A Derbyshire Village.-The Valley of Rocks.-A Cure for Love.Church Tor.-An Old Garden. - Eyam Church and Hall.--A Mother of Soldiers.-The Lead Trade.-A Clergyman's Devotion.- Cucklet Delph.-Roads about Chatsworth.-The Sheffield Road.-Wellington Pillar.-Froggatt Edge.-"The Fox House."-"Robin Hood Inn."-Hard Times again.-The Jack of All Trades.-A Delicate Question. THERE are several places of interest to which the traveller who is desirous of exploring Derbyshire, and who makes Chatsworth his head-quarters, will have to make special excursions, and foremost among them are Eyam and Middleton Dale. The way is through the village of Baslow, then to the left by the side of the river over Calver Bridge, and onwards through Stony Middleton, an unsightly and squalid-looking village, said to be a favourite halting-place for tramps and poachers. Derbyshire villages are not often very picturesque, and many of them will recall to the stranger the miserable places which abound in the West of Ireland. Stony Middleton is not attractive; but it stands almost at the gate of a very fine valley, guarded by a precipitous rock, from the top of which, as the story goes, a love-stricken young woman once threw herself in despair. This no doubt was an effectual remedy for love, but so is time, as the young woman would have found if she had only waited patiently. From this point onwards the rocks are massive and grand, standing high above the road, and broken into shapes suggestive of old castles, or dilapidated mansions, or a ruined church. One of them is known as Castle Rock, another as Church Tor, and a stranger who saw them for the first time would find it easy to believe that they were the remains of buildings made by man rather than natural formations of limestone. There are caverns beneath the rocks, and in some places a little gallery half-way up, along which the curious sightseer may cautiously creep. Close by an inn near the centre of the vale there is a road leading to Eyam, another somewhat melancholy village, but not on any account to be passed by unvisited, for there is much beautiful scenery round about it, and the place itself is associated with a touching and memorable story of suffering and devotion. The streets have now a grass-grown appearance, many of the houses and cottages are left empty or in ruins, and the only pleasant-looking spot in it is that upon which stands Eyam Hall-a comfortable old English home, with a garden laid out in antiquated lawns and terraces. One almost expects to see a gay party of cavaliers and maidens step out from behind a hedge, and gather the flowers which bloom as they did in the self-same garden more than two centuries ago. While looking at the outside of the church, and admiring the fine old cross in the churchyard, a boy offered to go and find the sexton. But it turned out that the sexton was at that moment deep in a grave, from which secure retreat it was difficult to dislodge him, and therefore the boy brought his wife in his stead. She was a plain and simple woman, bearing upon her face the marks of a hard life, and, perhaps, more than her fair share of trouble. She told me that one of her sons was at home, but had only earned 2s. 3d. in two weeks. He was a shoemaker by trade, the making of shoes being one of the staple industries of Eyam, and leadmining the other. But for some time past both have been in a bad way, for nobody seems to care to buy the shoes, and the lead is no longer in demand. "Lead is so cheap," said the woman, "that they cannot earn anything by working at it. Our trade is all gone." Thus saying, she opened the door of the church, the most interesting feature of which is an aisle to the memory of the Rev. W. Mompesson, who laboured among the plague stricken community here throughout the year of terror, 1665, when, out of the 350 inhabitants of Eyam, 267 perished miserably, and were put to rest beneath the fields which they had tilled. In one field there is a stone over a family of seven persons, all of whom died in a week, and were dragged, as tradition says, to this spot by their mother, and there buried. The stones over their remains are still to be seen. Mr. Mompesson closed his church and held service in the open air, in a lovely ravine, and isolated his unhappy parishioners so that the contagion should not spread. It was his mournful lot to see his own wife fall a victim to the scourge, but he never ceased to do his duty, endeavouring to the last to turn the thoughts and hopes of his poor people to the only sure and unfailing source of comfort under all sorrows and disasters. The aisle, which is dedicated to this faithful follower of his Master, is scarcely worthy of his name; and the ancient cross outside might have been made a more suitable memorial to both husband and wife. There is a stone over Mrs. Mompesson's grave, with her name inscribed upon it. "I have cleaned the letters out with a stone very often," said the sexton's wife, "but the moss soon fills them up again. As I was telling you, sir, I have a son in India in the 17th Hussars, and last May another one, a third, enlisted in the artillery. It is very hard." "But not harder," said I, "than to make shoes at Eyam which nobody will buy." "No, sir, but it is hard to bring up sons and then lose them." |