From Matlock Baths you go over Matlock Bridge, to the little town of
Matlock itself, which, in reality, scarcely deserves the name of a
village, as it consists of but a few and miserable houses.
There is
here, on account of the baths, a number of horses and carriages, and
a great thoroughfare. From hence I came through some villages to a
small town of the name of Bakewell. The whole country in this part
is hilly and romantic. Often my way led me, by small passes, over
astonishing eminences, where, in the deep below me, I saw a few huts
or cottages lying. The fencing of the fields with grey stone gave
the whole a wild and not very promising appearance. The hills were
in general not wooded, but naked and barren; and you saw the flocks
at a distance grazing on their summit.
As I was coming through one of the villages, I heard a great
farmer's boy eagerly ask another if he did not think I was a
Frenchman. It seemed as if he had been waiting some time to see the
wonder; for, he spoke as though his wish was now accomplished.
When I was past Bakewell, a place far inferior to Derby, I came by
the side of a broad river, to a small eminence, where a fine
cultivated field lay before me. This field, all at once, made an
indescribable and very pleasing impression on me, which at first, I
could not account for; till I recollected having seen, in my
childhood, near the village where I was educated, a situation
strikingly similar to that now before me here in England.
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