Unequivocal evidence exists that the Romans knew the curative properties of the Baths at Buxton; and it is almost certain, from the many Celtic barrows and stone circles found in the neighbourhood, that a still earlier race was acquainted with them. Probably, therefore, for more than a thousand years Buxton has been one of the principal “health-resorts” of this island. Yet few remains of antiquity exist in the town. The dwelling—in which was lodged Mary, Queen of Scots, on her several visits, while in custody of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and to which “good Queen Bess,” while sojourning at Kenilworth, sent the Earl of Leicester, that he might drink of the healing waters, “twenty days together”—was removed just a century ago: a handsome and very commodious hotel occupies the site: it is still called the “Old Hall;” and immediately behind it are the two springs—the Saline and the Iron—the Chalybeate and the Tonic. On a window-pane of one of the rooms in this Old Hall, Mary, Queen of Scots, is said to have scratched the following touching and kindly farewell—the pane of glass having been preserved until recent years:—
“Buxtona, quæ calidæ celebrare nomine lymphæ,
Forte mihi posthac non adeunda vale!”
Cheerfulness is the handmaid of health: and, although there are many patients in and about Buxton, they do not seem to suffer much: there are more smiles than moans in the pump-room; and rheumatism is not a disease that makes much outer show of anguish.
It would be difficult to find in any part of the British dominions a drive so grandly beautiful as that between Buxton and Haddon. Within half a mile of its centre is “the Duke’s Drive” (formed in 1795 by the then Duke of Devonshire): it runs through Ashwood Dale, Miller’s Dale, and Monsal Dale, passing “the Lover’s Leap” and “Chee Tor”—stupendous crags, from the crevices of which grow small trees, partially crowned and covered with ivy, ferns, and lichens, groups of varied foliage intervening; with here and there umbrageous woods; and the river Wye—not the “sylvan Wye, thou wanderer through the woods,” of Wordsworth, but its namesake of lesser fame, that has its source a mile or two north of Buxton—journeying all the way, until at Rowsley it joins the Derwent (not the Derwent of the English lakes), from whence the blended waters, running by Matlock, Belper, and Derby, flow into the Trent, and so make their way to the sea.
Haddon, from the Meadows on the Bakewell Road.
To give a list of the several objects that delight the eye and mind during this comparatively short drive, would fill more pages than we have at our disposal. The lowest part of the town of Buxton is one thousand feet above the level of the sea; the naturalist, the botanist, and the geologist will find treasure-troves in any of the surrounding hills and valleys: while natural marvels abound, within a few miles, in all directions—such as Poole’s Hole, the Blue-John Mine, the Ebbing and Flowing Well, and the Peak Cavern, with its summit crowned by the fine old castle of “Peveril of the Peak.” Majestic Chatsworth—to which, on certain days, the people are admitted, the park being at all times freely open to all comers—is distant about three miles from Haddon, across Manners Wood and intervening hills: in short, there are a hundred places of deep interest within a drive of Buxton, and, if it be a long drive, Dovedale—the loveliest dale in England—is easily reached; so, indeed, is far-famed Alton Towers.
From Manchester and Buxton the way to Haddon is through the ancient town of Bakewell, to the venerable parish church of which we shall, in due course, conduct the reader—for it contains the monuments of the Vernons. But before entering the old Hall, we must ask the reader to glance at another route to Haddon—that which he will probably take if his tour be made direct from London.
No doubt many visitors to Haddon will start from Derby; and if the road from Buxton is charming, so also is that from the capital of the shire: it is more open; the vales are wider; the views are more extensive; there are the same attractions of hill and dell and rock and river; cottages embosomed in foliage; church steeples seen among richly-clad trees; clean and happy-looking villages; and distant towns, never indicated, except in one case—that of Belper—by the chimneys and sullen shadows of manufactories. For more than twenty miles there is an unbroken continuation of scenic loveliness, such as, in its calm and quiet charm, its simple grace, and all the attractions of home nature, can be found nowhere else in the wide world.
Leaving Derby, and passing by the famous “Boar’s Head” cotton manufactory of Messrs. Evans on the left, and Breadsall on the right, the first station arrived at is Duffield, a delightful village, where was once the castle of the Peverels, and so on to Belper, famous for its cotton mills of the Messrs. Strutt; thence through a delightful country to the pleasant Junction of Ambergate, from whence the railway runs by the picturesque village of Cromford, the creation of one great man, Sir Richard Arkwright; Matlock Bath, the most popular and beautiful of inland watering-places, whose villa residences peep out from the heights in every direction, and whose “High Tor” frowns down upon the railway beneath; Matlock Bridge, whose hill-side of Matlock Bank is studded with famous hydropathic establishments; and Darley Dale, with its fine old church, and grand old yew tree, the largest in the kingdom, until the train stops at Rowsley. Here the passenger for Haddon, or Chatsworth, will alight, and here he will find conveyances, should he care to ride on. Here too he will find a pleasant hostel, “The Peacock,” in which to refresh the inner man.