he does not attempt to deal so much with 
 the historical, archreological, geological, or botanical 
 attractions of the county, as to provide a gossippy, 
 readable companion to its sights. . . . There are 
 many passages exhibiting a powerful grasp of language, 
 attractive word pictures, and a keen perception of char- 
 acter. Leeds Mercury. 
 
 The sketches are most accurate in delineation and 
 pleasing in style, and the book is one which will serve
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PEES 8. IX. 
 
 as a. memento to the tourist in Derbyshire of many en- 
 joyable da^s spent amidst the romantic scenery so 
 graphically delineated by the author. Derby Mercury. 
 
 . , . The book, too, is one that will be generally 
 popular, because of its racy, interesting style of writing. 
 If it is short of one thing, it is in illustration, but the 
 loss is less felt since, to quote a Scotch critic, "the 
 author flings out a sentence, and you have a picture." 
 Derbyshire Advertiser. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury wjelds "the pen of a ready writer," 
 which he handles delicately and daintily, and which 
 traces with a fine point the beauties of natural scenery. 
 As a word-painter of mountain, moor, and meadow, 
 dewy vale, silvery stream, and umbrageous wood, he is 
 an artist whose work is worthy of an honourable place 
 in the studio, the boudoir, and the drawing-room. 
 Derby Evening Gazette. 
 
 . . . Nay, surely not Pilgrimages! There is de- 
 ception in the term. The severely-decorous reader who 
 proposes to take up this volume in the hope of finding 
 some congenial mental exercise, is doomed to disap- 
 pointment. There is not the remotest semblance of 
 penance about it. It is composed of nothing more or 
 less than a series of bright, sunshiny sketches, painted 
 by a man who is at once an ardent worshipper of nature 
 and a loyal champion of his county's claims to the 
 romantic and picturesque. It is a literary picture gal- 
 lery, aglow with life and colour, and profusely decked 
 with touches of real poetic fancy. To ramble with 
 " Strephon " through his beloved valleys, to trudge with 
 him over his eagerly-lauded hills, and wander with him 
 along the meandering banks of the laughing rivulets 
 must serve to exorcise the strain of anxious thought 
 instead of finding material for reproachful meditation. 
 Oh, no, it is not a book for pilgrims. The most grue- 
 some member of the fraternity would be constrained to 
 declare with Mark Tapley that one " couldn't help being 
 jolly" in such companionship. . . . These sketches 
 display an enthusiastic love of the "Peak" for its own 
 sake, a thorough and practical acquaintanceship with its 
 varied characteristics, an excellent literary style, and 
 exceptional taste and skill in the sadly-abused art of 
 scene-painting. The light and shade of Derbyshire 
 landscape perhaps more diversified and full of contrast 
 than any other of our national pictures are handled
 
 X. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 with considerable skill. We know of no artist who sur- 
 passes " Strephon " in this respect. Then, in addition 
 to those good qualities we must add the inestimable 
 virtue of knowing when and how to guard against an 
 excess of descriptive power. Mr. Bradbury's sketches 
 are never in the least danger of wearying the most 
 fastidious connoisseur, for the reason that they are not 
 too long nor overcharged with colour. Derby Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
 An elegance of diction and literary gracefulness not 
 surpassed even by Miss Thackeray, who is famous for 
 her descriptions of scenery and her devotion to Art. 
 Derbyshire Courier. 
 
 . . . There is something soothing in the easy way 
 the sentences run. The writer's instinctive power of 
 dealing with Dame Nature in her prodigality in the 
 Peak is strikingly manifest here. Many who read this 
 little volume will say with regard to some passages " I 
 have felt all this myself Strephon delightfully expresses 
 it for me." . . . He is a sincere lover of the beauties 
 of our county, and unlike some lovers his passion makes 
 him eloquent. There seems no part of the manifold 
 varieties of scenery which Derbyshire can show that has 
 not been studied by " Strephon," and his descriptions 
 abound in a wealth of word-painting which brings vividly 
 before us scenes of beauty which it is certain few appre- 
 ciate so thoroughly as the writer of these sketches. 
 Few probably have studied them so closely. Derbyshire 
 Times. 
 
 Fascinating pictures of Derbyshire scenery. Leicester 
 Mercury. 
 
 Must make a stranger long to dash off to a Midland 
 station, and ride express to the lovely valleys and 
 immemorial hills. Hampshire Telegraph. 
 
 An admirable contribution to the topographical and 
 descriptive literature of the Peak. Lancaster Guardian. 
 
 The best narrative we have yet had of the Dorothy 
 Vernon Romance. Bolton Journal. 
 
 The sketches are written in a graphic, interesting, and 
 easy style. We heartily recommend everyone who is 
 acquainted with the Derbyshire hills, or who is intending 
 to visit the well-known picturesque and hallowed spots 
 in the Peak district, to read these entertaining descrip- 
 tions of scenery, and especially the gracefully -told " Story 
 of Dorothy Vernon." Leigh Chronicle.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. XI. 
 
 " Strephon's " descriptive genins has long been dedi- 
 cated to Derbyshire, and it could have no fairer or 
 worthier mistress. The papers comprising the book, 
 whilst partaking of the nature of a guide to some of the 
 more charming of Nature's pets in the Peak, betray 
 hardly a single characteristic of the common hand-book. 
 The volume is a casket of word-pictures, such as we have 
 been accustomed to expect from " Strephon's " pen. The 
 bulk of the papers are exquisite descriptive essays on 
 little tours made by chaise and on foot in and around 
 the most enchanting haunts of the Peak, and the volume 
 is brought to a close with a most diverting and graceful 
 sketch, into which is thrown the lightest vein of romance, 
 entitled " Our Week at Buxton." Gloucester Mercury. 
 
 Mr. Bradbury has peculiar gifts as a descriptive writer. 
 He has a keen eye, not only for the beauties of Nature 
 and of Art, but for the picturesque associations of the 
 
 E laces he visits. Not only does he describe vividly what 
 e sees, but he has the history and antiquities of every 
 locality at his fingers' ends, and he has, besides, a fund 
 of literary allusion which is eminently useful in the 
 lightening up of his bright and cheery pages. A more 
 entertaining, as well as informing, companion, could not 
 be conceived. Descriptive sketches are not always the 
 most exhilarating of reading, but Mr. Bradbury's volume 
 is, we repeat, unusually delightful, carrying the reader 
 easily along in the irresistible flow of its narration and 
 description. Grreenock Advertiser. 
 
 Pleasant sketches. . . . "Written in a desultory 
 and gossipy style, which interests and amuses, whilst 
 conveying those scraps and fag-ends of history which the 
 ordinary traveller likes. Hastings and St. Leonards 
 Times. 
 
 A charming essayist. He is we might, without 
 the slightest exaggeration, style the facile princeps of 
 pleasant gossipy writers. He is not only a keen observer, 
 but is the most powerful word-painter we have met with 
 for some time. Durham County Advertiser. 
 
 Agreeably written, and conveys to the reader a very 
 pleasant idea of the beauties of the Derbyshire spots 
 which it is an act of loyalty on the part of the author to 
 extol. . . . Such a fresh and chatty style. Batli 
 Ilerald. 
 
 The press has already been loud in its praise, which 
 we heartily echo. He has a wonderful descriptive power,.
 
 Xli. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 and presents to his readers powerful word-pictures, almost 
 bringing the scenery of the "Peake Countrie " into view. 
 Others, besides natives and wanderers in Derbyshire, will 
 revel in this delightful little work. Boston Independent. 
 
 His book is by no means of local or provincial interest. 
 The Peak of Derbyshire is as much national property as 
 Westminster Abbey or the Tower of London. Its match- 
 less beauty, its gentle charm, its romantic interest, give 
 it this national claim. Mr. Bradbury has written a singu- 
 larly vivid series of sketches. Chelmsford Chronicle. 
 
 To those to whom Derbyshire is as yet a " new and 
 undiscovered country" we would commend "Pilgrimages 
 in the Peak" as the best possible introduction to some 
 of the loveliest landscapes England has to show. Few 
 know the hills and dales of Derbyshire better than 
 " Strephon," and fewer still have the gift of telling 
 what they know with the grace he evinces. " Our Week 
 at Buxton," perhaps the best paper in the book, is an 
 all but perfect example of literary style ; and everyone 
 of the so-called " essays " reads like a romance. Kent 
 and Sussex Courier. 
 
 Although he does not profess to give us a guide-book, 
 he has produced a volume which would make the best 
 and appropriate companion we know for the tourist in 
 the Peak district, who seeks to know the Peak, and to 
 appreciate it as one of the most perfect of nature's 
 beauty-grounds. Essex Herald. 
 
 This delightful littl" book calls for special notice at 
 our hands. It is dedicated to his Grace the Duke of 
 Rutland, " who has taken a kindly interest in the sketch 
 which tells the old Lochinvar Love Legend of his noble 
 House ;" and for that reason alone it deserves a favourable 
 word. But on other grounds, apart from this reference 
 to the Eutland family, are we able to recommend these 
 Peak Pilgrimages to the notice of our readers. Mr. 
 Edward Bradbury, well known by the nom de plume of 
 " Strephon," is an author of considerable power and 
 ability, -whose charming descriptions of Derbyshire 
 scenery have often enchanted the readers of several of 
 our leading magazines. The glories of the Peak are his 
 own peculiar theme : he portrays them in language of 
 rare beauty, and clothes them with a new and powerful 
 interest an interest which is simply irresistible. In 
 the book before us, a number of these word-pictures are
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. Xlll, 
 
 strung together like so many literary pearls. His descrip- 
 tive sketches are wonderfully attractive : we can fancy 
 ourselves journeying with him. . . . We are glad to 
 know that the Duke of Rutland has expressed exceptional 
 interest in the book, and has added a copy to his library 
 at Belvoir Castle ; and we strongly recommend our 
 readers to follow his Grace's example. The Grantliam 
 Journal. 
 
 "A charming little volume of breezy sketches." 
 Lincoln Gazette. 
 
 A charming collection of graphic sketches of the wild 
 hills and lovely dales of the beautiful Derbyshire Peak. 
 Mr. Bradbury's realistic pen portraiture may almost be 
 said to have the effect of transporting his readers to the 
 scenes he loves so well. He has the grace and gift of a 
 gossiping story-teller, combined with the accuracy of a 
 faithful guide. Those who have yet to behold this beauty- 
 spot of our land cannot have a better introduction than 
 Mr. Bradbury's book; whilst those who have already 
 visited the secluded Peak district will obtain from a 
 perusal of its pages the revivication of many a pleasur- 
 able memory. Hereford Times. 
 
 In this handsome little book Mr. Edward Bradbury 
 has given a series of very brilliant essays on the Derby- 
 shire Peak, famous as the English Switaerland. The 
 author has dwelt lovingly on the light and shade, the 
 nooks and byeways of the country he describes, and his 
 eye, quick to catch the changing beauty of nature, revels 
 in the varied aspects of hill, valley, and stream which 
 make the Peak region famous. This little volume, how- 
 ever, must not be confounded with guide-books, and yet 
 it is almost indispensable to the tourist ; and if he only 
 looks through the eye of its author, he will derive a 
 double pleasure in wandering through the scenery which 
 " Strephon " has so admirably portrayed. He has the 
 quick pen of a prose poet, and photographs as he writes- 
 with an accuracy of detail which is very charming. 
 Dumfries and Galloway Standard and Advertiser.
 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 SECOND EDITIOX. ILLUMINATED COVEE. 
 PRICE SIXPENCE. 
 
 LONDON AND DEEBY : BEMROSE AND SONS* 
 
 P 
 
 PINIONS. 
 
 This little book is full of interest. It is especially 
 valuable in the comprehensive details and minute par- 
 ticulars it gives of the Midland Railway Works at Derby, 
 and it is vastly entertaining in the lighter portions, such 
 as that containing the account of the first trip over the 
 Settle and Carlisle Railway. In the first paper it is 
 evident the writer knows thoroughly what he is talking 
 about he has the whole matter at his fingers' ends, he 
 is accurately acquainted with every phrase of the subject, 
 and is scrupulously exact as to statistics. The result is 
 a complete chronicle of the gigantic railway enterprise 
 at Derby, of no small importance to the future student 
 of such matters. " Strephon," however, appears to be 
 well aware that an intellectual meal, in the present day, 
 must not be of too solid a nature. The time for a dish 
 of undisguised statistics or facts au naturel has gone by. 
 He, therefore, gives us hors d'ceuvres of anecdotes with 
 the sance piquante of playful illustration ; a vol-au-vent 
 of apposite quotation and garnishes of graphic illustra- 
 tion. The result is you are compelled to eat of his 
 banquet, and when you come to the end of the book, you 
 find you have not only been amused but instructed. 
 While you have not been physically bored, you have been 
 by no means intellectually un-nourished. It is to be 
 hoped we may see more works of a more extended nature 
 from the same hand. The Sunday Times.
 
 OPINIONS OP THE PRESS. IV. 
 
 These sketches are alike vivid, exact, and amusing. 
 The local information is remarkably precise, and the 
 authof appears to have an unusual knack of depicting 
 scenes of interest in clear, flowing, manly language. 
 We strongly commend "Midland Railway Sketches" as 
 a model of clear description to students of journalism." 
 Public Opinion. 
 
 "Over the Settle and Carlisle Line" is one of the 
 most picturesque sketches of a railway journey we have 
 seen for some years. Hornet. 
 
 A very pleasant hour can be spent in the perusal of 
 these pages. The sketches are vivacious, and contain 
 many graphic descriptions of scenes and incidents. TJte 
 Yorkshire Post, 
 
 The sketches are dashed off with photographic vivid- 
 ness, and with a remarkable versatility, and command of 
 simile. The author's style is clear, vigorous, and racy, 
 and is marked by a strong sense of the humorous. 
 Gloucester Mercury. 
 
 A single perusal will satisfy the reader that they are 
 written with much natural freedom of style, which every- 
 where, except in detailing facts and figures, is illuminated 
 by the spoils of memory, and an extensive and varied 
 reading. His descriptions are graphic and full, without 
 prolixity. We think we have " Strephon " at his strength 
 in the paper "On the Engine of the Midnight Express." 
 It has a rushing impetuous flow, admirably suited to the 
 lightning speed of the subject." Railway Sheet and 
 Official Gazette. 
 
 These sketches are all characterised by a clearness 
 and vividness of descriptive power, and a pith and force, 
 and withal a piquancy which would render them inter- 
 esting even were the theme unattractive. The Aberdeen 
 Journal. 
 
 The writing is dashing throughout. The author flings 
 out a sentence and you have a picture. Dumfriesshire 
 Herald. 
 
 To all who can appreciate smart graphic descriptions 
 of " railway life," we commend the book as being likely to 
 afford them much pleasure in perusal. Peterboro 1 
 Advertiser. 
 
 " Strephon " possesses in profusion that quality which 
 the French term " Collodion of the eye ;" what he sees 
 
 and feels he can paint in words This 
 
 little work is as useful, by reason of the facts it contains, 
 as it is charming by reason of the manner in which it is 
 written." Essex Telegraph.
 
 BUXTON : 
 
 FEINTED BY THE BUXTON AND HIGH PEAK 
 
 PUBLISHING AND GENERAL PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED? 
 
 EAGLE STREET.
 
 This book is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below. 
 
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 REMINGTON RAND INC.2O
 
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