enormous plate glasses still remain; the ceiling is of carved oak
relieved by gold ornaments. With what emotion did I turn through the
narrow gallery, leading to the state room, to the tribune, which looked
into the great octagon. A lofty door was at the extremity. I attempted
to open it; it yielded to the pressure, and I stood on the very balcony
that looked into the octagon.
Here the whole scene of desolation is surveyed at a glance. How deep
were my feelings of regret at the destruction of the loftiest domestic
apartment in the world. Twenty years ago this glorious place was in all
its splendour. High in the air are still seen two round windows that
once lighted the highest bedrooms in the world. What an extraordinary
idea! On this lofty hill, 120 feet from the ground, were four bedrooms.
Below these round windows are the windows of two of the chambers called
nunneries. Landing on this balcony I quickly conjured up a vision of
former glory. There were the lofty windows gleaming with purple and
gold, producing an atmosphere of harmonious light peculiar to this place,
the brilliant sunshine covering everything within its influence with
yellow quatrefoils. From that pointed arch once descended draperies 50
feet long! The very framework of these vast windows was covered with
gold. There was the lovely gallery opening to the nunneries, through
whose arches ceilings were discovered glittering with gold, and walls
covered with pictures. Exactly opposite was another tribune similar to
this; below it the immense doors of St. Michael's Gallery, whose crimson
carpet, thickly strewed with white roses; was seen from this place,
whilst far, far above, at an elevation of 130 feet, was seen the lofty
dome, its walls pierced with eight tall windows, and even these were
painted and their frames gilded. The crimson list to exclude draught
still remained on these folding doors, but the lock was torn off! I
closed the doors, not without a feeling of sadness, and returning to the
small gallery again ran up the Lancaster Gallery to another noble
bedroom. Finding the stairs still intact I mounted them, and found a
door, which opened on to the roof. We were now on the top of the
Lancaster Tower. Though not so extensive as the view from the platform
of the great staircase, there is a peep here that is most fascinating; it
is the extreme distance seen through the ruined window of the opposite
nunnery.
The glimpse I had of the bittern lake having sharpened my appetite to see
it, I descended the staircase of the Lancaster turret, and marching off
in a southerly direction hastened towards its shores. But it is so
buried in wood that it was not without some difficulty we found it. Never
in happy England did I see a spot that so forcibly reminded me of
Switzerland. Though formed by Art, so happily is it concealed that
Nature alone appears, and this lovely lake seems to occupy the crater of
an extinct volcano. It is much larger than I anticipated. A walk runs
all round it; I followed its circuit, and soon had a glorious view of the
Abbey, standing in solitary stateliness on its wooded hill on the
opposite side. The waters were smooth as a mirror, and reflected the
ruined building; its lofty towers trembled on the crystal wave, as if
they were really rocking and about to share the fate of the giant Tower
that was once here reflected. We followed the banks of the lake. Passing
some noble oaks that were dipping their extended boughs in the water, we
soon gained the opposite side. Here is a labyrinth of exotic plants, a
maze of rhododendrons, azaleas, and the productions of warmer climes,
growing as if indigenous to the soil. We passed between great walls of
rhododendrons, in some places 15 feet high, and reached a seat, from
whence you see the whole extent of this lovely sheet of water. What I
had seen and admired so much on Lansdown was here carried to its utmost
perfection; I mean the representation of a southern wilderness. In this
spot the formality of gardening is absolutely lost. These enormous
exotic plants mingle with the oak, the beech, and the pine, so naturally
that they would delight a landscape painter. These dark and solemn
groves of fir, contrasting so strikingly with the beech woods, now
arrayed in their last gaudiest dress, remind me forcibly of Switzerland
and the Jura Mountains, which I saw at this very season. Nature at this
period is so gaudily clad that we may admire her for her excessive
variety of tints, but cannot dare to copy her absolutely. In this
sheltered and sequestered spot the oaks, though brown and leafless
elsewhere, are still verdant as July. Every varied shade of the
luxuriant groves--yellow, red, dark, and light green--every shade is
reflected in these clear waters. Three tall trees on the opposite shore
have, however, quite lost their leaves, and their reflection in the wave
is so exactly like Gothic buildings, that one is apt to imagine you see
beneath the waters the fairy palace of the Naiads, the guardians of this
terrestrial Paradise.