Eyam, known years ago as “the Athens of the Peak”, surpasses in literary interest any other part of the Peak Country. There, in the days of her youth, before it was her duty to “rock the cradle of her aged nursling”, as she piously calls her father, dwelt the bluestocking Anna Seward, who in later years won for herself the title of “Swan of Lichfield”. She was the rector’s daughter, and even in childhood must have been singularly wordy. Most readers will remember Scott’s confusion upon learning that she had made him her literary executor. An interesting figure was Anna Seward, and not devoid of charm. She occupied a certain position in the literary history of the eighteenth century as the acquaintance—but not the friend—of Drs. Johnson and Darwin. Glimpses of her are to be found in Boswell’s Life. She always impresses one as despising those who without private means devoted themselves to the profession of letters. Her compliments were paid from a superior height, and she never descended to the level of the paid scribe. She loved to patronize, and in those days the humble, with some notable exceptions, were not averse from patronage. It is easy enough to imagine her moving in the quaint rectory, filled with inordinate share of intellectual pride. After her maturity she lived on terms of some intimacy with other bluestockings of the period, and doubtless had she chosen might have told some very piquant stories. Unfortunately, however, she had not the gift of conciseness, and all that she describes is viewed through a dull mist.

William and Mary Howitt are connected more popularly with Eyam, since they sang, in banal rhyme, the story of its great catastrophe. For Eyam, in the seventeenth century, was visited by the Great Plague, and the whole village well-nigh brought to ruin. A box of clothes had been sent by a wretched London tailor, and, when this was opened, one by one the countryfolk sickened, until in little over a twelvemonth only ninety-one survivors were left out of a population of three hundred and fifty. Many weird stories are told of that time of terror, and old men still love to speak of bones turned up by the ploughshare.

It was due to the rector, Mompesson, and to a dispossessed clergyman named Stanley, that the frightful disease was kept within a certain area. Both these men worked nobly, and their names are still revered. Mompesson’s wife, whom he loved dearly, fell ill and died. It is said that before the signs of sickness were apparent with the lady, she commented to her husband on the sweetness of the evening air, and thereby convinced him that she was already infected. Her tomb, a coffer-like construction carved with cherubs and crossbones, stands not far from the porch.

On a Sunday the devoted Mompesson preached to his flock from a natural archway in Cucklet Dell, the pleasaunce afront the Hall. It was considered advisable that, since the air was poisoned, the villagers should no longer meet in the church. A strange sight the little valley must have presented in those days. One sees again the anguished faces of the men and women who have lost those they loved best; and every time they gathered together more and more were missing. It must have seemed that one and all were doomed, and after so long an ordeal probably all wished for death.

Several interesting relics of that time still remain. Beside the field path that descends to Stoney Middleton, where the wild gilliflowers grow, an old fellow once showed me a flat stone in which were cut several round holes. There, said he, the Eyam folk had dropped their coins in vinegar for disinfecting purposes, and the inhabitants of the surrounding country had exchanged them for provisions. High on Eyam Edge, near a grim deserted mine, is a water trough with a carved hood, which, according to tradition, was used for a similar purpose.

MILLER’S DALE

A pleasant if somewhat melancholy half-hour may be spent in the churchyard, where are to be found several curious epitaphs, the most striking being on a worn stone near the south chancel.

“Here lith the body of Ann Sellars
Buried by this stone—who
Dyed on Jan 15th day, 1731.
Likewise here lise dear Isaac
Sellars, my husband and my right,
Who was buried on that same day come
Seven years, 1738. In seven years
Time there comes a change—
Observe, & here you’ll see
On that same day come
Seven years my husband’s
Laid by me.”

Another epitaph, on a slab fastened to the tower, tells of an old inhabitant who must have loved his Shakespeare.

There is a fine scrolled cross with age-worn figures of the Virgin and Child, which owes its present position to the antiquarian zeal of Howard the philanthropist. But perhaps the most suggestive object in this beautiful resting place is a chapel-shaped tomb with grated windows and without roof—the lead having been sold about a century ago by the descendants of those who lay there. It is certainly a place whence a ghost might rise o’ nights; one wonders that the villagers have no weird legends concerning its past.

Beside the church is a small gabled cottage with a forecourt proudly embellished with oldfashioned flowers. This is the “Plague House”. Tradition insists that the tailor’s box was opened in one of its rooms. A little farther, lying behind a terraced garden, stands Eyam Hall, perhaps the most beautiful of the minor Peakland houses. Semicircular steps rise to a fantastical white gate with carved stone posts, and one may look upon a soft green lawn and a Jacobean faÇade whereon grows the Virginian Creeper. The latticed panes glimmer; the stonework is richly coloured. In autumn the sight of the gorgeous foliage is worth a day’s journey.

This district abounds with old stories—it is with regret that one finds the younger generation careless of the traditions cherished by their fore-elders. In the days when Prince Charlie marched towards London, Eyam folk were greatly scared, and their cattle were driven to a little valley known as Bretton Clough, and hidden till the tremor had passed. One used to hear old dames boasting of their grandfathers’ clocks, which in those long-past days had been lowered for safety down mine shafts. A grandfather’s clock and a corner cupboard may still be found in almost every cottage. The natives of Eyam are well-read and kindly—it is possible that the influence of the “Swan of Lichfield” has not yet entirely faded.

On the little green near the hall still stand the two posts of the stocks—it is easy enough to picture the penitent drunkard enduring neighbourly abuse, and bowing his head under a shower of rotten eggs. But at Eyam one may be sure that no lasting harm was ever wrought upon those who loved their cups unwisely.

On the moor that reaches to the “Edge” are several cairns, and a druidical circle of minor importance. From the summit of the Sir William Hill is what was described to me as a “perfect horizon”. There may be enjoyed one of the most striking views in Peakland—in one direction one glimpses the wild hills of Kinderscout, in another the rich woods and towers of Chatsworth. And sometimes may be seen the “Emperor Fountain”, rising high and quivering like a white plume in the breeze.