SECTION I. New Road from Tideswell to Buxton. Storm. Wormhill. Monksdale. Thunder Chee Tor. My second Excursion (in Derbyshire) commenced at Tideswell. The night by which it was preceded was full of turbulence and uproar; the rain and wind beat violently against the roof and sides of our dwelling, and at intervals the lightning gleamed on the towers of the church, that were distinctly seen from the apartment in which I slept. In the morning the storm somewhat abated, and in the hope that it might soon entirely subside, my companion and myself commenced our journey. We were only seven miles from Buxton, and as it was our intention to traverse the banks of the river Wye, we took the road through Monks-dale to Wormhill and Chee Tor. The new road from Tideswell to Buxton is carried through a continued series of romantic dales: immediately after leaving the town it winds round some rocky knolls, and descends along the side of a steep hill into Millers-dale, where it crosses the river Wye, amidst some of the most delightful scenery in the Peak of Derbyshire; then skirting the base of Priestcliff by Diamond Hill, it passes through Blackwell-dale, and joins the Bakewell road about two miles from Taddington. The road formerly travelled to Buxton is now nearly deserted: its' direction is through Monks-dale, which it crosses near Wormhill, then passes over a tract of uninteresting ground newly claimed from the moors, but now in a state of tillage, and everywhere disfigured with stone wall-fences. In a newly enclosed country there is but little to attract attention; its features, if not absolutely repulsive, are unlovely, and must remain so, until a lapse of years has introduced the softer graces and the richer clothing of cultivation. We left Tideswell early in the morning, and from the threatening aspect of the sky we anticipated a return of the The hills before us stretching beyond Buxton, were of a deep purple colour, approaching to blackness, and they storm. were only distinguishable from the clouds that hung over them by a pale streak of light which ran along the horizon. Shortly the lightning began to dart its fiery lines across the darkness of the hills, and the thunder murmured hoarsely at a distance. We pressed onward, and when we arrived in Monksdale we were in the midst of the storm. Monks-dale is a narrow deep ravine, whose steep and rugged sides are partly covered with heath and fern, intermixed with a thin mossy verdure. Grey barren rock occasionally breaks through the soil in large perpendicular masses, which though not sufficiently stupendous for the purposes of grandeur, gives to this dell a peculiar wildness, which is rather increased than subdued by the few trees and scanty brushwood that are scattered about it, as if intended only to remind one of their general absence. Wildness, however, was not the only feature by which Monks-dale was distinguished at this particular time; it assumed another, and a more imposing character. Enveloped in deep gloom, and visited with fire from heaven, it was terricfic and sublime. The frequent and vivid flashes of lightning coming athwart the darkness of the storm, and the thunder loudly reverberating from rock to rock, had an awful and even an appalling effect. Peal on peal burst from the clouds on every side in rapid succession; the real and the mimic thunder clashing and blending together in terrible confusion. In a confined part of this dell, at the foot of a projecting rock, where we had crouched for shelter, stands a single tree, the sport and victim of many a wintry storm. Its scathed trunk and leafless branches, peeled and bleached with age and weather, coming across a sky impenetrably black, while all the lower part of the chasm in which it once had flourished was involved in darkness that might almost be felt, presented a picture as disturbed and wild as Salvator ever imagined. The storm subsiding, we left Monks-dale, and proceeded over the fields to Wormhill. Here every view is cheerless and uninteresting, with the exception of the village only, in which the cottages are prettily intermingled amongst the trees. Beheld at a short distance, the eye is refreshed as it rests upon it: it looks indeed like a beautiful spot of verdure amidst waste and sterility, for the traveller as he surveys the scene around him is but little aware of those rich and narrow dells. which abound in this part of Derbyshire: his eye wanders over the various undulations of the ground that lies before WORMHILL. WOLF HUNTING. 83 him from the top of one eminence it passes to another, without perceiving either the frequency or the dimensions of the intervening dales. Yet though the neighbourhood of Wormhill is at this time so naked and unadorned, if tradition may be credited it was once a forest and crowded with trees: it was then the shelter and the residence of wild and ferocious animals, from whence 66 "Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave Burning for blood-bony, and gaunt, and grim "And pouring o'er the country, bear along "Keen as the North wind sweeps the glossy snow- Camden, in his brief notice of Derbyshire, says that "lands were held here by the tenure to hunt wolves ;" and he farther observes," now there is no danger of wolves in these places, though formerly infested by them; for the hunting and taking of which some persons held lands here at Wormhill, from whence those persons were called WOLVE-HUNT, as is manifest from the records of the Tower." Page 443. Whitaker, in his History of Manchester, calls these "the wildest parts of the wildest region in England, peopled as they must then have been by the beasts, that gave denomination to the Wolfhunters at Wormhill."-- What a strange vicissitude of fortune has attended this district! Once a forest, the haunt and shelter of wild beasts-then a desert and unproductive waste now, destined to undergo another change verdant fields and hedge-row trees begin to appear where lately desolation pre vailed. We The unpropitious aspect of the landscape we had passed from Tideswell to Wormhill, was amply compensated by our near approach to the river Wye. While in the village, nothing appeared to intimate the proximity of Chee-dale, which is one of the most romantic parts of the Peak. had therefore no anticipation, no foretaste of that rich assemblage of scenery, which nature has hid within the deep hollows and high hills that border the village of Wormhill. Nearly opposite the hall, which is a pleasant little mansion, finely embosomed in trees, we entered a small wicket-gate. All that was uninteresting in form, and cheerless to the eye, lay now behind us; all before was magnificent and commanding. The whole range of vision is here occupied by rocks and mountains, while from the dells beneath, the Wye and its |