ALLESTREE.
The river now passes down a contracted valley, deeply wooded, to Whatstandwell. A prominent feature on the steep crags to the left is Lea Hurst, the Derbyshire home of Miss Florence Nightingale, and on the other the forest of Alderwasley, a surpassing example of sylvan scenery. Ambergate is the next point of interest, where the Derwent receives the Amber, which has watered the delightful Ashover Valley, and wound under the steep hill dominated by the ruined towers and gables of Wingfield Manor. Then our river flows under hanging woods to Belper, where all its energies are required to turn the ponderous wheels at Messrs. Strutt’s cotton mills. Nowhere in all its course is it more picturesque than at Belper bridge. Above the weirs it is lake-like in its wide expanse, reflecting the green verdure at its side, the undulating uplands beyond, and the hillside cemetery that by its delectable situation seems to render Death beautiful. The weirs make the water a live thing. One of these is a merry sluice, with several gates liberating the flood above, which comes down like Southey’s torrent at Lodore. The large weir is of great width, and of crescent shape, with a wooded island at its foot. But the best view of this tumult of sunlit foam is obtained when we have for a moment turned to the river-path on the right; then, as we look up the stream, the graceful stone arches frame a picture of dancing water. Above, in the woodland park, is Bridge Hill, the residence of Mr. G. H. Strutt. The ivy-embroidered windows flash back the sunlight, as they look out over the valley of the Derwent. At Belper the river is forty-three miles from its birthplace. Milford comes next, with more of Strutt’s mills and more turbulent weirs; and at Duffield, a mile or two farther south, the river Ecclesbourne pours its cheerful waters into the Derwent. It has come from the Wirksworth country, where George Eliot found character and scenery for “Adam Bede.” Past pleasant pastoral scenes, farmsteads, and country houses, past Little Eaton and Breadsall, and Allestree Hall, with its ancestral woodlands, the seat of Sir William Thomas Evans; past Darley Abbey, where Evans’s cotton mills break up the river into miniature Niagaras, the Derwent pursues its course, until presently we are at Derby, fifty-one miles from where we first made the acquaintance of the stream. An accession of considerable importance, the Markeaton Brook, falls into the river at this point; but we must get into the meadows at the west end of the town to see it, for it follows a subterranean course through the principal streets, being arched over in the year 1845. The upper windings of the Brook afford the painter many pretty “bits,” and are held in high favour by lovers of Nature and other lovers.
About the ancient borough of Derby there is much that is historically interesting; and although the leading thoroughfares abound in pretentious examples of modern architecture, there still remain some of the old-world buildings that were in existence long before Prince Charlie in the winter of ’45 began his disastrous retreat from Derby market-place, the most southerly point to which his army penetrated. A pilot guard advanced, it is true, six miles farther, to Swarkestone Bridge, but the Rubicon, that is the Trent, was not crossed.
DERBY, FROM THE LONG BRIDGE. / DERBY, FROM ST. MARY’S BRIDGE.
The Derwent was formerly navigable up to Derby, but the right of communication was sold to the proprietors of two canal companies, who, before the introduction of railways, monopolised the traffic. In this place one peculiarity of the Derwent should not escape notice. The late Dr. Spencer T. Hall observed a distinguishing characteristic of the river, and described it in the following happy manner:—“Of all the rivers of England there is perhaps not one so noted for the sudden rise and lapse of its waters, on the melting of the snows, or the occurrence of summer storms. Even no higher up the stream than Chatsworth, there is an annual average of thirteen inches more rain than at Derby, and farther up the country a higher average still. For this, and for all the ordinary supply, such rapid descent is afforded by the steep cloughs and gullies and mountain roads, that, whenever a sudden thaw or unusual downpour occurs, the normal channel of the river is very soon overfilled, and on rushes the swelling and boiling torrent till it becomes majestic—almost terrific—as it breaks at last from the confines of the mountain gorges into the plain. It is sometimes easy to tell as low down as Derby, by the colour of the water, over which of the tributaries an up-country storm has broken. If out on the heather-side, about the Yorkshire border or the Longshaw and Chatsworth moors, down comes the deluge somewhat the colour of good coffee; if from the limestone districts, almost the colour of cream to it; and in the proportion in which both colours happen to be blended you may calculate pretty nearly how far the storm has been partial or general. Some fine morning you may walk as far as Derwent Bank or Darley Abbey, and see the river winding quietly along with its wonted grace and its usual flow. At noon you look again, and on it comes with the force of a little Niagara through the open flood-gates and over the great weir of Darley Mills, and thence spreads out until the meadows, as far as the Trent, form a series of lakes, which, if that river be also full, soon extends as far or farther down than Nottingham.”
The Derwent at Derby is spanned by several handsome bridges. The oldest and most picturesque of these structures is St. Mary’s. At the foot of the bridge is an ancient chapel where “the busy burgesses or men-at-arms turned aside for a brief silent prayer before crossing the Derwent and plunging into the forests that stretched out before them on the other side of the river.” This mediæval bridge-chapel of Our Lady is now used as a mission-room in connection with the church of St. Alkmund. Just below the bridge, on an island, stands the first silk-mill ever erected in England. It is a vast pile of time-toned brick, pierced with as many windows as there are days in the year, and surmounted by a curious bell-tower. The history of the silk trade in Derby dates back to the opening days of the last century. At that period the Italians held secret the art of silk-throwing, and monopolised the market. John Lombe, an ambitious young fellow, full of spirit, an excellent draughtsman, and a capable mechanic, determined to acquire the secret. He visited Italy, and brought to Derby from Piedmont models of the coveted machinery, together with two native craftsmen who had favoured his enterprise and secured his safety. The Derby Corporation leased to Lombe the island swamp in the Derwent, where he erected in 1718 the present immense mill on a foundation of oaken piles. It cost him £30,000, but his manufactures were a superlative success, and the Italian monopoly was driven out of the market. But Lombe did not live more than two years to reap the rich result of his labours. Treachery was at work, and he was poisoned at the hands of an Italian woman who was employed by the Piedmontese, and who contrived to escape the punishment due to her crime. Lombe, who was only twenty-nine when he thus tragically perished, was buried at All Saints’, a church whose tower is one of the glories of the midland counties. Here, too, rest several members of the Cavendish family, their virtues commemorated in monumental marble; and there is a magnificent monument to the famous Countess of Shrewsbury, the friend of Queen Elizabeth, but better known as “Building Bess of Hardwick.”
For many years Derby has been associated with the production of artistic porcelain. The making of china in the town has really never been discontinued since Duesbury commenced his labours here in the middle of the last century, amalgamating the historic works of Bow and Chelsea with his famous factory at Derby. There are now three china-works in the thriving town, which boasts of more than 100,000 inhabitants within the borough boundaries. The factory of the Derby Crown China Company, Limited, is a Palace of Porcelain where poems in pottery are produced. It is one of the sights of the neighbourhood, and is much visited by Americans and foreigners. Established in 1877, the works have been greatly developed, the business connections increased, and an advanced and higher tone given to most of the productions. All the usual services, such as dinner, tea, breakfast, trinket, and déjeûner, are made both in porcelain and in semi-vitrified “crown” ware, as are also figures and perforated vases in Parian. The specialities of the Company are vases of every conceivable design and style of decoration, from the most sumptuous Oriental schemes, wrought in raised gold of various hues upon full and lusciously coloured grounds, to the dainty and refined shapes and ornaments of the classic and of the best periods of the Renaissance. Other productions of the Company are the egg-shell specimens of fictile ware, which demand the most artistic skill of the potter. They are of extraordinary thinness; and the beauty of the colouring and the dainty jewelling and enamelling of the ornamentation equal anything achieved at the old works visited by Dr. Johnson in 1777, when he observed:—“The china was beautiful, but it was too dear; for that he could have vessels of silver of the same size as cheap as what were made here of porcelain.” Derby, however, is largely dependent for its industrial prosperity upon the Midland Railway Company, who have their chief offices, locomotive, carriage and waggon, telegraph and signal works in the town. They employ in Derby alone a staff of 12,000 officials and workmen, and their estate covers 500 acres. It extends for some distance along the Derwent, which at this point receives the entire sewage of the town. This pollution of the beautiful river calls for legislative interference. What should be a source of delight becomes an object of disgust, and what was lovely is degraded with all that is loathsome. The South Sea Islanders pelt with filth the people they specially wish to honour: Derby treats the Derwent to a similar distinction.
But a truce to sanitation and economics. Let us follow the Derwent, unfragrant as it has become, past Spondon and the pretty mills at Borrowash, to Elvaston, the noble domain of the Earl of Harrington. The stream supplies with water a spacious ornamental lake, with four islands, concerning which the first Duke of Wellington, walking round it in company with Charles, the fourth Earl, stopped suddenly, and looking round, exclaimed, “Harrington, this is the only natural piece of artificial water I ever saw in my life.” The gardens and grounds themselves are a triumph of arboriculture and landscape gardening; and who is there that has not heard of their avenues of quaintly clipped trees? The church tower and castle rise above a forest of patrician trees, while umbrageous aisles of green give vistas of scenes “where Boccaccio might have wooed and Watteau painted.” These poetic perspectives look upon rockery and statuary, lawn and fountain, borders and beds of flowers. There is an avenue of elms a mile in length, framing at the extremity a view of the Gotham hills. The “golden” gates at the entrance-lodge belonged to the first Napoleon, and once occupied a position near the royal palace at Paris; they were erected here in 1819. The castle and church adjoin each other. The former is a Gothic mansion, which in 1643 was plundered by the Cromwellian troops. A costly monument in memory of Sir John Stanhope was demolished, and outrages were committed in the family vault. The church is a picturesque edifice, with a lofty perpendicular tower; in it are effigies of Sir John Stanhope and his wife, dated 1610, and other interesting family memorials.