# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Matlock

MATLOCK.
It would be most ungrateful, not to speak,
Matlock! of thee. Thy dwellings mid the cliffs,
Like a Swiss village, or the hanging nest
Of the wild bird, thy fairy glens scooped out
From the deep jaws of mountain fastnesses,
Thy pure, pure air, the luxury of thy baths,
Thy donkey rides amid the pine-clad hills,
Or o'er the beetling brow of bold Masson,
Spying perchance in some close-sheltered nook
The pale lutea and red briony,
Or infant waterfall, that leaps to cast
Its thread of silver to the vales below,
Thy long and dark descents to winding caves,
Where sleep the sparkling spars, the thousand forms,
Which art doth give them to allure the eye,
And decorate the mansion, lamp, and vase,
And pedestal, and toy, these all conspire
In sweet confusion to imprint thee deep
On memory's page.
 But when the thunder rolls,
Yon silent cliffs forget their quietude,
And like the watchmen when the foe is near
Shout to each other.
 Every rifted peak
Takes up the battle-cry, and volleying pours
Reverberated peals, till the hoarse cloud
Expends its vengeance, and exhausted sweeps
O'er the unanswering dales.
 See where yon rocks,
Fretted and ribbed as if the storms had snatched
The sculptor's chisel, and amid their freaks
Channeled and grooved and wrought without a plan,
Lift their worn frontals. Here and there, the trees
Insert themselves perforce against the will
Of the stern crags, by coarse and scanty earth
Nurtured in contumacy, while the blasts
Do sorely wrench and warp them, well resolved
To punish such usurpers; still they cling
And gather vigor from adversity.
On,―by those crevice-holders to the lawns
Of Willersly, and to its garden-heights,
And gaze astonished on the scene below.
Lo! with what haste the full-orbed Moon doth steal
Upon the footsteps of departing day,
Eager to greet the landscape that she loves.
Strong Derwent murmurs at the intrusive shades,
That fringe his banks to shut him from her smile,
And higher as her queenly car ascends
Outspreads a broader bosom to her beam.
Most beautiful! It fits not speech like mine,
Soul-stirring scene, to set thy features forth
In their true light. I have no hues that reach
Glories like thine. The watery tint alone
That moisteneth in the eye may tell of thee.
Yet should I ever, from my distant home
Tempted to roam, dare the wild deep once more
For Albion's sake,—I'd watch two summer-moons
Waxing and waning o'er the purple peaks
Of Derbyshire, and from the sounding brass
And tinkling cymbal of absorbing care
Or vanity, and from the thunder-gong
Which the great world doth strike, delighted hide
In quiet Matlock, lulled by Nature's charms,
And hourly gleaning what she saith of God.
Thursday, October 8, 1840.
Our visit to Matlock was one of unmixed satisfaction. We had not been instructed to expect the romantic prospect that burst upon us, almost cheating us into the belief that we had wandered into one of the wild villages of Switzerland. Our descent from the post-chaise was simultaneous with taking a seat upon some well-bred donkeys, which, with their necks decorated with blue ribbands, were standing under the windows of our Hotel upon the Green. The excitement of thus traversing the mountain heights, and the odd appearance of our cavalcade so grotesquely ​mounted, each steed occasionally urged onward by the voice or staff of the guides, afforded us much amusement. Afterwards our walks and purchases among the shops, where the rich Derbyshire spars are presented in an endless variety of articles for ornament and utility, the enchanting prospects that met us at every turn, and the bright sunny skies that cheered us during our whole stay in Matlock, made our time there glide away, as a fairy dream. One of our entertainments was to climb a steep hill, and entering an aperture on its brow, explore a mine 3000 feet in length, and gradually descending to 400 beneath the surface. A less laborious and more agreeable recreation was to visit the groves and heights of Willersly Castle. Bold masses of rock mingle with the foliage of lofty trees, and the richest velvet turf creeps to their very base. The prospect in the rear of the castle is one of the most delightful that we saw in Derbyshire. The pleasure-grounds, gardens, and hot-houses, with their fine productive graperies and pineries, were more interesting to us Americans, from the circumstance, that the founder of this goodly mansion, the late Sir Richard Arkwright, was the architect of his own fortune. He was the youngest of thirteen children of a poor man in Preston, in the county of Lancashire. By native vigor of mind and great perseverance, he overcame the many difficulties and discouragements of his humble station. After much opposition, he succeeded in establishing here the first cotton-mill ​on improved principles. The benefit thus conferred on his country was felt and acknowledged, and in this same neighborhood the industrious and faithful mechanic, having received the honor of knighthood, commenced at the age of fifty the erection of the fine edifice, bearing the name of Willersly Castle. Moved by that piety which formed a part of his character, he endowed and began to build a beautiful stone chapel in the vicinity of the castle. Dying before its completion, it was finished by his son, whom he left one of the richest commoners in England. The charity schools connected with it, and which number several hundred scholars, are also kept up entirely at his expense; and it gave us pleasure to find that the ladies of the family took a warm personal interest in them. The elevation of industry and merit from obscurity, and their union with active benevolence and piety, which we have so often been permitted to see in our own dear land, seemed if possible to become a still more beautiful lesson, amid the aspiring rocks and romantic glens of Derbyshire.