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Gentleman's Magazine 1805 p.1010
TOUR TO THE LAKES OF CUMBERLAND AND WESTMORELAND.
(Continued from p.920.)
MONDAY, 20th of August; embarked at Low Wood, and made a
pleasant voyage of six miles to Mr. Curwen's Island. We
could not but admire the stillness and transparency of the
Lake, which is in some parts nearly 100 yards deep, and
three quarters of a mile across. In the winter season it is
frequently so rough as to render the management of a boat
extremely hazardous. It abounds with Char, a coarse fish,
caught in nets, of which great quantities are potted. In
addition to these there are Trout, Perch, and Eel; the
former are more numerous in the brooks and rivulets by which
the Lake is fed. The Eels are pierced by a sharp instrument,
a model of the harpoon, as they coil unwarily on the grassy
bottom. On our approach, the village of Bowness rose among
the trees on the opposite shore. From the poetical
rhapsodies of the guides, in delineating the charms of these
islands, the imagination revels in fairy bowers and
Rosicrusian Sylphs. But, instead of these, what Mr. Gray
would have expressly termed a Rus in Urbeish house,
and a neglected garden, served rather to excite pity than to
aggravate disappointment. The shores (as might be expected)
are low and uncommanding. A lofty point of rock on the
Western beach is occupied by a station house, erected by the
same gentleman. Here, after a laborious ascent, we gained
little novelty of prospect, and surrendered much of the
grandeur of the mountain scenery.
On the 21st, we sallied out with our Rozinantes, admirable
subjects for Bunbury. Made towards the little village of
Clappersgate at the water-head; admired the situation of
Miss Pritchard's house, and envied Mrs. H-- her cottage
window; passed, to the left of the road, Hawkshead, a neat
market town at the head of Esthwaite water. Coniston Fells
presented a savage aspect as we drew nigh to the Northern
shore. The Lake is six miles long, and, like Windermere, the
glory of its banks is concentrated in a single point of
view. In a shrubbery on the Western edge stands Coniston
Hall, the antient seat of the Flemings. This is a
well-chosen situation. Hence we had a wild ride among the
mountains; passed Loughrigg Tarn, a Lake not larger than an
orchard-pond, and descended by a steep and narrow track into
that glorious amphitheatre of rock, which shuts in the
little peaceful vale of Grasmere. Here Nature has worked
with the hand of an Enchantress, and I do not envy the
Philosopher his feelings who can pass it without emotion.
For myself, I could only exclaim with the Poet, "Sic meae
sedes utinam Senectae." the white church shot up its
taper spire from among a group of scattered cottages at the
remotest corner of the valley. This presented a pastoral
landscape, rich in trees and cattle; and finished with all
the minuteness of a pencil; while the Lake, like a sheet of
polished silver, reflected every leaf in its bosom.
Here too, is a green islet, but it is subject to the
undisputed dominion of the water-fowl. In such a spot, where
nothing is to be seen or heard that can disturb the interest
derived from Nature, it is surely not surprising, if some
distaste should be excited to the bustle of commerce and the
"busy hum of men." The Lake of Grasmere, basoned in rock, a
frontier so terrible, as even to strike the warrior with
dismay, might have lain for ages beneath the veil of
primaeval obscurity; and it is much to be feared that the
facility of access to a scene of such commanding beauty, may
prove fatal to its most bewitching attractions. Descending
Grasmere Hill, we rode along the rushy margin of Rydal
water, and in front of us appeared Rydal Hall, the
respectable mansion of Sir Michael le Fleming, at the skirts
of a lofty range of mountains. On our return to Low-wood, we
were saluted with a reiterated chorus. The report of a small
cannon fired from the shores of the Lake had awakened drowsy
Echo from her cell.
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