THE DERWENT.
The Derwent in its Infancy--Derwent Chapel and
Hall--Hathersage--Eyam--Grindleford Bridge--Chatsworth--The
"Peacock" at Rowsley--Haddon Hall--The Wye and the
Lathkill--Darley Dale and its Yew tree--The Sycamores of Oker
Hill--The Matlocks and High Tor--Cromford and Willersley
Castle--Ambergate--Belper--Derby--Elvaston.
It might be interesting to ask how many Englishmen have made the tour
of the Derwent--a river so rich in pictorial beauty and historic
interest. If the country were polled upon the subject, the result
would probably not be gratifying to local patriotism. And yet no more
romantic revelations of river scenery exist than those traversed by the
Derwent from its source among the dusky moorland heights of the Peak to
its junction with the Trent, sixty-three miles from its mountain home,
after collecting the waters of 300,000 acres of country. Other streams
there are, of course, of greater magnitude, with mountain surroundings
more stupendous; but beauty is not to be measured by bulk, or rivers
by their breadth and volume, nor is the artistic charm of hills
ascertainable by an aneroid.
There are several English rivers of the name of Derwent, which is
derived from the British _dwr-gwent_, the water of "Gwent," or of the
high lands, and the word is often locally pronounced "Darent." There
is Wordsworth's Derwent in Lakeland; a Derwent which falls into the
sea near Scarborough; and again a Derwent that is a tributary of the
Yorkshire Ouse. But it is the Derbyshire Derwent that we now propose
to trace down from its source. In the north-east corner of the Peak
district, on the stern and austere Yorkshire borderlands, where the
Langsett moors are most lonely and impressive, the stream spends its
earliest infancy, and you hear its baby prattle in a rocky region,
wild and desolate, where the Titans might have been hurling in space
gigantic boulders to bring about chaos. The place where the river
actually rises is called Barrow Stones. The traveller on the line
from Sheffield to Manchester, when he is at Woodhead, with its dismal
tunnel and long-linked reservoirs, passes as near as civilisation
touches the spot. For some distance the river bubbles and babbles
down a boulder-strewn valley, and is the line of demarcation between
the counties of York and Derby. It is here a swift tawny streamlet,
with effervescent cascades, and deep pools in which you can discern
the pebbles at the bottom of the topaz-coloured water. Weather-worn
masses of rock are strewn over this heathery wilderness--silvered
with rare lichens, and cushioned with delicate mosses. Here and there
picturesque little rills pour out their trickling tributaries from
numerous mountain springs and musical ferny hollows. The only sound
beside that of running water is the cry of the grouse, the blackcock,
or the peewit. The Derwent cleaves its rocky way down the valley into
Derwent Dale, past Slippery Stones, Rocking Stones, and Bull Clough and
Cranberry Clough, with the Bradfield moors rolling away in petrified
billowy waves to the horizon line. Before reaching Derwent Chapel it
has received the Westend, a considerable stream, and the Abbey Brook,
another important contributor, foaming down a deep rugged ravine,
with gritstone ridges. In Derwent Dale alder-trees add a shade to the
waterside, and the landscape, although still wild in its mountain
beauty, is diversified by their green grace.
And now we are at the lonely little village of Derwent Chapel, with
its grey scattered houses. The hamlet in the pre-Reformation times had
four chapels belonging to the ancient Abbey of Welbeck. At Derwent
Hall, charmingly placed by the river bridge, are preserved several
relics of the monkish days. But the most interesting possessions are
the old carved oak pieces of furniture. They form a unique collection,
and are of historic value. Some of the cabinets and bedsteads are four
hundred years old. The Hall, which formerly belonged to the Balguys,
bears over the doorway the arms of that family and the date 1672. The
Duke of Norfolk is the present proprietor, and has added a new wing
at the expense of £30,000. The pack-horse bridge makes a pleasing
picture, and the surrounding prospect is as fair as any that ever
inspired poet's pen or painter's pencil. By leafy labyrinthian ways,
in fascinating aquatic vagaries, our river, brown with peat-moss,
ripples over the shallows or becomes demonstrative when obstructed by
boulders on its way to Lady Bower and Ashopton, sentinelled by the bold
peaks of Win Hill and Lose, so called from a sanguinary battle having
been fought here between two Saxon kings. The victorious army occupied
Win Hill, and the vanquished the opposite height. There are other
magnificently grouped hills all around. Ashopton is haunted by painters
and anglers. Pleasant it is to lounge lazily over the time-stained
bridge that spans the Derwent near its confluence with the Ashop, which
has found its way down the "Woodlands" from Kinderscout--famous as the
highest point in the Peak, 2,088 feet; while from the opposite side the
Lady Bower brook adds its trouty current. Here we are tempted to make
a _détour_ to visit Castleton with its caverns, almost as wonderful as
the famed Congo cavern in South Africa, the Elephanta cave in India,
or the Mammoth cave of Kentucky; to climb up the crag to Peveril's
ruined castle; to explore the beautiful green basin suggestively called
the Vale of Hope; and to penetrate the Edale pass until the frowning
Kinderscout morosely blocks the way. But we must keep to Derwentside.
[Illustration:
_Walker & Boutall sc._
THE COURSE OF THE DERWENT.]
The river is now a large stream, and--passing Bamford--at Mytham
Bridge it receives the greeting of the Noe. Here we strike the Dore and
Chinley Railway, a branch line of the Midland system, at present in
process of construction. It follows the course of the Derwent valley
for some miles, and is not likely to add to the beauty of the scenery.
The noisy puff of the locomotive in this Paradise seems a profanation.
The line, however, will open out a new holiday ground, and will give
the traveller an alternative route between Sheffield and Manchester,
London and Liverpool. This railway extension is twenty miles in length.
There are five miles of tunnelling under the mountainous moorland, and
the cost will not be covered by an expenditure of less than one million
sterling. One of the tunnels is three miles in length, and next to
the Severn tunnel the longest in the United Kingdom. At Hathersage,
moss-grown and still, and one of the prettiest of Peak villages, a
station will be erected, and much of its old-world charm will then have
gone for ever. In the churchyard on the hillside may be seen the grave
of Robin Hood's stalwart lieutenant, Little John. The resting-place of
this romantic outlaw is marked by two stones which by their distance
from each other would indicate that he was ten feet high. The famous
Forester was born at Hathersage, and fought in the ranks of Simon
de Montfort's rebellious barons at Evesham in 1265. After the many
vicissitudes of his adventurous life, he returned to his native village
to die. Until recent years his cottage was pointed out to visitors, and
at the beginning of the present Century Little John's bow and green cap
were suspended in the church. They were carried away to Cannon Hall,
near Barnsley.
[Illustration: AT ASHOPTON, DERWENTDALE.]
Hathersage is surrounded with places of interest, and the Derwent
is here thirteen miles from its source. Mention should be made of
Padley Wood and the ruins of the Roman Catholic Chapel; Burbage Brook,
another of the Derwent's many feeders, that brawls through a defile
as sweetly wooded as the Fairy Glen at Bettws-y-Coed; Longshaw Lodge,
the shooting-box of the Duke of Rutland, with its pretty grounds and
rockeries; Fox House, a famous moorland hostelry; Hu Gaer, a hoary
rocky platform which is marked on the Ordnance map as a Druidical
relic; Caelswark, an old British fort; the Toad's Mouth, a huge
and hoary block of gritstone bearing a curious resemblance to that
unattractive reptile; Stoney Middleton, whose houses seem to hang
dangerously from the bordering cliffs; and Eyam, the scene of the great
plague of 1666, when out of a population of 350 no less than 260 were
swept away by the pestilence. The infection was brought to the village
in a box of clothes from London. The place is hallowed by the devotion
of the saintly rector, the Rev. Wm. Mompesson. He never deserted his
parishioners (although his wife was one of the first victims); and it
was by his exertions that the plague was prevented from spreading far
and wide.
[Illustration: CHATSWORTH.]
[Illustration: The 'Peacock' at Rowsley]
But we are now at grey Grindleford Bridge. What a view there is down
the richly wooded reaches of the river by Froggatt Edge, Stoke Hall,
Curbar, Calver, and Bubnall to Baslow--the threshold of Chatsworth! The
Derwent has here accomplished a distance of exactly twenty miles, and
received numberless and nameless tributary outpourings from the moors
on both the eastern and western sides. It is now a fine river, and
lends additional beauty to the Duke of Devonshire's magnificent park,
surely the most glorious domain in the wide world. The river sweeps
in front of the Palace of the Peak, with ancient trees reflecting
soothing shadows in the shining water. So much has been written about
Chatsworth--its great hall, its superb state apartments, its miracles
of wood-carving, its unique sketch-gallery, its noble libraries, its
priceless picture-gallery, its grand drawing-rooms, bed-rooms, and
banqueting-rooms, its superb sculpture gallery, its gardens, terraces,
conservatories, woods, and fountains--that little fresh can be said
upon a subject so well worn. A well-known writer, when he was at
Niagara, and was supposed to write a description of the scene, simply
remarked, "There are some waterfalls hereabouts, which are said to
be pretty." In a similar manner the grandeur of Chatsworth may be
summarily dismissed, we being content with the accounts of a thousand
and one admirable authors. Enough to say that this treasure-house of
art is apt to give the visitor a sense of general splendour on the
brain. The house and park are open every week-day to the public, and
many thousands of people each year avail themselves of the privileges
so freely granted by the generous owner. Sightseers pour into the ducal
palace, with its gilded casements and princely saloons, just as if the
place belonged to them instead of to the Duke of Devonshire. It is
open for them to enjoy, and all their pleasures are prepared for them.
They can inspect the carvings by Grinling Gibbons, the masterpieces of
Landseer, and Sir Joshua Reynolds' picture of the beautiful Duchess;
admire the work of Verrio and Laguerre, and the chisellings of Canova
and Thorwaldsen; dwell upon rare tapestry and the choicest products
of Sèvres and Dresden; pause at tables of malachite and porphyry, be
delighted with the plants and orchids of tropical climes, including
the _Victoria Regia_, and stand and watch the Emperor Fountain and
all the _grandes eaux_ playing. All this gratification belongs to the
public without the slightest cost of maintenance or responsibility of
possession, for the head of the illustrious house of Cavendish keeps
these precious treasures for his fellow-men rather than for his own
private enjoyment.
[Illustration: THE TERRACE, HADDON HALL.]
[Illustration: HADDON HALL, FROM THE WYE.]
There is a pleasant field-path through park and pasture, past Beeley,
to Rowsley, three miles away. Just below the grey arches of the bridge
at the sign of the Peacock--a quaint ivied Elizabethan building with
many gables and battlements, an abundance of heavy-mullioned windows,
and green lawns gently sloping down to the water--the Wye has its
confluence with the Derwent. It is a pleasant Mesopotamia, the smaller
stream issuing from the limestone dales transparent as glass, and so
swift in motion as to at first push back the Derwent--flowing slow and
strong and stately, the colour of cairngorm through its association
with the moors. But the deeper river soon asserts its superior weight
and strength, and the two streams--happy in their union--amalgamate in
one undivided current, recalling--in, of course, a minor degree--the
junction of the Thames and Medway, the alliance of the Rhone and Arve,
the coalition of the Moselle and the Rhine. We are now in contact with
the Midland Railway, which crosses and recrosses the Derwent by bridge
or viaduct fifteen times during the remainder of its course. A short
walk from the russet Peacock--half-way between Rowsley and the bonnie
town of Bakewell--stands, on a wooded eminence, Haddon Hall. The Wye
winds in many a graceful curve, overhung by gnarled trees, at the
foot of the grey old pile. The antique appearance of the hostelry has
assisted to subdue the contrast that must strike every observer between
the comparative newness of Chatsworth (although it is 200 years old)
and the venerable aspect of Haddon--a revelation of a bygone age, a
memorial of ancient chivalry which is almost unique, for some portions
of this perfect baronial castle date back to the twelfth century.
Haddon, the property of the Duke of Rutland, is uninhabited, although
it is not a ruin, and promises to remain intact for centuries to come.
It has never suffered from the violence of war, stronghold as it is,
but has always been the home of hospitality.
"Lightly falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flowers."
"The kitchens and larders all look as if the domestics had only
retired for a short time. We come to the dining, drawing, and
ball-room, all clean and dry as when abandoned as a human habitation;
and as we pace along this latter room with its polished floor, the
hollow sounds of our footsteps lead us to the contemplation of the
time when the gay Elizabeth, surrounded by her Court, honoured the
Vernons with her presence, and made the rooms echo with shouts of merry
laughter. A long day may be spent in wandering about the terraces,
gardens, and shady walks; the door is pointed out to us through which
eloped Dorothy Vernon with her faithful lover (Sir John Manners). Which
route they took is left to the visitor's imagination; perchance they
crossed the remarkable stone foot-bridge. Suffice it to say the escape
was perfected, and adds additional interest to the romance of Haddon
Hall."
[Illustration: DERWENT TERRACE, MATLOCK.]
The Wye is the most important feeder of the Derwent, and runs through
scenery that is romantically beautiful. Its length from Axe Edge to its
junction with the Derwent at Rowsley is twenty-two miles, although the
distance as the crow flies is considerably less. But the little river
winds about in capricious curvatures, and its serpentine wanderings add
much to its peculiar charm. There are two distinct Wyes, uniting in the
Buxton Gardens, to which pleasaunce they add attraction. The larger
stream issues from the gritstone formation; the other comes from the
limestone. The one is coloured by the peat of the mosses; the other
is of pellucid purity. The limestone water has its birthplace in the
gloomy recesses of Poole's Cavern, and you may hear it fretting in the
chill darkness, as if it were impatient to greet the glad sunlight.
In Ashwood Dale, just below the Lovers' Leap, and a mile from the
fashionable watering-place, the character of the scenery with which the
Wye is for the most part associated begins. Limestone tors, of great
height and beautifully wooded, rise above a contracted valley along
which the stream pursues its lively course. The river leaves Topley
Pike abruptly to the right, and enters Chee Dale. Nature here is in the
imperative mood. Chee Tor soars to a height of 300 feet sheer above the
water--a solemn limestone headland, its gaping fissures here and there
clothed with a pendent tree. It is convex in shape, and is faced by a
corresponding bastion, concave in form. In the narrow channel between
these bold walls of rock the Wye forces its way through the pent-up
space, making a tumult over the obstructing boulders. A scanty footpath
is carried over the abyss, making a passage of unequivocal sublimity,
for the defile has no superior and few equals in all Derbyshire.
Miller's Dale afterwards opens out its picturesque features, although
its idyllic charm is marred by the screaming railway junction and by
the quarrying operations that are toppling bastions of rock--ancient
landmarks--into lime-kilns. Two miles from Miller's Dale is Tideswell,
with its grand old church--"the Cathedral of the Peak"--its secluded
valleys and immemorial hills. Litton Dale and Cressbrook Dale
follow--both wild glens that will repay lovers of rocks, ferns, and
flowers. At Monsal Dale the scenery is no longer savage as it was at
Chee Tor, but is of winsome loveliness. The Wye winds in green meadows
below wooded heights, with here and there a rocky pinnacle jutting out
like a spire; "lepping" stones cross the stream, and rustic cottages,
with blue filmy smoke curling from their chimneys, stand just where an
artist would have placed them. Well might Eliza Cook sing--
"And Monsal, thou mine of Arcadian treasure,
Need we seek for Greek islands and spice-laden gales,
While a Temple like thee, of enchantment and pleasure,
May be found in our native Derbyshire Dales?"
Close by is Taddington, an abode of miners, which contests with
Chelmerton the claim of being the highest village in England.
There is a quaint church, and in the churchyard an ancient cross
which archæological authorities argue is the work of the monks of
Lindisfarne, who introduced Christianity into Derbyshire. The Peakrels,
in their caustic humour, gravely furnish the visitor to Taddington with
the information that "only blind, deaf, and dumb persons, and those who
do not live in the parish, are buried in the churchyard."
Past Demon's Dale, and we are at the pleasant village of
Ashford-in-the-Water, celebrated for its inlaid marble manufactures. In
the old church are hung five paper garlands. They are the relics of the
obsolete custom of carrying garlands before the corpses of maidens in
the funeral procession, and subsequently suspending them in the church.
The custom is alluded to by Shakespeare. These garlands are Ophelia's
"virgin crants" in _Hamlet_. The Priest tells Laertes that but for
"just command" Ophelia would have been buried--as a suicide--in "ground
unsanctified," and "shards, flints, and pebbles" only would have been
"thrown on her"--
"Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,
Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home
Of bell and burial."
The innocent observance lingered longer in Derbyshire than anywhere
else, and was not abandoned at Ashford-in-the-Water until 1820. The
Wye at this point spreads out its waters, turning weedy wheels, and
wandering through lush meadow-lands, finely timbered. At Bakewell
the stream is of considerable width, and is spanned by a handsome
old bridge evidently the work of an architect of imagination. The
town itself is of considerable antiquity, and the church, one of the
oldest and finest in the county, stands on a commanding hill, and is a
picturesque feature in a glorious landscape. Time has made furrow and
wrinkle on the grey old fabric, but
"Still points the tower and pleads the bell,
The solemn arches breathe in stone;
Window and walls have lips to tell
The mighty faith of days unknown."
Bakewell is the Paradise of anglers, and wonderful stories are told
of the trophies captured when the May-fly is on the water. The river
now narrows, and winds in many a tortuous curve through the Haddon
pastures. Below Haddon Hall, at Fillyford Bridge, it receives the
limpid Lathkill, a stream to-day as clear as when Charles Cotton
described it to "Viator" in "The Compleat Angler" as "by many degrees
the purest and most transparent stream that I ever yet saw, either at
home or abroad, and breeding the reddest and best trouts in England."
[Illustration: THE HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.]
After it has welcomed the meandering Wye, the Derwent spreads through
an open verdant country of contemplative beauty, with rounded wooded
hills in the distance. This spacious golden-green strath is Darley
Dale. Lord John Manners (now the Duke of Rutland), viewing this scene
from Stanton Woodhouse, a wooded knoll close by, with weather-beaten
tors, lofty hunting tower, and Druidical remains, was inspired to
crystallise in verse the deep impression that the pastoral scene and
its mountain surroundings had made upon his mind:--
"Up Darley Dale the wanton wind
In careless measure sweeps,
And stirs the twinkling Derwent's tides,
Its shallows and its deeps.
"From many an ancient upland grange,
Wherein old English feeling
Still lives and thrives, in faint blue wreaths
The smoke is skywards stealing.
"The simple cheer that erst sustained
The Patriarch Seers of old,
Still in these pastoral valleys feeds
A race of ancient mould.
"And should fell faction rear again
Her front on English ground,
Here will the latest resting-place
Of loyalty be found."
In the churchyard at Darley Dale is the most venerable yew-tree in the
world. Many authorities claim for it a fabulous age, making it as much
as 3,000 years old. It is thirty-three feet in girth, but its trunk has
suffered not a little from the modern Goths and Vandals who have carved
their names in the bark, and employed other methods of mutilation. The
tree is now fenced round to save it from further insult; and "whatever
may be its precise age," says the Rev. Dr. John Charles Cox, "there
can be little doubt that this grand old tree has given shelter to the
early Britons when planning the construction of the dwellings that they
erected not many yards to the west of its trunk; to the Romans who
built up the funeral pyre for their slain comrades just clear of its
branches; to the Saxons, converted, perchance, to the true faith by the
preaching of Bishop Diuma beneath its pleasant shade; to the Norman
masons chiselling their quaint sculptures to form the first stone
house of prayer erected in its vicinity; and to the host of Christian
worshippers who, from that day to this, have been borne under its
hoary limbs in women's arms to the baptismal font, and then on men's
shoulders to their last sleeping-place in the soil that gave it birth."
On the left bank of the Derwent, amid rocks and plantations, is the
royal residence of the late Sir Joseph Whitworth; and on the opposite
side rises, sharply defined, Oker Hill--a green isolated eminence that
was once an important Roman station. Growing on the summit of this
lofty peak are two sycamores. A legend is attached to the planting of
these trees, which Wordsworth has recited in his tender sonnet:--
"'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill
Two brothers clomb; and turning face from face
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still
Or feed, each planted on that lofty place
A chosen tree. Then eager to fulfil
Their courses, like two new-born rivers they
In opposite directions urged their way
Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight the fond memorial. The trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again
Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain,
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew,
Until their spirits mingled in the sea
That to itself takes all--Eternity."
[Illustration: MATLOCK BATH.]
The trout and grayling fishing in the Derwent here is of excellent
quality, the water being stocked and preserved by zealous local angling
societies, supported by the Trent Conservancy Board.
After leaving Darley the wooded banks contract, and the hills press
forward, and at Matlock, nine-and-twenty miles from Barrow Stones, the
stream runs through a deep gorge, where limestone precipices, festooned
with foliage, rise sheer from the water's edge. This romantic ravine,
overtopped by higher hills, extends for about three miles. Matlock is
a misleading title. The little town is only a small watering-place,
but it is split up into several principalities, governed by two
Local Boards, and known as Matlock Bath, Matlock Bridge, Matlock
Bank, Matlock Town, Matlock Cliff, and Matlock Green. There are
two railway stations, the Bridge and the Bath, a mile apart; but
passengers wishful to get to the one place find themselves alighting
at the other, and the divisions and sub-divisions are most confusing.
Matlock Bank (for which the Bridge is the station, distant a quarter
of a mile) is given up to hydropathic establishments, of which there
is a colony. Here John Smedley introduced the cold-water treatment
many years ago, and the building devoted to his system of cure has
developed into one of colossal proportions. Between Matlock Bridge
and Matlock Bath the High Tor intervenes, occupying nearly the whole
distance. It is a most impressive example of rock scenery, rising in
one perpendicular face of grim grey limestone, 400 feet above the
Derwent, which brawls angrily over the rocky bed at its stupendous
base. The Midland main line perforates this mighty mass, and the dull
roar of the trains may be heard reverberating in the gloomy tunnel
with strange echoing resonance. There are natural fissures in the
rock abounding in dog-tooth crystals, fluor-spar, lead-ore, and other
minerals, and at the summit of the giddy cliff are pleasure-grounds.
More than one disastrous accident has occurred through people venturing
too near the edge and falling into the abyss beneath. Matlock Bath is
a continuation of the poetic gorge, the Derwent being almost enclosed
on the right by the towering Heights of Masson (commonly called the
"Heights of Abraham"), and on the left by the Lovers' Walks. For about
a mile the stream is deep and stately, and lends itself admirably to
boating. Matlock Bath is a favourite resort of cheap trippers, who
find innocent enjoyment in climbing the hills, exploring the caverns,
investing their coppers at the petrifying wells, and driving to the
Via Gellia, a charming valley within easy distance. The Pavilion is a
large modern building standing on a terrace under the Dungeon Tors,
and commanding panoramic views of great extent and variety. The Bath
is also a much-frequented resort, and contains hotels that favourably
compare with the caravansaries of other fashionable watering-places.
The New Bath Hotel stands on the site of the old hotel, where Lord
Byron met Mary Chaworth, and the lime-tree under which the poet sat
with the proud beauty still flourishes. This tree has weathered the
storms of more than three hundred winters, and is a marvel of arboreal
growth, its wide-spreading branches covering an area of 350 square
feet. Byron was a frequent visitor to Matlock, and in one of his
letters to Thomas Moore he declares "there are prospects in Derbyshire
as noble as in Greece or Switzerland." Mr. Ruskin visits the New Bath
Hotel, and the author of "Modern Painters" writes in a characteristic
manner:--"Speaking still wholly for myself, as an Epicurean Anchorite
and Monastic Misanthrope, I pray leave to submit, as a deeply oppressed
and afflicted Brother of that Order, that I can't find anything like
Derbyshire anywhere else. '_J'ai beau_,' as our polite neighbours
untranslateably express it, to scale the precipices of the Wengern Alp
with Manfred, to penetrate with Faust the defiles of the Brocken--the
painlessly accessible turrets of Matlock High Tor, the guiltlessly
traceable Lovers' Walks by the Derwent, have for me still more
attractive peril and a dearer witchery. Looking back to my past life I
find, though not without surprise, that it owes more to the Via Gellia
than the Via Mala, to the dripping wells of Matlock than the dust-rain
of Lauterbrunnen."
Leaving Matlock Bath, the Derwent is utilised for commercial purposes
by the Arkwrights, in connection with their mill machinery, and a very
dangerous weir is the _bête noir_ of the oarsman. Cromford, the cradle
of the cotton manufacture, follows. Here are the immense but cleanly
factories founded by Sir Richard Arkwright, the Preston barber's
apprentice; and here is Willersley Castle, the seat of the family whose
fortunes he made, looking down from a natural rocky plateau, embowered
in trees, upon the windings of the river. Cromford bridge is a curious
old structure. The arches on one side are pointed Gothic in style,
and on the other side they are of a semicircular character. The same
incongruity in architecture is to be observed in the bridges at Matlock
Town and Darley. This is to be accounted for by the fact that they were
once pack-saddle structures, and have been widened with no regard to
the preservation of uniformity.
[Illustration: MARKEATON BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: ALLESTREE.]
The river now passes down a contracted valley, deeply wooded, to
Whatstandwell. A prominent feature on the steep crags to the left is
Lea Hurst, the Derbyshire home of Miss Florence Nightingale, and on
the other the forest of Alderwasley, a surpassing example of sylvan
scenery. Ambergate is the next point of interest, where the Derwent
receives the Amber, which has watered the delightful Ashover Valley,
and wound under the steep hill dominated by the ruined towers and
gables of Wingfield Manor. Then our river flows under hanging woods
to Belper, where all its energies are required to turn the ponderous
wheels at Messrs. Strutt's cotton mills. Nowhere in all its course
is it more picturesque than at Belper bridge. Above the weirs it is
lake-like in its wide expanse, reflecting the green verdure at its
side, the undulating uplands beyond, and the hillside cemetery that
by its delectable situation seems to render Death beautiful. The
weirs make the water a live thing. One of these is a merry sluice,
with several gates liberating the flood above, which comes down like
Southey's torrent at Lodore. The large weir is of great width, and of
crescent shape, with a wooded island at its foot. But the best view of
this tumult of sunlit foam is obtained when we have for a moment turned
to the river-path on the right; then, as we look up the stream, the
graceful stone arches frame a picture of dancing water. Above, in the
woodland park, is Bridge Hill, the residence of Mr. G. H. Strutt. The
ivy-embroidered windows flash back the sunlight, as they look out over
the valley of the Derwent. At Belper the river is forty-three miles
from its birthplace. Milford comes next, with more of Strutt's mills
and more turbulent weirs; and at Duffield, a mile or two farther south,
the river Ecclesbourne pours its cheerful waters into the Derwent.
It has come from the Wirksworth country, where George Eliot found
character and scenery for "Adam Bede." Past pleasant pastoral scenes,
farmsteads, and country houses, past Little Eaton and Breadsall, and
Allestree Hall, with its ancestral woodlands, the seat of Sir William
Thomas Evans; past Darley Abbey, where Evans's cotton mills break up
the river into miniature Niagaras, the Derwent pursues its course,
until presently we are at Derby, fifty-one miles from where we first
made the acquaintance of the stream. An accession of considerable
importance, the Markeaton Brook, falls into the river at this point;
but we must get into the meadows at the west end of the town to see it,
for it follows a subterranean course through the principal streets,
being arched over in the year 1845. The upper windings of the Brook
afford the painter many pretty "bits," and are held in high favour by
lovers of Nature and other lovers.
About the ancient borough of Derby there is much that is historically
interesting; and although the leading thoroughfares abound in
pretentious examples of modern architecture, there still remain some
of the old-world buildings that were in existence long before Prince
Charlie in the winter of '45 began his disastrous retreat from Derby
market-place, the most southerly point to which his army penetrated.
A pilot guard advanced, it is true, six miles farther, to Swarkestone
Bridge, but the Rubicon, that is the Trent, was not crossed.
[Illustration: DERBY, FROM THE LONG BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: DERBY, FROM ST. MARY'S BRIDGE.]
The Derwent was formerly navigable up to Derby, but the right of
communication was sold to the proprietors of two canal companies,
who, before the introduction of railways, monopolised the traffic. In
this place one peculiarity of the Derwent should not escape notice.
The late Dr. Spencer T. Hall observed a distinguishing characteristic
of the river, and described it in the following happy manner:--"Of
all the rivers of England there is perhaps not one so noted for the
sudden rise and lapse of its waters, on the melting of the snows, or
the occurrence of summer storms. Even no higher up the stream than
Chatsworth, there is an annual average of thirteen inches more rain
than at Derby, and farther up the country a higher average still. For
this, and for all the ordinary supply, such rapid descent is afforded
by the steep cloughs and gullies and mountain roads, that, whenever a
sudden thaw or unusual downpour occurs, the normal channel of the river
is very soon overfilled, and on rushes the swelling and boiling torrent
till it becomes majestic--almost terrific--as it breaks at last from
the confines of the mountain gorges into the plain. It is sometimes
easy to tell as low down as Derby, by the colour of the water, over
which of the tributaries an up-country storm has broken. If out on the
heather-side, about the Yorkshire border or the Longshaw and Chatsworth
moors, down comes the deluge somewhat the colour of good coffee; if
from the limestone districts, almost the colour of cream to it; and
in the proportion in which both colours happen to be blended you may
calculate pretty nearly how far the storm has been partial or general.
Some fine morning you may walk as far as Derwent Bank or Darley Abbey,
and see the river winding quietly along with its wonted grace and its
usual flow. At noon you look again, and on it comes with the force of a
little Niagara through the open flood-gates and over the great weir of
Darley Mills, and thence spreads out until the meadows, as far as the
Trent, form a series of lakes, which, if that river be also full, soon
extends as far or farther down than Nottingham."
The Derwent at Derby is spanned by several handsome bridges. The
oldest and most picturesque of these structures is St. Mary's. At the
foot of the bridge is an ancient chapel where "the busy burgesses or
men-at-arms turned aside for a brief silent prayer before crossing
the Derwent and plunging into the forests that stretched out before
them on the other side of the river." This mediæval bridge-chapel of
Our Lady is now used as a mission-room in connection with the church
of St. Alkmund. Just below the bridge, on an island, stands the first
silk-mill ever erected in England. It is a vast pile of time-toned
brick, pierced with as many windows as there are days in the year,
and surmounted by a curious bell-tower. The history of the silk
trade in Derby dates back to the opening days of the last century.
At that period the Italians held secret the art of silk-throwing,
and monopolised the market. John Lombe, an ambitious young fellow,
full of spirit, an excellent draughtsman, and a capable mechanic,
determined to acquire the secret. He visited Italy, and brought to
Derby from Piedmont models of the coveted machinery, together with
two native craftsmen who had favoured his enterprise and secured his
safety. The Derby Corporation leased to Lombe the island swamp in
the Derwent, where he erected in 1718 the present immense mill on a
foundation of oaken piles. It cost him £30,000, but his manufactures
were a superlative success, and the Italian monopoly was driven out
of the market. But Lombe did not live more than two years to reap the
rich result of his labours. Treachery was at work, and he was poisoned
at the hands of an Italian woman who was employed by the Piedmontese,
and who contrived to escape the punishment due to her crime. Lombe,
who was only twenty-nine when he thus tragically perished, was buried
at All Saints', a church whose tower is one of the glories of the
midland counties. Here, too, rest several members of the Cavendish
family, their virtues commemorated in monumental marble; and there is a
magnificent monument to the famous Countess of Shrewsbury, the friend
of Queen Elizabeth, but better known as "Building Bess of Hardwick."
For many years Derby has been associated with the production of
artistic porcelain. The making of china in the town has really never
been discontinued since Duesbury commenced his labours here in the
middle of the last century, amalgamating the historic works of Bow
and Chelsea with his famous factory at Derby. There are now three
china-works in the thriving town, which boasts of more than 100,000
inhabitants within the borough boundaries. The factory of the Derby
Crown China Company, Limited, is a Palace of Porcelain where poems in
pottery are produced. It is one of the sights of the neighbourhood, and
is much visited by Americans and foreigners. Established in 1877, the
works have been greatly developed, the business connections increased,
and an advanced and higher tone given to most of the productions.
All the usual services, such as dinner, tea, breakfast, trinket,
and _déjeûner_, are made both in porcelain and in semi-vitrified
"crown" ware, as are also figures and perforated vases in Parian. The
specialities of the Company are vases of every conceivable design and
style of decoration, from the most sumptuous Oriental schemes, wrought
in raised gold of various hues upon full and lusciously coloured
grounds, to the dainty and refined shapes and ornaments of the classic
and of the best periods of the Renaissance. Other productions of the
Company are the egg-shell specimens of fictile ware, which demand the
most artistic skill of the potter. They are of extraordinary thinness;
and the beauty of the colouring and the dainty jewelling and enamelling
of the ornamentation equal anything achieved at the old works visited
by Dr. Johnson in 1777, when he observed:--"The china was beautiful,
but it was too dear; for that he could have vessels of silver of
the same size as cheap as what were made here of porcelain." Derby,
however, is largely dependent for its industrial prosperity upon the
Midland Railway Company, who have their chief offices, locomotive,
carriage and waggon, telegraph and signal works in the town. They
employ in Derby alone a staff of 12,000 officials and workmen, and
their estate covers 500 acres. It extends for some distance along
the Derwent, which at this point receives the entire sewage of the
town. This pollution of the beautiful river calls for legislative
interference. What should be a source of delight becomes an object of
disgust, and what was lovely is degraded with all that is loathsome.
The South Sea Islanders pelt with filth the people they specially wish
to honour: Derby treats the Derwent to a similar distinction.
But a truce to sanitation and economics. Let us follow the Derwent,
unfragrant as it has become, past Spondon and the pretty mills at
Borrowash, to Elvaston, the noble domain of the Earl of Harrington.
The stream supplies with water a spacious ornamental lake, with four
islands, concerning which the first Duke of Wellington, walking round
it in company with Charles, the fourth Earl, stopped suddenly, and
looking round, exclaimed, "Harrington, this is the only natural piece
of artificial water I ever saw in my life." The gardens and grounds
themselves are a triumph of arboriculture and landscape gardening;
and who is there that has not heard of their avenues of quaintly
clipped trees? The church tower and castle rise above a forest of
patrician trees, while umbrageous aisles of green give vistas of
scenes "where Boccaccio might have wooed and Watteau painted." These
poetic perspectives look upon rockery and statuary, lawn and fountain,
borders and beds of flowers. There is an avenue of elms a mile in
length, framing at the extremity a view of the Gotham hills. The
"golden" gates at the entrance-lodge belonged to the first Napoleon,
and once occupied a position near the royal palace at Paris; they
were erected here in 1819. The castle and church adjoin each other.
The former is a Gothic mansion, which in 1643 was plundered by the
Cromwellian troops. A costly monument in memory of Sir John Stanhope
was demolished, and outrages were committed in the family vault. The
church is a picturesque edifice, with a lofty perpendicular tower; in
it are effigies of Sir John Stanhope and his wife, dated 1610, and
other interesting family memorials.
Below Elvaston the Derwent flows through a flat country, and at its
estuary at Wilne, near Shardlow, has greatly contracted its banks, so
that it presents a striking contrast to the broad and powerful Trent.
The Derbyshire river, indeed, is not worth following for its own sake
below the county town.
EDWARD BRADBURY.
[Illustration: IN THE SOUTH GARDENS, ELVASTON.]
[Illustration: TRENT BRIDGE, NOTTINGHAM.]
THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES.