The two miles and a half from Rowsley are all too quickly passed. Edensor, sometimes called Ensor, lies to the left, a quiet and beautiful village, in the churchyard of which sleep side by side both members of the family to which belongs this great heritage, and the yeomen, servants and peasants who, in days of yore did its bidding and enjoyed its bounty. The great house is built on the other side of the river, and no finer example of the home of a rich and powerful English nobleman could there be. One is startled at the first glimpse of it. No one would dream of so sumptuous a structure rising in the midst of a scene rude and wild, and, as far as the eye can see, without signs of modern life. St. Evremond, in one of his letters written from here, said: "Nothing can be more romantic than this country, except the region about Valois; and nothing can equal this place in beauty except the borders of the lake." For some years the noble and generous dukes of Devonshire have allowed the public to visit certain parts of the buildings and grounds; nor does it appear that the permission given has been abused, though every year hundreds and thousands of strangers from all parts of the world avail themselves of it. The house is not, indeed, the hall built by the discreet daughter of John Hardwick, better known as Bess of Hardwick, the wife, in turn, of a wealthy Derbyshire squire named Barley, of Sir William Cavendish, of Sir William St. Loe, and of George, Earl of Shrewsbury. Her matrimonial experiences began when she was fourteen years of age, and terminated seventeen years before she died-February 19, 1607-at the age of four-score and seven years. Each marriage advanced her socially and territorially, and of the six children which she had by her last husband, the powerful Shrewsbury-who, by the way, lived with her so unhappily that he complained to Queen Elizabeth of his "wyked and malysious wife "-one was created the first duke of Devonshire, and inherited all her vast possessions. She was a woman of thorough business habits; perhaps selfish and arrogant, though opinion seems to differ on those points. In her way she was not altogether unlike the lady who in those days ruled England-strong-minded, independent, jealous, far-seeing and masterful. Her greatest passion was for building. Some wiseacre declared that so long as she continued building she would not die; and as she did not wish to die, she kept on building. The Chatsworth of her day was built and finished by her, and in a dismal tower, enclosed by a stone wall and surrounded by a moat, not far from the present house, the hapless Mary, Queen of Scots, was by the Countess

Elizabeth kept prisoner. No wonder the poor woman got rheumatism and needed wine-baths. The place, even when in its glory, must have been more than enough to drive health from the strongest body. Possibly the Queen of England desired nature to help her in the removal of her "dear sister;" and after so many years spent under the care of Queen Elizabeth's warders there was not much of life left for the axe to take away. The hall built by Bess of Hardwick has gone-except, possibly, the tower, but the island called Queen Mary's Bower remains-overun with frogs and doleful memories.

The oldest part of the present structure was not begun till about 1687; nor did it reach its now magnificent proportions till the third or fourth decade of this century. Some of the greatest architects, painters, carvers and sculptors that England has produced, are said to have been employed in its construction; and in 1692 the works were surveyed by Sir Christopher Wren. The east front has an extent of 557 feet. And there it stands, a wondrous piece of Grecian architecture, the expression of strength and wealth, the noble columns, the long line of balustrades, the richly ornamented frieze and the Italian-like tower, and the accurate art everywhere displayed, making it the most perfect of mansions, the rival of many a palace. Everywhere may be seen the serpent, the crest of the Cavendish family.

An individual of some consequence, whose dignity and address as much bewildered us as his condescension filled our hearts with wonder, admitted us at the porter's lodge, and we were escorted through the halls, the chambers and the chapel by a young woman, who, having gone over the ground and told the story of each interesting feature so many times, seemed too stiff and too tired to afford us much interest or information. She was not as formal and dull as a Westminster verger-that was impossible, for the like of the men who take the stranger through the Abbey is exceedingly rare, thank God-but for some few minutes she moved with marvellous stateliness and indifference, and spoke briefly and coldly. Under the genial influence of one of our party, however, she gradually softened and became more communicative, until at last, like the spring after a hard winter, she became charming, and the descriptions she gave were full of grace and humor. I am told that if you could only thaw the icy dignity and Spitzbergen-like awfulness of a Westminster guide, you would find him to be at heart kindly, gentle and gracious. Once I resolved to try the experiment; but the first glance of his eye frightened me, and I gave it up.

To describe the treasures of sculpture, painting and bric-a-brac that we saw at Chatsworth is for me impossible. The wealth of art in the several rooms is provokingly bewildering. There is nothing common. You might read some of the descriptions of palaces in the Arabian Nights, and then go through Chatsworth without appreciating the difference between the reality and the illusion. The best that the world has is there; gifts from kings and emperors, chairs of state, portraits of famous personages, carvings by Grinlin Gibbons, and statuary that would make a Pygmalion sorrowful. But all this and much more can be read about in the guide-book; and let those who read think kindly of the nobleman who, in the generosity of his heart and in his desire to advance the welfare and happiness of poorer people, allows the public to look closely into his possessions. We saw all that it is permitted the stranger to see; and then our inquisitiveness led us to trespass upon the kindness of our guide, and get her to secure permission for us to pass through the private apartments. This privilege was most courteously accorded. We went into the dining-room, drawing-room and other rooms occupied by the family, all of which are furnished with a rare elegance; but the gem of all is the library. I could never work in such a place; indeed, I can seldom write unless before me is a scene not more diverting than a white wall, adorned with a few fly spots and a bit of disused cobweb. This glorious room is ninety-two feet long and twenty-two feet wide, and contains tens of thousands of volumes: no novice could suggest their value. One curious feature in the room is the door leading to the gallery by which are reached the upper shelves. The door is a secret contrivance, and would baffle the most ingenious searcher. It is made to resemble a bookcase, and when closed the keenest eye could not detect a break in the continuous lines of shelves and tomes. Some queer titles are painted on the backs of these supposititious books, and by touching a certain one of these titles the door flies open and reveals the staircase.

A heavy shower prevented us from going into the gardens; nor did we see the cascade, which some have thought only inferior to the breaking of ocean waves. The conservatory, too, which covers nearly an acre of ground and is replete with plants and flowers from every part of the world, was closed to us. But from the windows of the house we had several fine views of the grounds and surrounding country. Tell me, my good reader, if you know of landscapes more beautiful, and I will go to the end of the world to see them. The noble cedars suggest distant Lebanon.