In the churchyard at Darley Dale is the most venerable yew-tree in the world. Many authorities claim for it a fabulous age, making it as much as 3,000 years old. It is thirty-three feet in girth, but its trunk has suffered not a little from the modern Goths and Vandals who have carved their names in the bark, and employed other methods of mutilation. The tree is now fenced round to save it from further insult; and "whatever may be its precise age," says the Rev. Dr. John Charles Cox, "there can be little doubt that this grand old tree has given shelter to the early Britons when planning the construction of the dwellings that they erected not many yards to the west of its trunk; to the Romans who built up the funeral pyre for their slain comrades just clear of its branches; to the Saxons, converted, perchance, to the true faith by the preaching of Bishop Diuma beneath its pleasant shade; to the Norman masons chiselling their quaint sculptures to form the first stone house of prayer erected in its vicinity; and to the host of Christian worshippers who, from that day to this, have been borne under its hoary limbs in women's arms to the baptismal font, and then on men's shoulders to their last sleeping-place in the soil that gave it birth." On the left bank of the Derwent, amid rocks and plantations, is the royal residence of the late Sir Joseph Whitworth; and on the opposite side rises, sharply defined, Oker Hill--a green isolated eminence that was once an important Roman station. Growing on the summit of this lofty peak are two sycamores. A legend is attached to the planting of these trees, which Wordsworth has recited in his tender sonnet:-- "'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two brothers clomb; and turning face from face Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place A chosen tree. Then eager to fulfil Their courses, like two new-born rivers they In opposite directions urged their way Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill Or blight the fond memorial. The trees grew, And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain, Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew, Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all--Eternity." [Illustration: MATLOCK BATH.] The trout and grayling fishing in the Derwent here is of excellent quality, the water being stocked and preserved by zealous local angling societies, supported by the Trent Conservancy Board.