CHAPTER IX.

IN THE PEAK COUNTRY.

WO hours ago, smoke, crowded thoroughfares, groaning machinery, and the very heart of a prosperous

industrial community of nearly three hundred thousand inhabitants; now purple heather, far-reaching hills, shooting-boxes, grouse, snipe, and here and there a blackcock. Two hours ago the landscape was one of chimneys -a forest of them; now it is a warmly-tinted picture of mountainous moorland in Nature's matchless perspective. Two hours ago the air was heavy and dim, and your temples throbbed in unison with those wonderful machines that were pressing out massive armour plates and drawing steel rails from the roller as if they were bits of thread; now the atmosphere is, by comparison, preternaturally clear, and exhilarating to a degree which is best measured by the longdrawn gulp asked for by the greedy lungs. Two hours ago the ear was assailed by the shrieks, wails, sobs, groans, and bellowings that proceeded from some of the most famous metal works in the kingdom; here

"All the air a solemn stillness holds,"

save where the honey-laden bee softly hums herself a homely

tune as she crosses the road intersecting the moors. Verily, money-making men of Hallamshire, you may thank your lucky stars that your pursuits have fallen to you in such pleasant places. There are no other citizens in this proud empire who can in so short a space of time escape from depressing confinement into beautiful freedom; who can close their office doors at four o'clock, and by six be handling a newly-shot grouse instead of a banker's pass-book. Hard-working and grimy toilers, into whose philosophy neither pass-book nor grouse enters so much as in the dream of an idle hour, you, too, may be thankful that so near your grinding implements you have the flowery dells and ravines that give so much charm to the five streams which " one of your own poets," Ebenezer Elliott, knew so well, loved so much, and celebrated in such sweet song.

On the high-road between Manchester and Sheffield, in a hollow under the finest hills, there is a solid stone bridge. A grand coaching business used to be done between the metropolis of cotton and the metropolis of steel, and the Lancashire lads and Yorkshire tykes always found in the wild grandeur of the surrounding scenery some sort of compensation for the journey. Are any of those old coach travellers living now, I wonder? Not many, perhaps, for this was one of the earliest stud-farms for the iron horse. But there must be some who remember the half-way restingplace in the hamlet of Ashopton, nestling close under the bold peaks of Win Hill and Lose Hill; the loneliness of the situation, the grandeur of the prospects far and near; the river rippling under the bridge over which the coaches used to pass, and below which the Derwent receives the smaller stream that for some distance had appeared running parallel with the coach road; and the substantial larder of the hostelry.

Sportsmen also know the spot-sportsmen, that is to say, who hire their shooting from a distance, and sojourn in the district only so long as there is sport to be had-sportsmen, very often, who here, and here alone during the year, renew their bygone experiences of country life. At Ashopton and at Lady Bower, further up in the direction of Sheffield, you may always reckon upon finding a goodly selection of setters, pointers, retrievers, and spaniels, and a very miscellaneous collection of dog-owners, hanging about the inn doorways of an autumn evening, when the day's work is done, and when the sun scatters about the valleys and hilltops shadows so mystical and weird that you may gaze at them, forming and re-forming, until, in the belief that a new order of spirits have come down from the rocks and caves to take temporary possession of the Peak country, you see visions of cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces rising out of the shroud-grey of the twilight. Should pleasure or business call you forth next morning before the sun has reappeared over the east-lying landmarks, you may look down the valley from Lady Bower and watch the stately pageant dissolve like a scroll, and the old familiar outlines of tor and moorland gradually steal back again, real as the duties which daily life brings to responsible humanity.

To this district come tourists, but not in dreaded shoals. The country is a little too inaccessible for the commonfooted variety of the modern excursionist, who loves to have his "special" run right into the novelty he has come out to see. A good walking or riding man with leisure at his command always loves the Peak, but it may be said that, as a general rule, the tourist, pure and simple, either stops short at Chatsworth and that part of Derbyshire which lies south of the line which you may draw from that noble Dukery straight across to Buxton, or pursues the railway from

Buxton over the elevated permanent way above Chapel-enle-Frith to Stockport.

I have known travellers compassing this route declare afterwards the glories of the Peak country in the language of venerable experience. Now, if our friends can prove to you by affidavit that they have halted at Chapel-en-leFrith, and pushed up into the high country thereabouts, you may grant them a certificate of knowledge on the subject, though you should withhold a medal in addition, unless they know something of Castleton and the country on the Ashopton side.

"Chapel "-the topographical designation is too long for frequent use is not incorrectly described as "a markettown of some considerable importance in the High Peak." If not "in," it is not far from the Peak. At Hayfield, a few miles north, begins the range of hills of which Kinder. Scout is the chief summit, and Kinder Scout must be honestly climbed by your own feet if you would gain that splendid look-out which, they say, sometimes includes the sea beyond Liverpool. Castleton is pretty well known to tourists, since it monopolises the most wonderful of the wonders of Derbyshire, such as the Ebbing and Flowing Well, the castle of which Sir Walter Scott had somewhat to observe in his "Peveril of the Peak" (the flower, as many think, of the Waverley flock), and the mines and caves where the Bengal lights reveal stalactite and crystal spar, and less showy illuminations intensify the gloom of awe-inspiring cavernous recesses. These are the show places of the district, and naturally they attract all the tourists who pass that way. Still the traveller who stops short of Mam Tor has but an imperfect acquaintance with the High Peak.

Let us traverse the mountain through the lovely vale of Edale until we stand once more upon that bridge which

K

spans the Derwent near its confluence with the Ashop. Shall I not do well to admit at once that I have brought you into the Peak country chiefly to take you by the buttonhole and gossip of the streams that lave its lower levels? And is there not a cause? The rodster and the gunster coming with a purpose are the men who know most about the Peak scenery, for they have an incentive to spur them beyond the point where others retrace their steps; the further their explorations are forced the more successful are they likely to be in their pursuits. Yet the field is so vast that I cannot pretend to exhaust it; the best that can be done within the limits of a single sketch is to skim the surface with a light hand.

The Little Ashop, to which I have above made reference, is the tributary of a tributary, for the Derwent is, spite of its goodly size at its junction with the Trent, but a feeder of that magnificent midland river. The Ashop rises on the northern face of the High Peak, and is formed by a number of rivulets springing from Glossop and Alport moors. It is, however, too small a stream to be mentioned in ordinary guide books, or to be treated to more than a passing reference in the abundant angling literature which the Peak country can claim as its own. Yet it is a noted haunt of merry, if small, moorland trout, and is strictly preserved by a few gentlemen of the district. In most of the Derbyshire streams grayling abound; none, however, are to be found so far up as this. The water is too shallow for those lovers of deep, swift currents, and there are besides weirs which would, if they attempted to act upon the "Excelsior" motto, effectually check their advance.

Watching an angler is to one who understands the science almost as exciting and interesting as angling one's self. It brings out your critical faculties; it gives you a good