# A tour through the northern counties of England, and the borders of Scotland/Volume 1, Letter 2

LETTER II.
TO THE SAME.
THE situation of Dudley castle is very imposing at a distance. Crowning the summit of a limestone hill, it proudly overlooks the adjoining town, and commands a view of seven English and two Welch counties, eighteen churches, several large manufacturing towns, different ranges ​of mountains, and numerous elegant mansions and extensive parks. The ruin also, seen from afar, is august; but on our approach, we find that (like many other things which are more interesting in perspective than when immediately under our eyes) it loses a great part of its grandeur, and drops all its claim to the picturesque. The hill, denuded of timber, affords nothing to contrast with or soften down the bare walls, unadorned with ivy, and rendered still more harsh by the association of modern mansions which unite with the foot of the hill, and interrupt any illusion which the fancy might be otherwise inclined to present in the contemplation of ancient castellated ruins. Not that the fabric was always thus exposed and naked; noble woods once surrounded it, from whence the towers and battlements, "bosomed high in tufted trees," peeped out, and only disclosed enough of the building to excite the imagination by partial concealment, and interest the taste by picturesque association. It is said to have been founded by Dodo the Saxon chieftain, about the commencement of the eighth century; though certainly no member of the present fortress is older than the Anglo-Norman times. It stands upon an acre of ground, and consists of many dilapidated buildings of different ages, and various ​architecture. Of these the most ancient is the keep, preserved by its superior strength of structure from those effects of time which are more visible on the less substantial parts* We took it to be of the age of Stephen or John. Two fine windows of the chapel, rich in tracery, testify the beauty of this part of the building; and the dungeon under it points out the harsh usages of the feudal times, and the monstrous associations of those days, when they could make the praises of the Deity go hand in hand with the tortures of their fellow-creatures, and unite the mass with murder. Other apartments are of the architecture of the 16th century. Until the restoration of Charles II. Dudley-castle was entirely confined to military purposes, and generally in the hands of the crown; but when settled government rendered these securities against rebellion unnecessary, it passed into the family of a subject, and became the residence of the Lords Ward. In the early part of the eighteenth century being deserted, a troop of coiners fixed their abode in its dilapidating apartments; and carried on their illegal proceedings there without interruption for some time; deterring all idle curiosity from approaching the place, by imposing upon the superstition of the neighbourhood with strange ​noises and alarming appearances. A conflagration drove them away on the 24th of July 1750, but whether an accidental one, or deliberately done, was never discovered. The remains of the Priory stand a quarter of a mile west of the castle, and consist of some unintelligible fragments, and part of the conventual church. A good Gothic window at the east side of the building, and some beautiful mouldings in other parts, mark the splendour of its original appearance, when founded by Gervase Paganell, lord of the manor, in the year 1161. The walls are now occupied by manufacturers, who, in a little adjoining building, grind the glass made in the neighbouring town, and polish fire-irons, and other articles of steel.
But the mineralogy of Dudley is more remarkable than its antiquities. This place may be considered as forming the centre of two ranges of hills, of which one runs towards the north to Wolverhampton, and consists of lime-stone; the other takes a southern course from Dudley, through Rowley, (from thence called the Rowley hills) towards Birmingham, and consists of basalt. On ilu last of the former chain is situated part of the town of Dudley, and the ruins of its castle; which are undermined by stupendous quarries of admirable lime-stone, whose gaping entrance is half a mile ​to the north of the castle. Here a prodigious scene of subterraneous excavation discovers itself, consisting of several lime-stone mines and tunnels worked into the rock, one of which perforates it entirely, and opens again into day at the distance of nearly two miles from its entrance. This is thirteen feet high and nine wide, and at one point sixty-four feet below the surface of the earth. The caverns are truly august, being of great extent, and considerable height; their roof supported by vast rude square pillars of lime-stone, left for that purpose. Various marine productions are found in this mass of rock, such as enchrini, cornua ammonis, anomiæ, and other common fossils; but the rarest production of this sort is the pediculus marinus, or sea-louse, the entimolithus paradoxus monoculi deperditi of Linnæus, but called, in the homely naturalist's vocabulary of the place where it is found, the Dudley locust. In form it resembles the common wood-louse, except that it is trilobated, and exceeds it considerably in size, some specimens being nearly five inches long, and few so small as the recent insect generally is. Being discovered only at Dudley and another place in the kingdom, the fossil is the more valuable; a circumstance not unknown to the venders of these productions of the ​mines at Dudley, who charge most unconscionably for all their specimens.
On quitting Dudley for Walsall, the coal accompanied us for four or five miles, when all vestiges of coal- works disappeared; the country changed its face, and a silicious gravel occupied the place of the clayey soil, which denoted this bituminous fossil beneath it. The lime-stone, however, was still seen; and the town of Walsall appeared from afar, climbing up a lofty hill of this rock, the church crowning its apex.
Dingy with the smoke of manufactories, Walsall boasts no great beauty, but makes a respectable figure in the southern parts of Staffordshire, as a place of trade and opulence. Its population, including its two divisions, the town which is called the borough, and the country part called the foreign, amounts to about nine thousand; a great portion of whom are employed in the manufactory of Sadler's ironmongery, stirrups, bits, and spurs, locks and nails. Before the war, also, very large quantities of buckles and chapes were made at Walsall, and exported into foreign countries; but this branch of manufacture is now nearly extinguished, and the inhabitants, in lieu of it, have turned their attention to the lime-stone mining, which is pursued just without the town to vast extent and equal ​advantage. So great indeed are the profits attending this speculation, that the value of such property as has lime-stone upon it has increased within these very few years in an incredible proportion, two thousand pounds having been offered for a garden in the town of less than half an acre in dimensions, on account of the valuable limestone below its surface.
Taking the road to Lichfield we had an opportunity of examining with more attention these sources of riches to the town of Walsall. A little to the right of the turnpike, close adjoining to the road, is a group of open quarries, called Walsall lime-pits, belonging to Mr. Griffiths of that town, on a spot of ground that twenty years ago made part of a gentleman's park. Here the lime-stone is found a few feet below the surface of the earth quarried out, and partly burned on the spot and partly sold in its raw state. A pump, worked by a wheel of simple and ingenious construction, clears the pits of the water to which they are liable; and the Wirley and Essington Canal, which passes at no great distance from the works, affords a cheap water-carriage to the most distant parts.
A quarter of a mile further on the turnpike-road is another great lime-stone work, worked in a different manner to the former ones. This lies, like ​the one we have just described, on the eastern side of the road; for the dip is so rapid to the westward, that the borers have tried for it on that side of the road to a great depth, but tried in vain; it is called Moss-close mine, belongs to Messrs. Parsons and Lee, and employs twelve men. This is worked in the manner of a mine, (the rock a fine white lyas, lying one hundred and twenty feet below the surface of the ground) the material being blasted with gunpowder, and afterwards drawn up by an engine. The present work is a recent one, but the whole of the land round it, quarried to a great extent, and lying in hideous ruin and combustion, proves that the lime-stone had made an article of trade here many years ago. When brought to the surface, it is sold at the pit for 4s. 3d. the qr. or ten bushels.
Our route led us over Cannock wood, as it is called, a wide extent of heath, without a single vestige of those magnificent forests of oaks which clothed its face in former times, and occasioned its appellation. Its wildness, however, is tamed by the animation of commercial bustle perpetually seen on the numerous canals that intersect its surface, and afford communication between some of the greatest manufacturing towns in the kingdom.
We did not enter Lichfield, nine miles from Walsall, without impressions of great respect for a ​city that gave birth to one of the first characters which this kingdom can boast. We regarded with reverence the house where Dr. Johnson had first drawn his breath, and the great willow-tree planted by the hand of a man who united every moral excellence with every intellectual endowment; the rarest gifts of the mind with the noblest virtues of the heart; who exhibited transcendent mental powers, combined with all the aids of human learning, ever laboriously employed in the defence of religion and the corroboration of virtue. That Johnson's character should be unmixed with foibles, would be vain to expect, since no mortal can be perfect:, or catch those graces which are beyond the reach of humanity; but in appreciating this character, let us recollect, that all these failings leaned to virtue's side, and that they always manifested the excess of a good principle, rather than the presence of a bad one. Of this the following anecdote you will probably consider as an example:
During the last visit which the Doctor made to Lichfield, the friends with whom he was staying, missed him one morning at the breakfast-table; on enquiring after him of the servants, they understood he had set off from Lichfield at a very early hour, without mentioning to any of the family whither he was going. The day passed without ​the return of the illustrious guest, and the party began to be very uneasy on his account, when, just before the supper-hour, the door opened, and the Doctor stalked into the room. A solemn silence of a few minutes ensued, nobody daring to enquire the cause of his absence; which was at length relieved by Johnson addressing the lady of the house in the following manner:—"Madam, I beg your pardon for the abruptness of my departure from your house this morning; but I was constrained to it by my conscience. Fifty years ago, Madam, on this day, I committed a breach of filial piety, which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has not till this day been expiated. My father, you recollecl:, was a bookseller, and had long been in the habit of attending market, and opening a stall for the sale of his books during that day. Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me this time fifty years ago to visit the market, and attend the stall in his place. But, Madam, my pride prevented me from doing my duty, and I gave my rather a refusal. To do away the sin of this disobedience, I this day went in a post-chaise to, and going into the market at the time of high business, uncovered my head, and stood with it bare an hour, before the stall which my ​ ​own children, and then recommended the practice of it to her fellow-citizens. Thus by her example and advice we have softened the virulence, and escaped the danger, of this malignant disease. To perpetuate the memory of such benevolence, and to express her gratitude for the benefit she herself has received from this alleviating art, this monument is erected by Henrietta Inge, relift of Theodore William Inge, esq; and daughter of Sir John Wrottesley, bart. A. D. 1789."
Near this tribute to the public spirit of the witty and elegant Lady Mary Wortley Montague, is a testimony of friendship to the memory of Johnson, with these lines:
"The friends of SAMUEL JOHNSON, L.L. D. a native of Lichfield, erected this monument as a tribute of respect to the memory of a man of extensive learning} a distinguished moral writer, and a sincere christian. He died 13th Dec. 1784} aged 75 years."
Adjoining this monument is another, of equally elegant and simple pattern, the design of Wyatt, and execution of Westmacott, commemorating the friend of Johnson, Garrick; the witty, the pleasant, and the vain. It is inscribed:
"Eva Maria, relia of DAVID GARRICK, esq; caused this monument to be erected to the memory of her beloved husband, who died the 20th of January 1779,aged 63 years. He had not only the amiable qualities of private life, but such astonishing dramatic talents, as too well verified the observation of his ​friend : " His death eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure."
There is an air of bathos in this remark, which gives it rather a ridiculous effect, but it certainly has truth for its foundation; for since the death of the inimitable histrionical powers of Garrick, the stage has alike lost its force to charm, and its influence to improve. The compliment, also, only extends to a single feature in the character of Garrick; if you wish to have the whole form complete, I must recommend you to that admirable painter of the human mind, Goldsmith, who has analyzed that of his dramatic friend with all the power of a master:
"Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an aftor, confest without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings—a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he vary'd full ten times a day;
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when hepleas'd he could whistle them back. ​Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;,
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please., But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind."
The most ancient part of the cathedral is the western division, built by Roger Cleriton, in 1148, and pronounced by Sir William Chambers to be the most beautiful thing of the kind in Europe. Indeed, the whole cathedral is august and uniform, but (strange to say) not built in a srait line; for on viewing the interior from the great western door, it appears that the altar, which is placed exactly in the centre of the eastern end, does not stand opposite to the entrance. On the south side of the western door is the monument of Launcelot Addison, father to the celebrated author of the Spectator.' The choir may be truly said to be simplex munditiis; nothing gaudy, nothing superfluous, and finely terminated by the Lady's chapel, whose window exhibits a magnificent specimen of Mr. Eggington's painting upon glass, in a superb picture of the Resurrection; which is intended to be supported on each side by the Crucifixion and Ascension, from designs of Jarvis. On returning through the south-eastern aile, we could not but stop a moment at the tomb of Bishop Hacket, a ​prelate of the seventeenth century, whose piety and munificence were both exerted in an extraordinary manner to repair and re-edify the cathedral of Lichfield, which had been almost destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of the Oliverians. For this good purpose the venerable man drew from his own purse the sum of 5000l. and added 23000l. more, which he had collected together by begging at the doors of the inns the benevolences of travellers as they arrived there, for eight years together.
Original genius did not depart from Lichfield when Johnson and Garrick turned their backs upon the city; for it has now to boast of two extraordinary self-taught artists in the pictorial line—Mr. Glover, and his apprentice Mr. Fernyhough. Landscape is the department in which Mr. Glover excels chiefly; and in some of his superior pieces, both the manner and colouring of the first masters of the Italian school are attempted with great effect. He shewed us a good original picture of Luca Giordano's, Hercules and Omphale; harsh, but superlatively grand.
The situation of Lichfield is low, the land around it flat, and the soil sandy; a character of country that accompanied us the greater part of the road to Burton-upon-Trent; a ride, however, that was rendered interesting, by the great trunk canal ​connecting Mersey with Trent, which took a course parallel with the road for a considerable distance; some iron-works, busily employed upon its banks; the fertile meadows, watered by the Trent in the neighbourhood of Burton, and the rich pasturages rising above the town on its northern side. The flourishing appearance of the place announced the several manufactories which are here carried on with briskness and success; seven breweries employed in making that rich and glutinous beverage named after the town, and well known in the neighbourhood, of Gray's-Inn Lane; "balm of" the cares, sweet solace of the toils," of many an exhausted limb of the law, who, at the renowned Peacock, re-invigorates his powers with a nipperkin of Burton ale, and a whiff of the Indian weed;—a cotton-mill;—and a manufactory of screws. The river admits vessels of forty tons to the town quay, and connecting itself, by means of canals, with all the other parts of the kingdom, affords a ready and cheap exportation to the produce of all the manufactories of the place. A most pleasing picture, formed by Burton, the river Trent, (which divides itself about half a mile below the bridge into two branches) vessels and fishing-boats, a fine extent of meadow ornamented with handsome houses and neat demesnes, presents itself on mounting the hill ​that swells to a considerable height on the northern part of the town.
Pursuing our road to Derby, we soon perceived the style of the country was changing; and that nature, tired with the tameness of a level, began to indulge herself in inequalities and variety. The grand trunk occasionally shewed itself—an indication of the great internal commerce carried on in this part of the kingdom. The river Dove also, of bewitching name, (which rises a little to the south of Burton, and makes the boundary between Derbyshire and Staffordshire, as far as its junction with the Trent below Burton) crossed the turnpike at the eighth mile-stone, and crouched beneath an aqueduct: of twelve arches to the right, which conveyed the canal over its bosom; whilst a beautiful landscape offered itself to the right, formed by the village of Eggington, the seat of Sir Henry Everett, and a pleasing groupe of humbler dwellings.
On reaching Derby, its manufactures claimed our first attention. They consist of the silk manufactory; the porcelaine ditto; and the marble and spar works. Of the first, there are six in Derby; that of Mr. Shell employs about three hundred people; one single water-wheel sets in motion all the beautiful machinery, which exhibits above one hundred thousand different movements. All ​operations upon the silk are performed here, from the skain to preparing it for the weaver. The skain (the production of China) is first placed upon hexagonal frame-work wheels, and the filaments that compose it regularly wound off upon a smaller cylindrical one. The cones of silk thus produced are carried below to be twisted, when a proper machine unites two of them together. The women then receive the thread, and twist four, seven, or ten of them into one, according to the purposes for which they are intended; the finer thread going to the stocking-weaver, the latter to the manufacturer of waistcoat-pieces. It is now fit for the dyer, who discharges the glue which it had received in China, and gives it a beautiful gloss. The weaver then takes it, and proceeds to his part of the process; which is so lucrative, that if he have the least industry, he may earn two guineas per week by his labour; the profits upon a single pair of stockings being from three to four shillings and sixpence, according to the size. A common one consumes about seven hundred yards of twist. It is to the Italians we are indebted for our present elegant and expeditious mode of manufacturing silk thread; who were long exclusively in possession of it, till Sir Thomas Lombe clandestinely obtained in Italy, with great risque, difficulty, and expence, a model of one of ​their mills, and erected one upon the proper scale at Derby.
Carr's porcelain manufactory (lately belonging to Mr. Dewsbury) is carried on by a process precisely similar to that at Worcester, except that the ware here is rather lighter and more transparent than at the latter place. The biscuit pieces or white ware, also, are made at Derby, surpassing in beauty and delicacy any thing in the whole world of the same kind. The method followed for the purpose is this:— The proper materials being reduced to a liquid of the consistence of thick cream, a sufficient quantity of this is poured into moulds made of plaster of Paris. The water contained in the mixture is quickly absorbed by the plaster, and a crust left, sufficiently hard and tenacious to be turned out of the mould. This is then dried and trimmed, and joined to the other parts of the figure, whatever it maybe; for all the patterns are composed of various pieces, formed in separate moulds. The article is then sent to the kiln, from whence it comes out white as snow. This is the only manufactory of the kind in the town, and employs between two and three hundred men.
The largest marble work belongs to Brown and Co. where forty journeymen are employed in cutting, smoothing, and polishing marble; and ​manufacturing Derbyshire spar into a variety of beautiful ornamental forms; vases, pillars, &c. The round patterns are worked on vertical lathes, the square figures on horizontal ones; and both polished with emery powder and putty. One large water-wheel is sufficient for the whole machinery of the manufactory, which is novel, simple, and ingenious.
Derby, independently of the different objects of curiosity we have described, is in itself worth seeing, from the beauty of its situation on the Derwent, and the pleasing scenery of its environs; particularly the country about Little- Chester, a mile below Derby, which, being said to have been a Roman station, the Derventio of that people, led us a delightful walk by the banks of the Derwent to its scite. But stat nominis umbra, only the name remains; and even the acuteness of a Stukely would be insufficient to discover any traces at present of classical antiquity. Its assembly-room affords an example of the munificence and taste of the Duke of Devonshire, at whose expcnce it is furnished. The singularity of All-Saints' church, also, is remarkable; to the beautiful Gothic tower of which, built in the reign of Henry VIII. is added a Grecian body by Gibbs, about eighty years ago, of the chastest proportions, and most classical design. It is only to be ​regretted, that so much taste and art should have been exerted to produce a disgusting incongruity.
The splendid mansion of Lord Scarsdale being included in our route, we proceeded along the Ashbourne road on quitting Derby for nearly three miles; when we reached the handsome inn of Kiddlestone, built by his Lordship for the accommodation of such strangers as curiosity may lead to view his residence. The house (erected by the present Lord in 1761) stands half a mile to the left of the inn, from whence it is approached by a foot-path, which conduces the visitor to the Baths, a simple elegant building, ambushed in yew-trees, having accommodations for hot and cold bathing, and covering a medicinal spring of the same kind, strongly impregnated with sulphur as the water of Harrowgate, but of less power: these are rented by the innkeeper. Following the path, it conducted us to a noble stone bridge of three arches, thrown over a large piece of water, amplified to its present extent by cutting away judiciously the banks of the little brook Weston, which formerly rilled through the park in quiet and insignificance. The surface of this wide sheet above the bridge is broken into several falls, which are caught from the house with good effect. From hence a gentle ascent leads to the house, whose front (three ​hundred and sixty feet in extent) is a grand specimen of Adams's architectural taste and skill. The front, which is of white stone, hewn on Lord Scarsdale's estate, divides itself into three parts—a body and two pavillions, connefted to the main building by corridors of the Doric order, taking a sweeping form; that on the right (as we approach it) comprizing the kitchen and offices, that on the left consisting of Lord Scarsdale's private apartments. In the centre of the front (to the north) is a double flight of steps leading to a grand portico, whose pediment is supported by six pillars of the Corinthian order. From hence is a beautiful home view, embracing the skilful improvements of Lord Scarsdale, whose gigantic plan included the transplanting of a village that stood in front of the house to a distant part; the removal of a turnpike-road, which ran within fifty yards of it, to its present situation; and the extension of a trifling brook into a noble expanse of water.
Descending the flight of steps, we entered the house at the basement or rustic story, by a door under the portico conducing into a large low room, called Cæsar's-Hall from its ornaments, the busts of several of the emperors, which leads into the tttrastyle, a similar apartment. From hence we ascended the great stair-case, decorated with busts ​from the antique; and were ushered into the hall, a room the most striking that fancy can picture, its dimensions sixty-seven feet by forty-two within the walls. The coved ceiling of this apartment, illuminated with three sky-lights, rises to the top of the house, and is supported by twenty columns twenty-five feet high, of beautiful English variegated marble, with rich capitals of white marble. Within these pillars are twelve niches, each containing a good cast from the antique; of these an Apollo and Meleager are the best. Above them are several good paintings in chiaro obscuro. From the hall we were conducted into the Music-Room, (thirty-six feet by twenty-four, and twenty- two feet high) where we found the following productions of the pictorial art:
An Holy Family, by Leonardo da Vinci.
The Triumph of Bacchus, a large piece, by Luca Giordano; the figure of Bacchus beautiful and spirited, as described by Milton,
"with clust'ring locks, "With ivy berries wreath'd, and blithe in youth."
An Old Man's Head, by Rembrandt.
The Grecian Daughter, by Andrea Pozzo.
The Drawing-Room (forty-four feet by thirty-eight) has a coved ceiling—its portals, columns, and pediments, of marble—and is elegantly fitted up.
​Here are—A fine Landscape, by Cuyp.
Orlando and Olympia, a noble picture, by Hannibal Carracci.
Naaman's Story; the joint composition of Mompert, Teniers, Old Banks, and Brueghel. The composition of this picture is good, and the distant mountains fine; but altogether it is harsh, and the colours are too vivid.
A small beautiful landscape, by C. Lorraine.
An Holy Family, Raphael; probably a copy.
The Woman anointing our Saviour's Feet, by Benedetto Luti; a painting of which it is not possible to speak in terms of praise too high. Opposite to this is an equally successful effort by the same artist, the subject, Cain and Abel; in which the chain of light is powerfully fine, and the terror and remorse of Cain after the murder, horribly natural.
Virgin and Child, by Parmigiano.
Sleeping Cupid, by Guido.
In the Library, over the chimney, is one of the finest productions of the pencil of Rembrandt; the subject Daniel interpreting Belshazzar's Dream. The solemnity of Daniel's figure; the attention and alarm in the different faces; the grandeur of the king; and the splendid light emanating from the mithra, or emblem of the sun, behind the king's ​throne, are all indications of transcendent genius and skill.
Diogenes, a powerful figure, by Luca Giordano.
Shakespeare, a copy by Vandyck. It would have been desirable to ascertain from what picture this copy was made, since commentators have not differed more on the abstruse passages of our immortal bard, than collectors have done as to the originality of heads called Shakespeare. It was for some time determined that there was no original portrait of him, but that Sir Thomas Clarges, soon after his decease, caused a painting to be made from a person nearly resembling him; then came Mr. Walpole, (whose deep researches in all questions connected with the arts justly entitle him to the character of an arbiter) with an opinion that Mr. Keek's picture, engraved by Vertue, was original; since that time a variety of heads have been discovered, and the names affixed without hesitation. Obiit 1 6 17, Æt. 53.
Nathaniel Lord Scarsdale, and Catherine his wife, by Stone.
Old Man, half-length, by Salvator Rosa; very fine and spirited.
Andromeda, by Guido; grave in the figure, but a want of expression in the countenance.
Holy Family, by Nicolo del Abbatte.
​Here are also seven copies of antique busts.
The Saloon is a circular room crowned with a dome; forty-two feet diameter, twenty-four feet to the cornices, fifty-five feet to the top of the cupola, and sixty-two to the extremity of the sky-light; with four alcoves or recesses, and as many doors, the whole painted and ornamented with white and gold. The pillars that support the ceiling are of Scaglioni marble, an imitation of the verd antique, by Bartoli. Over the four doors are as many paintings by Hamilton, of Ruins; and over the alcoves four chiaro-obscuros, by Rebecca. In each of these recesses is a stove of bronze, relieved with classical representations, inclosing a grate of beautiful pattern and highly-polished steel. A chandelier, branches, and exquisite stucco-work by Rose, complete the decorations of this room, which may be pronounced to be one of the most elegant apartments in Europe,
From hence we were conducted to the south front, the idea of which is taken from the arch of Constantine at Rome; the entablature supported by four Corinthian pillars; the face of the portico ornamented with two vases, and some good reliefs; and the whole is surmounted by this liberal and hospitable motto—" A. D. 1765. N. Baro " de Scarsdale amicis et sibi."
​Here we took a view of the southern division of the park, which is seven miles round, and stocked with oaks of enormous magnitude, some measuring twenty-four feet in girth and one hundred and eighteen feet in height. Returning into the ante-chamber, we found a fine St. John, by Carlo Maratti; and a Landscape, by Heusch.
In the dressing-room, wardrobe, and principal bed-chamber, are—
Lord and Lady Scarsdale, by Stone.
Ruperta, natural daughter of Prince Rupert, by Madame Hughes, an actress; by Kneller.
James Duke of Ormond, by Lely; an active character in the reign of Charles I. by whom he was nominated lord-lieutenant of Ireland; and faithfully attached to his son, whom he followed into exile; for which he was, on the Restoration, again appointed to the government of Ireland, and enjoyed other places and honours. He was created a duke 1682, and died 1688.
Henry Jermyn Earl of St. Alban's, by Lely, was second son of Sir Thomas Jermyn, of Suffolk. Of the many who evinced their attachment to the unfortunate Charles, no one appears to have more readily risqued life and fortune than this personage; whose zeal has indeed been construed into something more than mere loyalty, as he is ​reported to have been early favoured by, and finally married to, Queen Henrietta Maria: on whom, during the troubles of her husband, he faithfully and diligently attended, through great perils and danger, for which he was rewarded with the title of Lord Jermyn; and was, for continued services to the family previous to the Restoration, created Earl of St. Alban's by Charles II. to whom he was appointed chamberlain. If he were distinguished by his courage and intrepidity in the troubled reign of Charles I. he was not less able to shine, from the elegance of his person and manners, in the licentious court of his successor; therefore we are not surprised to find mention of him in Grammont's Memoirs.
Charles I. by Vandyck.
Nathaniel Baron Crewe Bishop of Durham, one of the mast despicable characters in the annals of James II. by whom he was selected as grand-inquisitor of the ecclesiastical commission, at which he rejoiced, "because it would render his name famous [he might more properly have said infamous] in history." On the reverse of fortune which deservedly attended that misguided prince, this obnoxious prelate, hoping to cancel the remembrance of his former offences, basely deserted the sovereign who had raised him, and affected to ​espouse the cause of liberty, which he had so long and so lately insulted. Ob. 1721, Æt. 88.
Cardinal Curzon, imaginary, 1209.
Sir Paul Rycaut, by Vandyck. He was employed in the diplomatic line by the two last of the Stuarts, and their successor William; and has left us not only proofs of his talents as a negociator, but also as an historical writer. Whilst secretary to the embassy at Constantinople, he composed an Account of the Ottoman Empire, and a Continuation of Knolles's History of the Turks:" whilst resident at Smyrna, he published " The present State of the Greek and Armenian Churches." Ob. 1700.
Mary Countess of Dorset was daughter of Sir George Curzon, and wife of Edward Earl of Dorset, who was one of the most distinguished ornaments of the Sackvilles. She was governess to the children of Charles I. and so conspicuously virtuous in her conduct, that it was voted in Parliament, after her decease, the funeral should be performed at the public expence, and she was consequently buried in great state, 1645.
Hon. C. and H. Curzon, by Hamilton.
Duchess of York, by Lely.
Prince Henry, by Cornelius Janssen; the amiable son of James I. whose noble and manly conduct: had endeared him to all classes of his father's ​subjects; and who was spared, by early death, from the misery of participating the checkered fortune of his family. Historians, in recording his death, have agreed, that it was matter of infinitely more regret to his acquaintance than his parent; that to the former he was an object, of love and esteem, whilst he was regarded by the latter with eyes of jealousy and envy; and some have even gone so far as to affirm that the king forbad mourning to be worn for him, but this appears to be founded in error. Ob. 1612, JEt. 18.
Quintin Matsis, his Wife, and Child, by himself; Omnia vincit amor. This artist was a native of Antwerp, where he carried on the trade of a black-smith; but becoming enamoured of the daughter of a painter, who was willing to unite his child only to one of his own profession, our son of Vulcan quitted his forge for the easel, and soon made himself sufficiently master of the art not only to entitle him to his wife, but to the character of a celebrated painter. His most esteemed picture is known by the title of "The Misers," and is in the Royal collection at Windsor.
Louise Duchess of Portsmouth, on whose son the title of Duke of Richmond was conferred by his father Charles II. together with a grant of one shilling per chaldron on all coals shipped in the ​river Tyne; which was commuted by his present Grace of Richmond, in 1800, for a perpetual annuity of 19,0001. per annum, secured by Act of Parliament on the consolidated fund.
Sir Nathaniel Curzon, father to the present Lord Scarsdale. Ob. 1758. He married
Mary, daughter of Sir Ralph Asheton.
Catherine Countess of Dorchester was daughter of Sir Charles Sedley, and mistress to James II. by whom she was raised to the rank of Countess; a situation which her father ever considered a splendid indignity offered to his family. An injury so sensible could scarcely be forgotten, or remain unresented, when opportunity offered. On the first agitation of the questions which brought about the Revolution, Sir Charles was a distinguished partizan, and at once indulged the parent's resentment and wit's spleen, when he said, "The king did me the honour to make my daughter a Countess, and I should be ungrateful indeed not to assist in making his daughter (Mary Princess of Orange) a queen." When the remonstrances of his confessors had induced James to break off the connection with the Countess of Dorchester, she married David Earl of Portmore, and died 1717.
In the dining-room are, a fine picture by Snyders, Ducks and Hawks.—Landscape, by C. Lorraine. ​—Two Landscapes, subjects from Milton's Allegro, by Zuccarelli. Hagar and Is/mael, by Ciro Ferri.
The apartments which are shewn terminate with the western pavillion, which consists of a noble kitchen, viewed from a gallery connected with the corridor. A very appropriate motto, enjoining frugality and liberality, is inscribed over the chimney, "Waste not, Want not."
You may imagine, from the above slight account of Kiddlestone-House, that elegance and taste characterize every thing within and about it; but to these let us not forget to observe, that comfort may be added; for the apartments are not reserved for shew alone, but constantly inhabited by the family, and the numerous friends which his Lordship's hospitality invites.
The country, as we pursued our route to Ashbourne, gradually assumed that appearance of "untamed nature," which the Derbyshire scenery so generally exhibits; the hills began to swell into bold and sweeping protuberances, and the face of the country to lose that cloathing of wood on which our eye had hitherto with pleasure reposed. This continued till we dropped into Ashbourne, a neat town embosomed amid lulls, which rise around it on every side, and confine within them a rich valley, through the centre of whose lap the river ​Dove rolls his waters, stocked with a species of trout of the most delicious flavour. Its fame for cheese it is unnecessary to mention; an article supplied by the dairy farms in its neighbourhood, which are chiefly converted to this purpose. The old church is a fine specimen of Gothic building; and a noble monument of philanthropy presents itself in the free-school, which an old writer tells us, "Divers well-disposed citizens of London being borne in or near to Ashbourne on the Peak, combining their loving benevolence together, built there, with convenient lodging for a master, and liberal maintenance allowed thereto."
Our curiosity having been excited by the report of some valuable pictures at Oakover, the ancient seat of the family of that name, we wound up the long hill to the north of Ashbourne, and directed our course to Mappleton, three miles from thence; a most picturesque village, a little to the left of which lies the mansion above-mentioned, a substantial brick family-house, built about a century since, snugly situated in a broad flat, on the banks of the Dove. Deep woods shelter it on one side; and Thorp-Cloud, a truncated conoidal mountain, rears itself in front. The visitor is permitted to see one room only in the house; but this is a jewel. It contains the following exquisite pictures:
​Over the chimney, an Holy Family, by Raphael, about three feet and a half by two and a half, for which seven thousand guineas have been offered! The figures are the Virgin, Jesus, and John Baptist, in front, and Joseph in the back-ground. The richness of colouring, force, and expression of this picture cannot be spoken of in terms of too high praise.—To the right of this is a Carlo Dolci, the three Mary's at the Tomb of Jesus; with all this artist's characteristical softness, but stiff and tame.—This is succeeded by a Christ bearing his Cross, by Titian; a picture all nature, with respect to flesh and colouring.—The Unjust Steward, by Rubens, next follows; the sorrow in the family of the treacherous servant, who are fearful of his being punished, is affectingly expressed.—The Baptism of Christ, by Titian; the hands may be almost felt.—Venus and two Cupids, by Luca Giordano; very tender, round, and natural. Looking from the left at the picture, the limbs seem to come out of the canvas.—The Head of St. Paul, by Rubens; full of thought, grandeur, and expression. A Flower-piece, by Varelst; exquisite in its way.—The Head of St. James minor, by Rubens, in his greatest style.—Three Children blowing bubbles, supposed to be by Nascher; highly finished. A grand picture by Titian, consisting of the following ​full lengths—the saints Isidorus, Ignatius, Fransiscus Xavier, Sancta Teresia, and St. Philippus Nerries, with this inscription: "Hi quinque S. S. a Gregorio XV. Pontif. Max. in S S. numerum relati fuere ipso die Gregorio sacro, id est, 4 id. Martii 1 622." The attitudes and dress of these figures are different, but there is the same expression of devotion in their countenances. We could not help lamenting, however, that so much art had been thrown away on so absurd a subject. The Women in the Garden conversing with two Angels, by Rubens; a piece of more delicacy than majesty or sublimity. Two Sea-pieces, by Vandervelt.
Our route, which pointed out Dove-Dale and Islam as objects for the next visit, obliged us to return to Ashbourne from Oakover, and to take the Islam road; continuing along which for three miles, we reached the Dog and Partridge, a small public-house, (where we had been advised to quit our carriage) gratified in our way thither by the view of a broad vale, whch spread its rich bosom watered by the Dovey to the left, and contrasted finely with the rude and naked hills that heaved themselves above it. Before us rose an heap of desert mountains, amongst which Thorp-Cloud, in the foreground, made a conspicuous and romantic figure, from the singularity of its form; and produced that ​emotion of wonder in the mind, which is found to arise on the contemplation of regularity blended with vastness.
The village of Thorp lay one mile from the public-house above-mentioned, and surprized us with one of the most agreeable objects we had long noticed; its small church, seated upon the brow of a hill, and so circumstanced with trees as to be rendered highly picturesque. Taking a guide from this place, we crossed the fields to Dove-Dale; from the first of which the scene backward is extremely beautiful, and of a character entirely distinct from the savage wildness of that immediately before us; which is composed of a deep hollow, having the steep ascent of Thorp-Cloud to the left, and another mountain, little inferior in magnitude, to the right. Passing through this narrow ravine, (where the eye is prevented from excursion, and the mind thrown back upon itself) for half a mile, a sudden turn introduced us to the southern termination of Dove-Dale, a name it has received from the circumstance of the Dove pouring its waters through the valley. Here a change of scenery instantly took place, and rocks abrupt and vast, their grey sides harmonized by mosses, lichens, and yew-trees, and their tops sprinkled with mountain ash-trees, rose on each side of us, instead of the ​steep slopes through which for some time we had been pursuing our walk. A deep and narrow valley lay now before us, into whose recesses our eye was prevented from penetrating, by the winding course it pursues, and the shutting in of its precipices, which fold into each other, and preclude all distant view. Through this magic feature of country the river Dove leads his stream, murmuring innocently and agreeably over his stony bed in the halcyon days of summer, but swelling into rage during the winter months; making the hills and rocks which form his prison rebellow to his roar, shaking the adjoining country with the thunder of his course, and overturning the labours of the husbandmen in the vale below.
But we had seen only the tamest feature of Dove-Dale; as we proceeded, the scenery gradually increased in majesty and rudeness. Now the rocks to the right hand forced themselves into the clouds, their scathed and uncovered heads beetling over the narrow path that wound through the dark recesses of the dale; on the opposite side, grand isolated masses, ornamented with ivy network, shot out occasionally from the shrubby declivity; whilst in front the precipices, approaching each other, appeared to preclude all further progress. Proceeding nearly a mile, the walk ​perpetually diversified by new fantastic forms and uncouth combinations of rock on all sides, we reached a spot in the precipice to the right, called Reynard's-Hole. This consists of two parts; a vast mural mass of rock, extending along the face of the precipice, but perfectly detached from it, and perforated by nature into a grand arch, nearly approaching to the shape of the sharply-pointed Gothick, forty feet high, and nineteen wide; and a natural cavern scooped in the body of the rock within the wall, discovered through the arch by the light thrown in from the chasm of separation above. Passing through this arch, and scrambling up a steep path, we reached a smaller cavern to the left, which we had not seen before, and only remarkable for the pleasing view it presents from within of the upper part of the Dale, its river, and rocks. The superior cavern, or Reynard's-Hole, is fifteen feet high, and about forty long. From the mouth, the scene is singular, beautiful, and impressive. The face of rock we have described rises immediately in front, and would effectually prevent the eye from ranging beyond its mighty barrier, did not its centre open into the above-mentioned arch, through which is seen a small part of the opposite side of the Dale, a mass of gloomy wood, from whose shade a huge ​detached rock, solitary, craggy, and pointed, starts out to a great height, and forms an object, truly sublime; which is pleasingly contrasted by the little pastoral river, and its verdant turfy bank below. The approach to this natural excavation is so difficult, even on foot, that we were not at all surprised by the account of an accident, given us by our guide, which occurred a few years back to Mr. Langton, dean of Clogher, and Miss Laroche, who madly rode up the acclivity on the same horse. The poor animal, unable to perform the unconscionable task imposed upon him, fell under his burthen, and rolled down the steep. The Dean paid the penalty of his rashness with his life; the young lady with difficulty recovered from her bruises; but the un-offending horse, who had been forced unwillingly to the attempt, was not injured by the accident.
As we proceeded on our walk, the Dale became narrower, admitting only a foot-path between the river and the rock, which now rose more abruptly on either side, and threw itself into shapes more wild and singular; but softened and diversified with mosses and lichens, shrubs and brush-wood. This scenery continued to the northern termination, where two vast rocks, rising sublimely to the right and left of the brook, form the jaws or portals of this wonderful valley, which now drops at once the ​grand and picturesque, its bottom gradually widening into an undulating flat, and its rocks sinking into round stony hills. Returning to the other extremity of the vale by the same path, (for the western side of the brook is impassable) we took a winding of the Dove to the right, and followed the road to Islam, a small ancient village one mile from the Dale; situated upon the united rivers Manifold and Hamps, which join their streams in the pleasure-grounds of Mr. Port. This is an old hall, as all the manor-houses are appropriately called in this part of England, the translation or corruption of the Norman aula, or seat of the lord; and stands on the confines of Staffordshire and Derbyshire. The view from it is extremely pleasing the little ancient church of the village in the foreground of a broad rich valley, backed by dark mountains; but it was to the walks near the house that our attention had been directed. Of these, the principal one takes the right hand bank of the river, and creeps under a beetling rock crowned with trees, which is opposed on the other side of this deep narrow valley by a sublime mass of shade, covering the face of a vast declivity.
Proceeding one hundred yards from the house, we reached a little rude wooden bridge thrown over an abyss in the rock, out of which boils up, ​with surprising force, the river Manifold, after having pursued a subterraneous course for five miles from the point where it ingulphs itself in the earth, called Weston mill. At the distance of twenty-yards further, a similar phcenomenon occurs; for here we discovered another fissure in the rock, from whence the river Hamps threw his waters into day. He had taken a longer journey under ground than even his neighbour, having travelled, in this darkling manner from Leek Water-Houses, a place half-way between Lichfield and Ashbourne, seven miles from Islam. On their emersion into light, the temperature of the two rivers differs two and a half degrees, the Hamps being thus much colder than the Manifold. Ascending a flight of stone steps, we were conducted to a higher walk, which pursues a zig-zag course through the wood that covers the face of the rock, and overhangs the river, whose banks we have just quitted. In this solemn abstracted scene, safe from the intrusion of the busy croud, and secure from every ungrateful sound, lulled to peace by the murmur of the river that flowed beneath him, and the sacred whisper of the wood which waved above his head, Congreve, in a little grotto, (his favourite and accustomed retreat) wrote his comedy called the "Old Bachelor." Indeed it seems to be the very spot ​for composition; and if the poet's metaphorical language had ever been exemplified in reality, if ever the actual personification of an abstract idea could take place, here, amid the shades of Congreve's walk, we might expect to perceive "inspiration breathe around."
From this sequestered scene we wound down the face of the rock, and gently dropped into the lime-tree walk, so called from the friendly shade which it receives from a noble row of these trees. A semi-circular meadow spreads itself to the left, bounded by the magnificent wooded bank before- mentioned, which here forms itself into an august amphitheatre. A seat in this meadow commands the most beautiful view the grounds afford; embracing a rich and picturesque home scene, terminated by the mountain Thorp-Cloud, which lifts its very singular form in the centre of the distance.
Curiosity led us into the church, where we found some ancient monuments of the Cromwell family; but two of still greater antiquity attracted attention in the church-yard, which, from the Runic knots and other Scandinavian ornaments carved on their faces, we supposed to be Danish, and attributed to the 10th century.
The intricacy of the road from the Dog and Partridge to Matlock rendered it prudent to take ​a guide from the former place, who conduced us through Tissington, (remarkable for the ancient family seat of the Fitzherberts', now Lords St. Helens, who have resided there since the end of the fourteenth century) Bradburn, and Hopton—a village planted in the bottom of a deep valley, embowered in wood, and guarded by lofty grey rocks, under whose projecting heads the cottagers have built their little crouching dwellings. Here the rage of alteration has just destroyed a fine old mansion-house, the ancient residence of the Gell family, (which planted itself here in the reign of Elizabeth) whose descendant is the present lord of the manor, and occupier of the house now erecting on the scite of its predecessor. By this gentleman, the new road to Matlock, from Hopton has been made, and quaintly christened the Via Gellia; an affectation, however, that may be pardoned, as it contributes much to the enjoyment and comfort of the traveller, conducting him through a shorter, more agreeable, and convenient road than the former one.
Having again reached the turnpike, we wound down a gradual descent of two miles, through a narrow vale of peculiar scenery; grand sweeps of wooded hills on each side, and a river leading its babbling waters to the right of the road. ​the bottom of this descent lies Crumford, a village containing about one hundred and fifty houses; full of natural beauty, and enlivened by the busy hum of human labour, carried on in mills, smelting-houses, cotton-manufactories, &c. Here the late Sir Richard Arkwright first established those wonderful machines which manufacture the cotton, from the raw state in which it is imported, to the finest thread; and not only produce an article far superior to that made by the former process, but perform all their operations with a tenth part of the hands which were before employed for the same purpose. This very animated and interesting picture continued to the narrow pass into the vale of Matlock, hewn by Sir Richard Arkwright through the mountain that forms the western barrier of this enchanting spot.
Here a scene burst upon us at once, impossible to be described—too extensive to be called picturesque, too diversified to be sublime, and too stupendous to be beautiful; but at the same time blending together all the constituent principles of these different qualities. Through the middle of this valley flowed the Derwent, partially discovered amid the trees which adorn its banks; before us, on the eastern side of the river, stood the elegant stone mansion of Sir Richard Arkwright, backed ​by the rising grounds of his park; to the right lay a broad vale, with the picturesque concomitants of a village, a church, and a stone bridge bestriding the Derwent. Whilst the huge mural banks of Matlock vale stretched themselves to the left, the white face of the rocks which compose them occasionally shewing itself through the wooded clothing of their sides and head; this magnificent scenery contrasted singularly by the vast manufactories and elegant lodging-houses in the bottom of the vale. But to see this magic spot to the greatest advantage, (which runs nearly north and south for two miles) the entreé into it should be made from the Chesterfield road, at the northern extremity, where its beauties would succeed each other in proper gradation; increasing, as we follow the valley, in grandeur and effect. Making our approach this way, we should first be surprised with a vast abrupt wall of limestone rock, lifting itself before us, whose awful head is shaded by yew-trees, elms, and limes, from the recesses of which the humble church of Matlock shews its turrets.
As we proceed, the features of the Vale assume still more majesty, the left-hand side forming itself into rocky crags, which beetle over the Derwent, who flows in solemn silence at its feet. The screen to the right is formed by steep ​meadows surmounted by naked downs. In front we have a mountainous bank, at whose roots is the lodging-house called the Temple, a few other residences, and the Hotel. Following the road, we arrive at the platform before the latter house, where the Derwent loses his peaceful character, and becomes a brawling brook; a small cascade is seen falling down the bank before us; and on turning we discover a grand face of white rock richly netted with ivy, and decorated with shrubs. A path here occurs to the right, leading up to the Temple, and discloses a wide view of this wonderful valley. But willing to analyze its beauties, we decline this general developement of them, and proceed along the lower road, which carrying us by the Old Bath, another house of public reception, we reach a new and most pleasing point of view. Here the river recedes in a curve from the road, forming a little meadow as a foreground to the picture. This is finely opposed and backed by a line of rock and wood, a mass of trees rising to the right, and shutting out for a short time all other features of the scenery; amongst which we lose the stream, whose murmurs are heard, though itself be invisible. A broader face of white rock quickly discovers itself; and the road, ascending to Saxton's Bath, affords not only an indescribably ​fine prospect of the track we have passed, but opens another still superior before us—a reach of alternating rock and wood, nearly half a mile in length, contrasted to the right by desert downs scarred with crags.
Following the road, which now gently drops down to the turnpike-gate, the scene grows upon us, varying its features and increasing in extent; adding to the inartificial beauties of nature an interesting picture of animated industry, the great cotton-mill of Sir Richard Arkwright, employing three hundred people in the manufacture of thread; whose operations are so elegantly described by Dr. Darwin, in a work which discovers the art, hitherto unknown, of cloathing in poetical language, and decorating with beautiful imagery, the unpoetical operations of mechanical processes, and the dry detail of manufactures:
"So now, where Derwent guides his dusky floods, Through vaulted mountains, and a night of woods,
The nymph Gossypia treads the velvet sod,
And warms with rosy smiles the wat'ry god;
His pondrous oars to slender spindles turns,
And pours o'er massy wheels his foaming urns;
With playful charms her hoary lover wins,
And wheels his trident—while the monarch spins;
First with nice eye emerging Naiads cull
From leathery pods the vegetable wool;
With wiry teeth revolving cards release
The tangled knots, and smooth the ravell'd fleece; ​Next moves the iron band with fingers fine,
Combs the wide card, and forms th' eternal line;
Slow with soft lips the whirling can acquires
The tender skeins, and wraps in rising spires;
With quicken'd pace successive rollers move,
And these retain, and those extend, the rove.
Then fly thespoles, the rapid axles glow;
While slowly circumvolves the lab'ring wheel below."
The building has one hundred and twenty windows in front, and is full of the improved machinery for making cotton thread, all of which is moved by two master-wheels. The weavers of Manchester and Nottingham take almost all the produce of the work. Adjoining to this, and adding to the bustle of the scene in this part of the vale, is a paper manufactory, belonging to Sir Richard Arkwright, employing about thirty people in making the brown, blue, and writing paper. Old ropes cut into small pieces, untwisted, and ground, form the material of which the first article is made; coarse cotton and white rags are used for the second. Here it is manufactured, pressed, separated, sized, dried, and packed; and the process is so rapidly performed, that two men can make ten reams in a day.
The pleasure-grounds of Sir Richard Arkwright now open to the left, round which the Derwcnt leads his waters in a grand sweep; the land assuming a different character from the precipitous form ​it has for some time worn, and swelling gradually from the stream. Towards the summit of this rise stands the house we have before mentioned; a noble castellated building, in front of which a bold perpendicular face of white rock appears, and the gaping rent which affords entrance into the Dale from the south. The grand features of the valley disappear at this point; and soft landscape scenery, the village and churchy the bridge and meadows, close the picture.
The opposite side of the river to that on which we have been strolling, has also its delightful walks; but being private, on the demesne of Sir Richard Arkwright, they can only be visited on Thursdays and Mondays. I do not, however, think the singular beauties of the place are caught in such good order, or to so much advantage, as on the western bank of the river; since those magnificent features the eastern rock, its precipices, and underwood, are in a great measure lost to the eye.
Many visitors are of course attracted to the recesses of Matlock, by the extraordinary grandeur of its scenery; and many also come to its baths and medicinal springs in search of health. Of these there are four; one at Saxtons, two at the Old-Baths, and one at the Hotel; their temperature slightly differing from sixty-eight to seventy​two degrees. At the three houses above-mentioned accommodations are very good, and the terms as follow: a bedchamber per week 5s. a private parlour 1l. 1s. breakfast is. 3d. per head; public dinner 38. per head; supper is. For the large common sitting and dining room no extra charge is made. The bathing is 6d. each time.
The warm springs were discovered in the year 1698; but it is only of late years that much company has resorted to the place, for the taste for natural scenery is of recent growth, and the larger number of visitors have since that time consisted of the admirers of its beauties rather than the drinkers of its waters, which are esteemed somewhat similar to the Bristol waters, and used in diabetes, spitting of blood, &c. These have no sensible appearance of mineral impregnation, nor have their analysis afforded any thing remarkable, the residuum being chiefly calcareous earth, with which all the water around here is highly charged. One spring behind the new bath is called, from this circumstance, the petrifying well; having the property of incrusting in a short time any substances exposed to its action, with calcareous matter. Indeed, the centre of the valley affords a curious phenomenon of this nature, in a vast bed of tupbum, or petrified moss, as it is vulgarly ​called; a stratum of calcareous incrustation twenty-feet in thickness, and extending three hundred yards in every direction. It seems to have had its formation from water which had passed through limestone, and thus become replete with earth; and had then formed itself upon a morass, or collection of moss, shrubs, and small trees, which having incrusted, the vegetable matter gradually decomposed, and left nothing but the stony envelopement. It first appears at the bottom of the hill to the west, dips rapidly to the east, and is lost in the bed of the river. Under it we find a common clay soil.
The village of Matlock lies a mile to the north of the baths, but has none of those romantic features around it, which characterize the happy valley we have been describing. All picturesque beauty, indeed, now disappears, and the dark sterile hills of Derbyshire present themselves; amongst which, in a quiet bottom, watered by the Derwent, is the little village of Darley. The parsonage-house, belonging to the Rev. Mr. Wray, makes an agreeable object from the road, at the side of which it stands; and the church rises pleasingly from the eastern bank of the Derwent. It contains some old monuments; and a very ancient stone coffin is seen in the church-yard, probably connected with the monastery removed to this place from Derby ​in the reign of Henry II. founded by Robert Ferrars second earl of Derby. A remarkable yew-tree also grows in the cemetery, robbed of a great part of its pristine honours, but still exhibiting a specimen of unusual vegetation, and measuring in girth thirty-three feet.
The broad valley through which the road runs to Chatsworth affords some good flat landscapes, regarded, perhaps, with the greater pleasure, from the contrast produced by the naked hills that hedge them in on every "side; this circumstance gives additional interest also to the approach of the Duke's seat through the park; on entering which, a long reach of the Derwent, (whose banks art has both extended and adorned) a cascade made by the whole river throwing itself down a descent of ten or twelve feet, and a partial view of the house, seated at the foot of a hill, (a grand mass of wood) surrounded by mountains deformed with crags, are all unfolded to the eye at once. Pursuing the road for a mile, we dropped into the village of Chatsworth, (which stands a little without the park) where a noble inn, built for the reception of visitors, offered its accommodations.
Crossing the Derwent over an elegant bridge of three arches, we reached the northern entrance of the mansion, which was built by the last Earl of ​Devonshire a few years before the Revolution, on the scite of an older edifice possessed and inhabited by the Cavendishes one hundred and fifty years, previous to that time. It certainly may be considered as a noble specimen of that highly decorated style of building imported from Italy about one hundred and twenty years ago, and so much in vogue in this country for half a century—magnificent, but heavy; expensive, but devoid of taste. The fabrick is exactly square, each side measuring one hundred and ninety-one feet; and having a noble quadrangle in the centre, the fronts of which are superbly ornamented with masonry representing military trophies. The south front also is in the same grand style, with a quaint motto inscribed upon its pediment, punning upon the family name; "Cavendo tutus" This opens upon the park, a range of well-planted ground nine miles in circumference. The famous cascade, one of those grand water-works which fifty years ago rendered Chatsworth the greatest wonder of Derbyshire, lies to the east of the house, and is commanded by the windows of the grand apartments. It consists of a series of flights or stages of steps, one hundred and fifty feet from one end to the other; crowned at the top by a temple, the reservoir whence the water is made to play. This ​fane should certainly be dedicated to Mercury, the god of fraud and deceit, as a piece of roguery is practised upon the incautious stranger within its very sanctuary; from the floor of which a multitude of little fountains suddenly spout up whilst he is admiring the prospect through the portal, and quickly wet him to the skin. After this practical joke, the cascade is put in motion by another screw, and certainly is grand in its kind; the water rushing in vast quantity and with prodigious force from the domed roof of the temple; from a great variety of dolphins, dragons, and other figures that ornament it; and throwing up several fountains from the bottom of the pool in front of the building; and then rolling down the long stages of steps before described. The tree, also, which squirts water from all its leaves, and the fountains in the ponds that throw the element up to the height of ninety feet, are still shewn; though the correct taste of the day considers them only as expensive puerilities.
Heaviness and gloom characterize the inside as well as the exterior of Chats worth-House. The Entrance-Hall is grand, but dark; the ends, ceiling, and one side, finely painted by Lewis La Guerre, in 1694, with a representation of the Assembly of the Gods; Julius Cæsar sacrificing; and ​his assassination at the foot of Pompey's statue. Two sweeping flights of steps and a long gallery lead to the chapel, ornamented with the exquisite carving of Gibbons, (who was killed by a fall in the act of fixing it up) and painted by La Guerre, whose powers are displayed in the altar-piece— Christ reproving Thomas's incredulity; supported on one side by the miracle of the Paralytic restored by our Saviour's simple command, ' Take up thy bed, and walk;' and on the other by the representation of a similar exertion of power divine. A painting of the Ascension covers the cieling.
In the Music-Room, we have the present Duchess of Devonshire, and her daughter Lady Georgiana, married to Lord Morpeth; by Sir J. Reynolds.
In the Drawing-Room is a whole length of William Duke of Cumberland; and a most expensive article of furniture, an immense silver chandelier.
In the Dining-Room is a fine whole-length, by Sir G. Kneller, of William first Duke of Devonshire, who was distinguished as a wit, a scholar, a soldier, and a gentleman. His name occurs in early life as Lord Cavendish, member for the county of Derby; when his political conduct evinced those true patriotic principles which he afterwards so eminently displayed in assisting to bring about the glorious Revolution, and persuading the gentry of ​Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire to transfer to King William that allegiance and affection to which James had forfeited all claims. He was the inseparable friend of the amiable Lord Russel, and offered to change clothes with him in prison, and thus contrive his escape; an attempt so desperate must have proved fatal to one, if not both these noble characters, and was therefore declined by Lord Russel. Such was his gallantry, and so warm his friendship, that when Koningsmark was acquitted on the charge of plotting the murder of Mr. Thynne, he challenged him to prove his innocence by single combat. Having been insulted by a Colonel Culpepper, he scrupled not to take him by the nose before the King, and remove him from the presence-chamber; for winch he was fined thirty thousand pounds, and committed to the King's-Bench prison, whence he effected his escape to his estate in Derbyshire, and employed himself in rebuilding his seat at Chats worth; patiently awaiting the overthrow of a system of Popery and tyranny, which was daily becoming more oppressive and intolerable. On the accession of William, the fine was voted excessive and exorbitant, and the imprisonment illegal: he was admitted of the privy council, appointed lord-steward of the houshold, and knight of the Garter, with other ​honours, and created Duke of Devonshire 1694. He died 1707, when this inscription was put on his monument:
"WILLIELMUS DUX DEVON, bonorum Principum fidelis subditus, inimicus et invisus tyrannis."
The Ball-Room is singularly magnificent; green and gold ornaments, and painted pannels, fitted up Joubert. The ceiling of the Billiard-Room is painted by Thornhill. The Dressing-Room to the best Bedchamber has the Duchess's small but beautiful collection of spars and fossils; amongst the latter of which we remarked a superlatively fine and perfect cast of the maize, or Indian corn. In the Chintz Bedchamber, a portrait of Rachael second Duchess of Devonshire, the daughter of William Lord Russel, and her four children, three girls and a boy; and two nameless portraits. In the adjoining closet, an Earl of Devonshire in the costume of the sixteenth century. In the dressing-room to the State Bedchamber is a good Sleeping Shepherd, by Gennaro; and the Flight into Egypt, by Hannibal Carracci.
The first Drawing-Room contains John first Duke of Rutland; obiit 17 10, ætat. 72.—'William first Earl of Devonshire; ob. 1625. This picture is ascribed to My tens, but considered by Mr. ​Walpole to be by Van Somer, though equal to Vandyck, and one of the finest single figures ever painted on canvas.—Two fine whole lengths, said to be two Earls of Pembroke; pointed beards, whiskers, Vandycked sleeves, and slashed hose.—An Earl of Devonshire in his robes, costume of the seventeenth century.—Duke of Ormond.
Amongst the furniture in the Second Drawing-Room are the two coronation chairs of the present King and Queen; perquisites to the late Duke of Devonshire, who was then lord-chamberlain.
In the Leicester-Room is an invaluable work of Holbein, Henry VII. and Henry VIII. in one picture. It is in black chalks, heightened, and large as life.—Our Saviour and Mary Magdalen in the Garden, by Titian. No grace in the figures, but a sweet expression in the face of Mary.
The Scarlet-Room holds the bed in which George the Second died; another perquisite of the office of the late Duke.
Adjoining to this is an apartment called Mary's Room, from the bed in it (crimson velvet and gold) and chairs having been those which Mary Queen of Scots, (the beautiful, indiscreet, and unfortunate) used during her long confinement of nineteen years in the old house at Chatsworth. From hence she wrote a letter to Pope Pius, dated Oct. 31, 1570.
​Soon after quitting Chatsworth, we crossed the Derwent, and entered upon a country still more wild and uninteresting than that we had already passed. A large cotton-mill to the right pointed out the nature of the manufactories of the district. Stoney-Middleton, a small town chiefly inhabited by limestone-workers and lead-miners, offers nothing remarkable, but its modern octagon church attached to an old square Gothic tower; and we pursued our road through this forlorn country to Middleton-Dale, reputed one of the wonders of Derbyshire, but undeserving this distinction, from a total absence both of beauty and sublimity. Rocks, unadorned with trees or other verdant covering, exclude the picturesque; whilst their clumsy heavy round forms preclude the idea of grandeur. A lively fancy may indeed paint to itself something resembling castellated buildings or rude fortresses in the perpendicular crags, which rise to the height of four hundred feet in some places; and the turnings of the Dale are so sharp, as occasionally to give the idea of all further progress being prevented by the opposition of an insurmountable barrier of precipitous rock. Its character, therefore, is rather singularity, than magnificence or loveliness.
Six miles beyond this place is Tideswell, a miserable market-town, planted in a bottom, which ​is surrounded on all sides by hills barren, desolate, and horrid. It receives its name from a small well near the town, in the centre of an arable field, which is said to ebb and flow in the same manner as the ocean-tide, but not at the same time; its flux and reflux being periodical, the flood at three o'clock every day, and the ebb at nine. This routine, however, is subject to some little variation at the full and renewal of the moon.
Our route to Buxton, seven miles from Tideswell, led us up and down most tremendous hills, but over a road hard as adamant, and smooth as a bowling-green. All before us appeared the most forlorn nakedness; and had we not observed some marks of human industry in the stone divisions of the fields, we should have conceived that the country round was one "wide extent of hopeless sterility." But land lets here for ten shillings an acre, and might be made more valuable, if the system of husbandry, which is that of paring and turning, had not a direct tendency to make the miserable soil still more wretched and unproductive. Long before we approached Buxton, the scite of the town was pointed out to us by the singular appearance of the hill beyond it, whose declivity is scarred by innumerable limestone quarries; the rubbish from which being white, contrast strikingly ​with the black heath around, and produce a most singular effect. It was not, however, till we had nearly reached the place, that we discovered it; as it lies in a broad hollow, with hills swelling out to a great height on every quarter of it. From the summit of that down which the road descends to the town, we had Buxton spread beneath us like a map; a straggling place, consisting of inns and shops for the accommodation of the company, with the elegant addition (made a few years since by the present Duke of Devonshire, at the enormous expence of 120,000l.) of a noble crescent, and a grand series of stables behind it. This building is of stone dug on the spot, and faced with fine free-stone from a quarry one mile and a half from Buxton, on the Disley road. It consists of three stories, the lowest rustic, forming a beautiful arcade or piazza, as a shelter from the sun and heat; within which are shops. Ionic pilasters form the divisions between the windows above, and support an elegant balustrade that surmounts the front. In the centre of this is the Devonshire arms in stone topped with a pair of natural stag's antlers. This decoration gave occasion to the whimsical reproof of an hypocritical taylor some years ago, who, neglecting the admonition of Apelles, " Nesutor ultra crepidam," committed a mistake somewhat similar to the man ​recorded by Æsop for abusing the squeaking of the real pig instead of the imitation of the mimic, by declaring that every part of this masonry was well executed, except the horns. Each extremity of the crescent contains an hotel, and that to the right on approaching the building has the ball-room—one of the best-proportioned and most elegant apartments in the kingdom; lighted curiously by small semicircular windows just above the large projecting cornice, which prevents them from being seen, and gives the effect without an apparent cause. In front of this building is a fine rising lawn, planted with trees, and kept carefully shorn and cleaned. Behind it are the stables, (faced like the Crescent, with freestone) of a square form without, but having a circular area within, sixty yards in diameter. A gallery surrounds this, supported by columns, through which are the entrances into the stables. On one side is a grand colonnade for a remise. Exclusive of the two hotels in the Crescent, are several other lodging-houses; the Old Hall, the Eagle inn, &c. at all which the terms during the season are as follow: Breakfast is. 6d. dinner at ordinary 2s. 6d. tea 1s. and supper 1s. 6d. A single bed-room is 10s. 6d. per week; a double ditto 14S. and a sitting-room, according to quality, from 14s. to 16s. per week. ​The public baths each time 1s. private ditto 3s. There are three assemblies every week; Monday and Friday undress, and Wednesday dress ball; these conclude at eleven o'clock. The theatre is open on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. All these gaieties commence in June, and conclude in November.
It is not necessary for me to inform you, that Buxton was known to the Romans, and its tepid springs used by that people, with whom warm-bathing was not only a pleasurable but a necessary practice. The recent use of them seems to have originated in Queen Elizabeth's time, when Dr. Jones gave them popularity by his account and recommendation of them. Since that time they have been greatly frequented, and are now during the summer season constantly crouded. The water is usually drunk at St. Ann's well, (to whom it was anciently consecrated) an elegant classical building; to which it is conveyed from the original spring by a narrow grit-stone passage, so close and well contrived as to prevent it from losing any portion of its heat, which stands at 81¼ of Farenheit, both at the spring and on issuing into day. Its taste is agreeable; its appearance sparkling; and its quality heating. Gout, nephritis, bile, and debility of stomach and intestines, is generally ​removed or ameliorated by the use of this water. The baths are powerfully efficacious in chronic rheumatism. The springs are numerous, issuing from rents in the black lime-stone rock, which s the uppermost stratum on the south of the Wye; they are found, by analysis, to be impregnated with sea salt, calcareous earth, selenite, and acidulous gas.
Our curiosity led us to Poole's-Hole, one mile from Buxton, a vast cavern formed by nature in the lime-stone rock to the eastward of the town, at the foot of the lime-pits above-mentioned. It belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and is kindly granted by him to nine old women, resembling the Muses indeed in number, but hardly approaching to the appearance of the female race in any thing else; dried with age, and as rugged as the rocks amongst which they dwell. But though living, like the Troglodytes of old, in caverns of the earth, (for their dwellings are not of an higher order) and exposed to the variations of the seasons and the ragings of the storm, they exhibit a longevity unknown to the population of the more civilized parts of the kingdom. One of the old ladies, (for there were ten of them) to whose profit the Duke has dedicated Poole's-Hole, died last year at the age of ninety-two. Nor was this considered as a rare ​Instance of protracted life. Nothing grand or picturesque marks the entrance into this cavern; and we agreed that the interior was by no means so fine as that of Wookey-Hole in Somersetshire. Proceeding about twenty-five yards in a stooping posture, the rock opens into a spacious vacuity, from whose roof depends a quantity of statlctite, produced by the droppings of water, laden with calcareous matter. Part of this substance adheres to the roof, and forms gradually those pendent spiral masses called water-icles or stalactites; another portion drops with the water to the ground, and attaching itself to the floor is there deposited, and becomes the stalagmite, a lumpy mass of the same matter. One of the former, of immense size, called the flitch of bacon, occurs about the middle of the cavern, which here becomes very narrow, but after a short time spreads again to a greater width, and continues large and lofty, till we reach another surprisingly large mass of stalactite, to which the name of Mary Queen of Scots' pillar is attached, from the tradition of that queen having paid a visit to the cavern, and advanced thus far into its recesses. Beyond this all is terra incognita; or at least a country from whose bourne very few ​travellers return, as very few tempt its dangers; we, therefore, were content to follow the example of the majority, and to seek again the mouth of the cavern, by a lower road, which pursued its darkling track under the rock we had been walking upon. Once more we beheld the light of the sun, after having penetrated one thousand six hundred feet into the bowels of the mountain.
Quitting Buxton we directed our course to Castleton, intending to include Elden-Hole, another subterraneous wonder of this cavernous country, in our ride. For this purpose we took the Tideswell road for four miles, and then sharply turning to the left found ourselves in that which leads to Castleton. At a small cottage, two miles from this point, lives the guide who rents the property on which Elden-Hole lies, a part of Peak forest. Climbing along the hill, we at length reached this tremendous fissure; a yawning chasm in the earth, about thirty yards long from the north-west to the south-east, and ten yards wide in an opposite direction. As it descends, the dimensions are gradually contracted, till, at the depth of thirty yards, the space from side to side is not more than three or four yards; but here suddenly enlarging its limits, the gulph stretches itself to the extent of an acre of ground. What the profundity of Elden​Hole may be, has never been ascertained. Cotton above a century ago, plumbed it with a line two thousand six hundred and fifty-two feet in length, but did not reach the bottom. More of the history of its interior, however, was known about thirty-five years ago, in consequence of the two horses of a gentleman and lady being found without their riders near the abyss. The country people immediately imagined (and perhaps with reason) that the latter had been robbed, murdered, and thrown into Elden-Hole; and let down some miners into it in order to search for the bodies. These bold fellows descended perpendicularly about one thousand two hundred feet, when they reached a declivity, which continued in an angle of sixty degrees for one hundred and twenty feet. At the extremity of this, a dreadful and boundless gulph disclosed itself, whose sides and bottom were perfectly invisible. Here their lights were extinguished by the impurity of the air, which prevented a further descent; and allowed them only to let down a line one thousand feet deeper, without finding a bottom; though, from the circumstance of its being wet when drawn up, they were convinced that the abyss contained a great body of water.
Two years ago the similar circumstance of a man'shorse without its master being discovered near ​Elden-Hole, induced a body of miners to undertake a like expedition, but without making any additional discoveries. Indeed it is probable, no further light will ever be thrown upon this place of darkness', as the stagnation of the air would certainly destroy any adventurer who should attempt going below the point which the first party of miners reached. It is supposed, not only by the inhabitants of the country, but by geologists who have visited this part of Derbyshire, that Elden-Hole is connected with the great gulph at Castleton, by a series of subterraneous caverns. The effect of a stone thrown into the Hole is surprisingly awful; its percussions against the sides as it descends, gradually fading away upon the ear, till they are at length entirely lost, convey an idea of unfathomable depth, with which the imagination naturally connects that of danger and destruction. No visible change has taken place in the appearance of the cavern since the memory of man.
Peak forest, on which Elden-Hole is found, presents a wide extent of naked, forlorn, and apparently unprofitable country; but a considerable rental arises from it, notwithstanding its appearance. The land, lett at from 10s. to 14s. per acre, n divided into farms of 200l. or 300l. per annum, which, for the most part, (with die exception of some ​arable spots for oats) are applied to the feeding of cattle, paying is. per head per week. But the lord seems to be the only person benefited by the property, the poverty of which is unequal to two profits; screwed up to the highest pitch of rent, the miserable tenant, with all his vigilance and exertion, finds himself unable to do more than procure the bare necessaries of life, after having paid his unconscionable rent, and satisfied the demands of taxation and parochial assessment.
Arrived now amongst the mountains of Derbyshire, we journeyed on, with nothing to delight the eye or awaken the fancy, to Castleton, which we approached by a steep descent called the Winnats, or Wind-gates, from the stream of air that always sweeps through the chasm. This road is a mile in length, and carried on in a winding direction, in order to render the natural declivity of the ground passable by carriages. Happy was the imagination that first suggested its name, the gates or portals of the winds; since, wild as these sons of the tempest are, the massive rocks which Nature here presents, seem to promise a barrier sufficiently strong to controul their maddest fury. Precipices one thousand feet in height, dark, rugged, and perpendicular, heave their unwieldy forms on each side of the road, (which makes several inflexions in its ​descent) and frequently presenting themselves in front, threaten opposition to all further progress. At one of these sudden turns to the left, a most beautiful view of Castleton vale (two miles broad and six in length) is unexpectedly thrown upon the eye; refreshing it with a rich picture of beauty, fertility, and variety, after the tedious uniformity of rude and hideous scenery to which it has so long been confined. Another turn to the right opens the high Peak, (the perpendicular rock at whose foot the famous cavern discloses itself) crowned with the ruins of an ancient Saxon fortress, opposed to the left by the shivering mountain Mam Tor, black and precipitous, and contrasted with the peaceful and luxuriant vale, which spreads itself between them.
Mam Tor, which lifts itself one thousand three hundred feet above the level of the valley, is composed of shale and grit stone in alternate stratification, as indeed all the mountains to the north of the road are; for the lime-stone, which forms those to the south, over-dips in the bottom between the two ranges. Its modern popular name, the shivering mountain, (for Mam Tor is an ancient British appellation) seems to have been imposed upon it from the crumbling of the shale, which decomposing under the action of the atmosphere, the ​fragments are perpetually gliding down its face, forming at the foot of it another lesser mountain. This portion of its composition (the shale) is highly-impregnated with vitriol and iron, and the grit thickly studded with little particles of shining mica. A Roman encampment, and a perennial spring, crown the summit of this lofty precipice.
Having committed ourselves to the protection of Mr. Dekin, the guide to the cavern, (to whom it is lett rent-free, on the condition of its being kept clean and commodious) we proceeded to its mouth. It would be difficult to imagine a scene of the same kind more august than was that now before us. The precipices, meeting each other at nearly right angles, form a deep and gloomy recess, shut in by rocks compleatly perpendicular, nearly three hundred feet in height. At the foot of that to the right is seen a gulph forty-two feet high, a hundred and twenty wide, and about ninety deep, formed by a depressed arch of great regularity. Here a singular combination is produced human habitations and manufacturing machines (the appendages of some twine-makers, who have fixed their residence within this cavern) blending with the sublime features of the natural scenery. After penetrating about thirty yards into the rock, the roof becomes lower, and a turning to the right ​obliged us to follow a descent for the distance of one hundred and twenty feet more, to a spot where the light of day disappears, and candles were put into our hands to illuminate our farther progress through the Stygian darkness of the cavern. A wicket was now opened by Dekin, (who secures the penetralia of his magnificent temple with a lock and key) and a little boat appeared to carry us up the stream, (for a short distance) that flows through the bottom of the cave. Landed again on the rock, we pursued our course, like Æneas and his guide,
" Obscuri sola sub no6te per umbram, " Perque domos Ditis vacuas et inania regna;"
in silent wonder through a succession of caverns, the extremity of which was lighted up with candles, that only rendered darkness visible, since their light (lost in the gloomy vacuity around) was unable to reach the distant sides and lofty roof of the abyss. Continuing our course beyond the lights, we found ourselves in another fearful hollow, called the chancel where our ears were suddenly surprised by the sound of vocal harmony. The strains produced (which were religious) could not be said to be such as "take the imprisoned soul, and lap it in Elysium;" but being unexpected; ​issuing from a quarter where no object could be seen; in a place where all was still as death; and every thing around calculated to awaken attention, and powerfully impress the imagination with solemn ideas, we could not hear them without that mingled emotion of fear and pleasure, astonishment and delight, which is one of the most interesting feelings of the mind; and extremely favourable to the encouragement of the religious principle. After being entertained awhile by this invisible choir, a sudden burst of light discovered the personages to whom we had been obliged for our harmonical treat—eight or ten women and children ranged along a natural gallery of the rock, thirty or forty feet above the floor on which we stood, each holding a lighted taper in her hand. Quitting the chancel, we dropped into the devil's-cellar, or half-way house, through three regular semi-circular arches formed by the hand of nature, and found ourselves at length under a vast concavity called great Tom of Lincoln, from its uniform bell-like appearance. Here our subterraneous tour terminated, at a point nearly two thousand feet from the entrance; the guide, indeed, proceeded twenty-five yards further, where the roof sinks into the water, but as it was necessary to wade through the stream, in order to reach the barrier, we contented ​ourselves with seeing him touch its face. On our return, the eye, having had time to accommodate itself to the darkness around, embraced several objects; the roof, sides, and crags in many places, which had before escaped it. Our entertainment also was varied by a blast, as it is termed—the discharge of a small quantity of gunpowder thrust into the rock, occasioning an explosion only to be compared to that sound which the imagination would conceive might be produced, if universal nature were at once to tumble into ruins.
As we retraced our footsteps, the guide ingeniously threw in a few anecdotes relating to the place, well calculated to interest the mind under that state of astonishment to which it had been excited; a good method of giving importance to himself, enhancing the merit of his services, and consequently increasing his remuneration. Amongst others, we were informed, that the brook which flowed through the cavern was frequently so much swollen as to prevent access into the interior of it; and that it had sometimes happened, parties had been surprized by unexpected inundation, and only rescued from destruction by the address of the guide. Two years since some ladies who had put themselves under the protection of three or four military gentlemen, visited the cavern in ​the morning, and returned without molestation; but incautiously attending to an after-dinner solicitation, when these heroes were under the influence of a less considerative deity than their morning genius, they ventured a second time into the cavern; the water rose, and had not the guide expeditiously forced them out, at the expence of their being drenched to the skin, they would in ten minutes have been prevented by the waters from returning, and confined within the bowels of the mountain for a fortnight, without the possibility of a rescue by any earthly power. It is to be observed, however, that these inundations may generally be foreseen; so that nothing but incaution, obstinacy, or fool-hardiness, can lead the visitor into so perilous a situation as we have described.
Commiseration for suffering is lessened, when brought on by causes that are voluntary in the patient; and we were not much affected with pity, when told of a similar misfortune that had befallen a certain nobleman better known than esteemed in the north-western part of England, about thirty years ago. This person, who was then a baronet, had visited the cavern with the father of the present guide, and paid him very sordidly for his trouble. Dekin remonstrated, but was answered with contumely and indignation. As no redress could be had, ​like a prudent man, he was silent; but, manet altâ mente repôstum, the injury was not forgotten, and a fair opportunity of revenge soon presented itself to him. The baronet again came to Castleton, to visit the cavern. Dekin, however, endeavoured to persuade him to desist from entering it, as the waters were out above, and the stream likely to overflow below. But all his representations were without effect; the noble baronet would not brook contradiction, and insisted on being taken in. More wise than his companion, Dekin planted a man at the little river over which the visitor is ferried, with orders for him to discharge a pistol when he perceived the waters begin to rise. The duet had reached the extremity of the cavern, and were now returning, when the report of the pistol was heard. "What is that?" exclaimed the baronet, astonished at the reverberated sound. Dekin informed him, and at the same time contrived, as if by accident, to extinguish the tapers in his hand. In this dreadful situation, "every man for himself," seemed to be the obvious rule of action ; and Dekin, with many expressions of alarm, slipped from the side of his companion. Nothing could now equal his horror; he prayed and intreated not to be deserted in this desperate situation, and made offers of the most liberal rewards, if the guide would ​return, and re-conduct him into day. Dekin supported the farce with great address; and making a merit of disregarding his own preservation for the sake of the baronet, took him under his direction; feeding his terrors by occasional doubts whether he should be able to discover the intricacies of the caverns, (though every inch of them was as familiar to him as his own threshold) and thus brought him to the ferry just in time to save their passage before the stream met the rock. The adventure, by which justice was satisfied and revenge indulged, served the old man for a laugh as long as he lived.—— We were glad to find that Loutherberg had availed himself of scenes so admirably adapted to his pencil; and committed to the canvas an effect, of all others the most singular, that of distant daylight through the mouth of the cavern, breaking in upon the eye after its having so long been confined to the faint rays of a candle glimmering in outer darkness.
Having compleated our subterraneous excursion, we turned to the right into a ravine called the Cave Valley, to look at a heap of basalt, discovered there a few years ago. This is a narrow glen, sunk between two vast limestone rocks, gradually opening into width as it extends in length. Following this hollow about a mile from Castleton, ​we perceived the basaltic column to the left, very irregular in its form, but in hardness and texture similar to those of Staffa in the Hebrides, and the Giant's-Causeway in Ireland. Incorporated in it is crystallized quartz, approaching in appearance to chalcedony. This column is part of a vast un-shaped basaltic mass which stretches north and south about sixty yards; covered with a stratum of clay that has very much the look of scoria, and seems to indicate volcanic effects in these parts. It is of great thickness, and considerable dip. The toadstone, which ranges under the limestone in strata of different thickness, from three or four fathoms to above one hundred, and contains in its pores chalcedony, zeolite, and calcareous spar, occurs in the immediate neighbourhood of the basalt, but is sufficiently distinguishable from it by being less hard and compaft; indeed, there are great varieties of both, but especially of the toadstone, from a dark brown to a light-coloured ochre full of fine green spots. Opposite to this basalt is the mountain of limestone; and like most of the others in this neighbourhood, stratified; the strata separated by little beds of clay. The admirable lime burned from the stone renders the barren declivities that compose the mountains around productive of oats, the only grain attempted to be sown ​hereabouts. I before mentioned the sudden disappearance of the limestone to the northward, occasioned by its rapid dip, which introduces in its room gritstone, and shale, or shiver. Of these substances the latter is nearly of a black colour, varying in quality and texture; of extreme hardness in its stratum, but soon shivering when exposed to the atmosphere; sometimes impregnated with vitriol and iron; sometimes saturated with carbonic acid; and sometimes containing petroleum. The limestone mountain, called Tre-Mountain, to the south of the shiver, is full of marine exuviæ; enchrini,entrochi, screws, high-waved cockles, &c. as well as quartz crystal, and elastic bitumen attached to the limestone. It contains also that singular calcareous substance, peculiar to this spot, called Blue-John, found in detached masses of irregular forms and different sizes, from that of an apple to nearly a ton in weight; and worked by the manufacturers at Castleton, Buxton, Derby, and other places, into beautiful pillars, vases, and other ornamental forms. The miners say, Nature intended it for lead, but that accident has made it what it is. The scarcity of it, at present (for it appears to be nearly exhausted) has raised its price on the spot to 20l. per ton. You are not to imagine, however, that all the elegant articles sold in the shop for Blue John are worked ​from this material in its genuine unadulterated state; the dealers in it, even amongst the mountains of Derbyshire, exhibit as much dexterity in adulterating and altering it as the most ingenious artizan in Duke's-place or the Minories could do. The article, when dug out, is of various colours, according as it is more or less tinged with mineral; and some of it of so deep a blue as to approach nearly to black. In order to render this saleable, the manufacturer exposes it to a gentle heat for a short time, and having thus warmed it through, places it in a much stronger for about half an hour, when it is drawn out, and exhibits those rich and resplendent purple tints which put to shame the lustre of the famous Tyrian dye. Great care, however, is requisite in this process.; for should the mass continue too long exposed to the fire, every colour would be discharged, and the whole reduced to an opaque white. Exclusive of this trick, the workmen have another mode of recommending their ware by artificial beauty. The masses frequently arc found imperfect, that is, indented with holes, where this happens to be case, a quantity of lead is melted and poured into the place, and afterwards being cut and polished with the spar, assumes the curious appearance of having been naturally combined with it.
​Our next visit was to the very ancient mine of Odin, about a mile to the west of Castleton, at the foot of the Tre mountain, employing about one hundred and forty labourers, men, women, and children. It consists of two levels, running horizontally under the mountain; the upper, a cart-gate, by which the ore is brought from the mine; the lower one, a water-level, to drain it from the works. They penetrate the mountain to more than a mile from the entrance, and are ventilated by shafts sunk into them from above, at the distance of every thirty yards. At the mouth, the level is not more than a fathom and a quarter from the surface of the land; but at the further extremity, above one hundred and fifty. It belongs to several proprietors, and makes great returns. The ore produced here is called potter's ore; its veins usually intersecting the limestone stratum at right angles, which veins are composed of cawk, kevil, and calcareous spar, and sometimes blende, barytes, mangenese, sulphate of iron, native oxyde of zinc, carbonate of lead, combined with lead ore, separated at various depths by the toad-stone, which here stratifies alternately with the limestone. The ore is different in quality, the best yielding about three ounces of silver to the ton weight of lead. The system by which the mine ​property we are speaking of is regulated, being somewhat complicated, as well as singular, I must give you an account of it in the intelligible words of Dr. Aikin.
" There are numerous and various regulations respecting the rights of miners, and the dues payable for the ores in different parts of the mining country. The principal tract, containing lead is called the kings-field. Under this denomination nearly the whole wapentake of Wirksworth is comprised, as well as part of the high Peak. The mineral duties of the king's-field have been from time immemorial lett on lease; the present farmer of those on the high Peak is the Duke of Devonshire, and of those in the wapentake of Wirksworth is Mr. Rolles. They have each a steward and bar-masters in the districts they hold of the crown. The steward presides as judge in the bar-mote courts, and, with twenty-four jurymen, de- termines all disputes respecting the working of mines. The courts are held twice a year; those of the high Peak at Money- Ash, and those of the wapentake at Wirksworth. Hie principal office of the bar-masters is putting miners in possession of the veins they have discovered, and collecting the proportion of ore due to the lessee. When a miner has found a new vein of ore in the king's​field, provided it be not in an orchard, garden, or high-road, he may obtain an exclusive right to it on application to the bar-master. The method of giving possession is in the presence of two jurymen, marking out, in a pipe or rake work, two meares of ground, each containing twenty-nine yards; and in a flat work, fourteen yards square. But if a. miner neglect to avail himself of his discovery within a limited time, he may be deprived of the vein of which he has received possession, and the. bar-master may dispose of it to another adventurer. As to the other part of the bar-master's office, that of superintending the measurement of the ore and taking the dues of the lessee or lord of the manor, it is attended with some difficulty, from the variety of the claims, which differ greatly in different places. In general a thirteenth of the ore is due in king's-field, but a twenty-fifth only is taken; besides this there is a due for tithe. In mines that are private property, such tolls are paid as the parties agree on.
" The miner having satisfied the several claims proceeds to dispose of his ore to the merchant or smelter. There are four denominations of ore; the largest and best sort is called bing; the next in size, and almost equal inequality, is called pesey; the third is smitham, which passes through the ​sieve in washing; the fourth, which is caught by a very slow stream of water, and is as fine as flour, is called bellard; it is inferior to all the rest, on account of the admixture of foreign particles. All the ore, as it comes from the mine, is beaten into pieces and washed before it is sold. This business is performed by women, who can earn about six-pence per day."
The business of the miner is entirely a matter of speculation, the lets or bargains, as they term them, sometimes not repaying them for the trouble of procuring the ore, and the expence of their blasts; at others, the profits are very large. A short time since two men, who had lately taken a let for six weeks, made thirty guineas each, clear of all deductions.
The only remaining object at Castleton was the great Speedwell level, lying to the south of the road called the Winnets, at the distance of a mile from the town. Being provided with lights and a guide, who expects five shillings for his trouble, we descended a flight of stone stairs, about one hundred feet below the surface of the ground, and found ourselves in a subterraneous passage seven feet high and six feet wide, through which flowed a stream of water. Here was a boat ready for our reception, formerly used, when the mine ​was worked, for the purpose of bringing out the ore. As we proceeded slowly along the current, impelled by our guide, who gave motion to the boat by pushing against some pegs driven into the wall for that purpose, we began to contemplate this great example of man's labour, and at the same time to lament, that it had been exerted in vain. This level, it seems, was undertaken by a company of speculators about five and twenty years ago, who drove it into the heart of the mountain three thousand seven hundred and fifty feet, at an expence of 14,000l. by the ceaseless labour of six men and three boys, who were employed upon it eleven whole years, at a contract of five guineas per yard. The veins, however, which the level intersected, were not sufficiently rich to answer the expence of pursuing them after they were found; therefore, having followed their speculation for ten years, they were obliged to relinquish it, and content themselves with letting the level to a man at 10l. per annum; who took it in order to gratify strangers with a sight of this subterraneous wonder. Whilst employed in putting questions to our conductor on the subject before us, our attention was excited by a distant murmur, which gradually increased upon the ear, and at length swelled into a stunning noise, exceeding the loudest ​thunder, and conveying the idea of a stupendous river throwing itself headlong into an unfathomable abyss. Nor had fancy painted an unreal picture, for on reaching the half-way point a scene was unfolded to us tremendous in the extreme. Here the level burst suddenly upon a gulph, whose roof and bottom were entirely invisible, a sky rocket having been sent up towards the former, above six hundred feet, without rendering it apparent; and the latter having been plummed with a line four hundred feet, and no bottom discovered. A foaming torrent, roaring from the dark recesses, high in the heart of the mountain, over our heads to the right, and discharging itself into this bottomless caldron, whose waters commenced at ninety feet below us, produced the noise we had heard; a noise which was so powerfully increased on this near approach to it, as entirely to overwhelm the mind for a short time, and awaken that unaccountable feeling which creates desperate courage out of excessive fear, and almost tempts the spectator to plunge himself into the danger, whose presence he so much dreads. The prodigious depth of this abyss may be conceived from the circumstances of its having swallowed up the rubbish which a level, eighteen hundred feet long, of the dimensions above given, produced; as ​well as sixteen tons of the same rubbish cast into it every day for three or four years, without any sensible lessening of its depth or apparent contraction of its size. Indeed many facts concur to prove, that it is connected with the Castleton cave; and naturalists are now of opinion, that the whole country from hence to Elden-Hole exhibits a series of caverns, extensive and profound, uniting with each other, and thus becoming joint partakers of whatever either of them may receive. A conveyance apparently perilous, but perfectly secure, is formed over the chasm we have described, by a strong wooden frame- work, through which the water passes. Beyond this the level continues about two thousand feet further; but as the effect of a second approach to the abyss (which must be again taken in returning) is much lessened by the prior visit, and as nothing occurs worth observation in the remaining half, we found we had extended our voyage to no purpose to the termination of this last wonder of the Peak.
Your's, &c.
R. W.