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[Illustration: CONISTONE HALL.]
The Old Man;
OR
RAVINGS AND RAMBLINGS ROUND
CONISTONE.
I MAY SPEAK OF THEE AS THE TRAVELLER DOTH OF VENICE:
——VINEGIA, VINEGIA,
CHI NON TE VEDE, EI NON TE PREGIA.
—_Love’s Labour’s Lost._
LONDON:
WHITTAKER AND CO. KENDAL: J. HUDSON.
1849.
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Variations in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation remain
unchanged except where there is conflict with the index.
In the original the side notes appear at the head of each page.
Most have been moved to the beginning of a proximate paragraph.
In cases where paragraphs are several pages long, they remain
embedded in the text.
The errata have been implemented.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.
INDEX.
PAGE.
Ancient Forests, Remarks upon, 38
Anecdote from Mr Wordsworth, 49
———— Curious Chronological, 84
———— of a Hairy Trout, 107
———— of deaths in a Slate Quarry, 108
———— of Fox-craft, 27
———— of New Ale, 33
———— of Jenkin Syke, 84
———— of “Kibble filling”, 97
———— of Lieut. Oldfield, R.N., 85
———— of Mrs Robinson, 81
———— of Parson Walker’s Economy, 54
———— of Ravens, 100
———— of Simon’ Nick, 101
———— of the Church Beck, 82
———— of the Name of Tyson, 45
———— of the Rev. E. Tyson, 64
———— of Wordsworth’s Duddon, 43
Anderson, Robert, quoted, 55
Archives, Parochial, 111
Bannockstone Bridge, 74
Betty Yewdale, 144
Birkett, Dan, 48
Birks Bridge, 45
Black Bull, the, 79
Black Hall, 40
Blea Tarn, 135
Brantwood, 117
Brathay, the River, 29, &c.
Brimfell, 102
Busk, the, 33
Caldron Dub, 125
Chapel Stile, 141
Church Beck, the, 82
Church Clock, the old, 66
Church Conistone Village, 73, &c.
Cockley Beck, 41
Colwith Force, 145
Conistone Bank, 117
———— Chapel, 77
———— Etymology of, 5
———— Hall, 19
———— Lake, description of, 8
———— —— Environs of, 12
———— Monk, 73
———— Schools, 78
———— Villa, 118
Copper Mines, 91
Copper Ore, process of dressing, 97
Courting Customs, 67
Crown Inn, 77
Deer Park, the Ancient, 112
De Quincey, Thos., quoted, 7, &c.
Dow Crags, 71
Dungeon Ghyll, 138
Elterwater, 143
Epitaph in Conistone Church, 78
———— in Langdale Church-yard, 142
Falls, the Mines, 90
—— in Seathwaite Beck, 69
Fell-foot, 33
Fells seen from Brantwood, 117
———————— the Lake, 14
———————— the Old Man, 105
———————— Walna Scar, 70
Fish of Conistone Lake, 9
Fir Island, 9
Flemings, Le, their Residence at Conistone, 20
Floating Island, 124
Gait’s Water, 71
Gibraltar, 66
Green, the Artist, quoted, 26
Halfpenny Ale-house, the, 117
Hird, Mary, 59
Holme Ground, 24
Holy Wath, 89
Islands on Conistone Lake, 9
Kernel Crag, 100
Lake Foot, the, 115
Langdale, Great, 137
———— Little, 29
———— Pikes, 137
———— Tarn, 30
“Langden Jerry”, 135
Legend of the Devil’s foot-mark, 75
——— of “Girt Will’s Grave”, 125
Levers Water, 101
Lloyd, the Rev. Owen, 142
Ling-Moor, 30
Low Water, 107
Mackay, Dr. Chas., quoted, 7
Macaulay, T.B., quoted, 58
Martineau, Miss, quoted, 7, &c.
Mill-beck, 138
Miners, Character of, 99
Monk Conistone, 73
—— ————— Park, 14
Newfield, 48
Nibthwaite, 115
Old Man, the, 103
———— Summit of, ibid.
———— View from, 104
Oukrigg, 102
Paddy’ End, 100
Parkinson, the Rev. R., quoted, 25
Parsonage of Conistone, 125
————— of Seathwaite, 47
Priest’s Stile, 83
Quarries, Slate, 132
Raven Crag, 27
Robinson, Mrs, 80
Ruins, Supposed British, 70
Scott, Sir Walter, quoted, 47, &c.
Seathwaite Beck, 47
————— Chapel, &c., ibid.
————— Head of, 38
Sedgwick, Professor, quoted, 6
Sheep Shearing, 20
Shire Stones, The, 35
Slate Riving and Dressing, 133
Slater’s Bridge, 29
Smith, Miss Elizabeth, 119
——— Mrs, her parody on “Ruth”, 123
Southey’s “Doctor,” quoted from, 144
Stepping Stones, The, 43
Stoneythwaite, 49
Sunken Graves, The, 42
Tarn Hows, View from, 146
Tent Lodge, 118
Thwaite, The, 74
Tilberthwaite, 28
Torver, 112
Tumulus at Fell-foot, 34
Tyson, a common name, 44
——— Daniel, 41
——— The Rev. Edward, 62
Ulpha, 40
Undercrag, 65
Walker, The Rev. Robert, 51
Walla-barrow Crag, 49
Walna Scar, 69
Waterhead Inn, 7
——————— View from, 12
Weatherlam, 28
West the Antiquary, quoted, 19
White Houses, Mr Wordsworth on, 30
Whittlegate, The Custom of, 83
Wilson, Professor, quoted, 6, &c.
Woo’ Geordie, 22
Wordsworth, Mr., quoted, 29, &c.4
—————'s Seat, 117
Wraysdale Cottage, 83
Wrynose, 34
ERRATA.
At page 7, line 8, for “materials” read _subjects_.
” 9, line 6, insert a comma between “or” and “by.”
” 30, line 34, for “mountaineous” read _mountainous_.
” 40, line 6, for “Oustead” read _onstead_.
” 69, line 7, for “dishabille” read _deshabille_.
” 84, line 1, for “Hall” read _How_.
” 98, line 13, for “to” read _from_.
” 112, line 14, for “anoo” read _anno_.
” 115, line 3, for “a” read _its_.
” 146, line 2, for “puce” read _grey_.
It has long been a favourite notion with me that if, instead of general
guides to, or descriptions of all the Lake country comprised in single
volumes, of which we have a superabundance, we could have each distinct
locality treated of fully and minutely in a work devoted exclusively to
itself, and written by some one whose long residence in, and intimate
knowledge of the district described would secure its accuracy, we
should possess a series of Lake books much more comprehensive, more
useful, and more amusing than any we can yet boast of. An idea slightly
similar to this seems at one period to have germinated in Professor
Wilson’s brain; but, notwithstanding the fertility of the soil, it
bore no fruit. In a review of Green’s Guide, the Professor says,—“It
is our serious intention to pitch our Tent, next summer, somewhere or
other among these said Lakes. Each of our principal contributors will
have a Lake assigned him, and the lesser ones a Tarn. Wastle shall have
Windermere—Odoherty, Ullswater—Ourselves, Keswick—and Kempferhausen is
perfectly welcome to Conistone. By a just distribution of our forces,
the Lakes will find themselves looked at and described in a way they
never experienced before.” As nearly thirty years have elapsed since
this intention was promulgated, and we have still to deplore its
non-fulfilment, I have taken the initiative with the Lake somewhat
depreciatingly assigned to the German savan. It is devoutly to be
wished that my modest example were followed with regard to the other
great Lakes, by parties who know them as perfectly as I know Conistone.
It may hardly be gainsaid that there are such about every one of our
Lakes, able, were they willing, to do much more justice to their
subjects than poor Conistone has obtained from me; and if they would
only set about it, I might, at least, claim the credit of having opened
the ball.
In the volume now offered to his favourable consideration, the reader
will find a very sufficient guide to all that is worthy of notice in
the neighbourhood it depicts. The accuracy of its descriptions will
be apparent when he visits the scenes described. The few anecdotes,
traits of character, and sketches, or rather, perhaps, _scratches_,
of mountain life can be vouched for as correct, and native to the
district. And the information it professes to offer upon topics
of supposed interest, local or general, is, when no authority is
specified, all deduced from personal observation. These little
merits may, perhaps, serve, in some degree, as a set off against its
short-comings as a literary composition, and those are now sufficiently
manifest even to myself; but in extenuation, I may plead that they
are such as may be attributed to inexperience in author-craft, or
such as may be looked for in a performance mainly written by way of
amusement in the uncertain and brief snatches of relaxation from duties
and anxieties of a nature peculiarly unfavourable to the improvement
of a faulty style of composition by study or practice. I may state,
however, that these duties and cares arise chiefly from an occupation
which, more than any other, affords facilities of observing the
topographical peculiarities of a district of country, and of noting the
characteristics, social and psychological, of its inhabitants of every
class. On this latter department of my subject, I should have dilated
more freely, had I not been restrained by two salutary considerations,
the first being a wish to keep within compass, and avoid prolixity—the
second, a desire to live in peace and goodwill with those amongst whom
my lot in life is cast. It is not easy to tell the even down truth of a
class, any more than of an individual, without exciting wrath.
By the way, it is remarkable that, notwithstanding all that has been
scribbled anent the Lakes, we are yet without anything like a correct
portraiture of the Dales-people. The narratives and traits of character
in Mr Wordsworth’s works, though generally striking and beautiful,
are, as regards the peasantry, mere emanations of poetic fancy, rather
than true delineations of life and manners. The same may be said of
Wilson. De Quincey’s papers on the population of the Lake district, are
correct only so long as he confines himself to colonists of his own
rank. When he comes lower, it is plain enough to those who know the
Aborigines, that he has only been permitted to study that, the most
interesting, class in their Sunday faces and best behaviour, and that
his observation there is rarely more than skin-deep.
It was reserved for a lady to give us the best essay upon the
peculiarities of our aboriginal character; but even Miss Martineau,
with all her female penetration, and her more than female genius and
talent for observation, is, in that part of her work, oddly astray in
her illustrations and erroneous in her assertions. For instance, she
avers that our women-folk are all mutes. On this it is only necessary
to remark that some of their husbands, and that I, myself, not
unfrequently, nor yet unfervently, wish that Miss Martineau’s averment
had better foundation. Bating this defect, her work on the Lakes,
taking it for all in all, is the best, and by far the cheapest, of all
Lake books, and _their_ name is Legion!
One word more. I have been accused of using irreverently a name which
it is the fashion now for all to revere. I should be truly sorry,
could I fancy I had afforded real grounds for such accusation. If the
opinion of one so obscure as I could be of any importance, I might
truly declare that I yield to none in my respect for Mr Wordsworth’s
character—that few can estimate the poetic grandeur and fine moral
feeling of his truly great poems more highly than I; and if I have
hinted at what I consider defects in his genius and philosophy, as
exhibited in his works, who shall censure me for expressing an honest
opinion, even though the mode of expressing it be a trifle more
flippant than the subject may seem to warrant? It were as reasonable
to extinguish a small luminary for announcing a fancied discovery of
spots upon the sun, as to demolish me for fancying that I discern a few
specks upon the otherwise resplendent disc of the great light of our
Lakes.
Entreating the gracious patience of the reader for having spun a plain
unvarnished tale at such a length, and bespeaking his more gracious
indulgence to the manifold faults in “my von leetle performance,” as
Signor Blitz used to call his conjuring tricks, I beg to subscribe
myself the reader's
Very humble servant,
A. C. G.
Yewdale Bridge, May 21st, 1849.
RAVINGS AND RAMBLINGS ROUND CONISTONE.
CHAPTER I.
GEOGRAPHICAL POSITION—ETYMOLOGY—ATTRACTIONS—A
STRING OF AUTHORITIES—THE LAKE—ITS
ATTRIBUTES—STATISTIC—PISCATORIAL—COMMERCIAL—FATAL, AND SCENIC.
Conistone, anciently Conyngstone and Cunyngstone, is situated in that
isolated portion of Lancashire which, divided from the mother county by
Morecambe Bay, bears the general designation of Lonsdale North of the
Sands, and in the extensive sub-division of Lonsdale North called High
Furness, which, the map will tell you, lies between Windermere and the
Duddon, and between the Brathay, in Little Langdale, and Low Furness.
[Sidenote: A BAKER’S DOZEN OF PANEGYRISTS]
Of its name, different derivations are given by different authorities.
Some give it a British origin, viz., “_ton_ a town, _con_ at the
head of, _is_ a lake.” Others say it is from the Saxon “Konyg'ston,”
thereby inferring it to have been, some time or other, a residence
or appanage of royalty. Others, less profound and less ambitious,
derive its name from the facilities for hiding in “times of trouble”
afforded by the intricate and inaccessible character of its cliffs,
crags, and boulders, and call it Cunning Stone. The first describes its
position—the second may flatter the loyal vanity of its residents, and
the third accords with its natural character, its ancient orthography,
and the local pronunciation of its name; therefore take which best
suits your taste, and allow me to tell you something about it as we
find it now.
The beauties of Conistone have never been adequately described, neither
has it received even “the shadow of justice” from any writer since
the days of Gray, the poet, old West, the antiquary, and Mrs Anne
Radcliffe, of romance-spinning celebrity, all of whom wrote of the
scenery of Conistone in terms of quaintly eloquent eulogium. Indeed,
the once popular, and still admired, fabricatrix of “Mysteries,” places
it pre-eminent over all its neighbours in its diversity of beauty; and,
since her day, many have spoken or written in praise of one or more of
the items which go to make up the sum of its unparalleled attractions.
A lady of high rank and wealth informed me that the salubrity of its
atmosphere is such that, when in very precarious health, and advised by
an eminent court physician to proceed to Madeira as her only chance of
recovery, a few weeks’ residence at Conistone restored her to robust
and permanent health.
Professor Wilson says, that when “you come in sight of the Lake of
Conistone, the prospect is at once beautiful and sublime,” and “you
will acknowledge that Conistone can almost bear a comparison with
Windermere.” And even he admits elsewhere, that it surpasses Windermere
in the quality of its char!—perhaps, to most people, the highest praise
he can give it.
Another equally experienced, though not equally eminent gastronome,
declares its black-faced mutton to be incomparably the best ever boiled.
Professor Sedgwick, in his “Geology of the Lake District,” names
Conistone thrice for any other locality once.
Experienced and successful mining adventurers class it A1., on account
of its underground wealth.
[Sidenote: A BOLD DEDUCEMENT]
Dr Charles Mackay says that Conistone Water is “the most placid of all
the lakes.”
Thomas de Quincey, the English opium-eater, speaking of the view of
Conistone from the road near Tarn Hows, says—“to which, for a _coup de
theatre_, I know nothing equal.”
A talented artist of indisputable taste says, that no other vicinity
affords such an abundance of subjects for fine pictures.
The rain-gauge states, that scarcely one-half of the rain falls here
that falls at Keswick, (where, by the bye, Lord Byron makes a devil say
it usually rains).
Last and best, Miss Martineau says, the traveller “has probably never
beheld a scene which conveyed a stronger impression of joyful charm;
of fertility, prosperity, comfort, nestling in the bosom of the rarest
beauty.”
And I, being neither bard, antiquary, romancist, moral philosopher,
gourmand, natural philosopher, miner, bookmaker, opium-eater, painter,
moist weather meter, nor philanthropist in particular, but the least
in the world of them all, “in the abstract”—keeping its scenery,
atmosphere, geology, mineralogy, fish, flesh, and fine weather all at
once in view, and lumping, as is fair, the opinions of all these great
and undeniable authorities together,—hold it to be matchless, not only
in the Lake district of England, but in the world, at least in any part
of it that I have seen.
In executing my agreeable task of pointing out some of the more
prominent of the beauties and attributes of Conistone, I shall suppose
you, my reader (should I gain one) to be a diffident, well-disposed
young gentleman, located at the Water Head Inn, and just coming down
stairs after a capital night’s rest. It is no matter, for our present
purpose, how you contrived to get there without seeing anything I am
going to shew you, but there you are, “with shining morning face,”
praying complacently, as you trip down stairs, that you may never find
yourself in worse quarters. You may present my compliments to Mrs.
Atkinson, and request her to let you have breakfast in the parlour
with the projecting window. If you be very hungry, you had better not
look out yet; but, should there be any delay in the appearance of your
breakfast, a thing not very likely, you may amuse yourself with the
visitor’s book until it comes in; but don’t scribble any nonsense in it,
as has been done by some youths who have been permitted by their mammas
to leave home prematurely.
[Sidenote: LENGTH, &c., OF CONISTONE LAKE.]
Breakfast being brought in, whilst you are eating, I may as well say a
word or two on the statistics of the lake whose head lies within a few
yards of your feet, and whose ancient name was Thurston Water. It is
about six and a half miles long, therefore ranks next after Windermere
and Ullswater in point of size, or, to speak very exactly, in point
of longitude, for I should suppose the area of Bassenthwaite Water
to be larger than the area of this lake, it (Bassenthwaite), though
only four miles long, carrying a better breadth with it than Conistone
Water, whose greatest width does not exceed a mile, many parts not half
a mile, the average lying, perhaps, between them. Its greatest depth
is stated in the Guide Books to be twenty-seven fathoms, but a map or
chart of the lake in my possession, which was made from actual survey,
many years ago, by a talented native of the dale, gives the depth of
forty fathoms at about two-thirds of the distance down the lake, and
twenty or thirty yards from the western shore. This places the depth
of Conistone Lake second only to that of Wastwater, which is stated
by some to be forty-five fathoms, by others to be _un_fathomable.
Conistone Lake contains, in addition to some mere rocks, two islands.
[Sidenote: ISLANDS, FISH, AND MERCHANDISE.]The uppermost, called
Knott’s Island, after its proprietor, or more frequently, Fir Island,
from its handsome covering of Scotch firs, becomes peninsular in very
droughty weather; and the lower, called Peel Island—why, I don’t
know—or Montagu Island, after the Dukes of Montagu, formerly Lords
of the Manor, and succeeded by the Dukes of Buccleugh, or by the
Aborigines, the “Gridiron,” the best name of the three, inasmuch as it
pretty accurately describes its shape, it having a handle or _shank_
of rocks projected in lengthened chain from its south-western side,
is covered by natural wood of no great altitude; and its rocky sides
are so high and precipitous, as to render landing upon it a matter
of difficulty, if not of danger, but, for all that, pic-nic parties
sometimes resort to it. There was also a floating island about twenty
yards square, finely covered with young birches of decent stature,
which used to move about the lower end of the lake, but unfortunately
it was stranded amongst the reeds near Nibthwaite by a strong
north-east wind which prevailed for a day or two in October, 1846, when
the lake was unusually swollen by heavy rains. I shall, perhaps, point
it out to you by and bye.
As to the lake’s vulgarly useful qualities, it contains the best char
in the world, and quantities of unsurpassable trout of delicious
flavour, and often of large size—for instance, there was one cut up
at your present quarters, some time since, which weighed fourteen
pounds. Of its pike, I need only say that one of them roasted or baked
“with a pudding in its belly,” is, on certain occasions, worth all the
scenery in the neighbourhood. It is also rich in eels and perch, more
particularly the latter. It serves as a commodious highway towards the
port of exportation for two hundred and fifty tons of copper ore every
month, as well as for nobody knows how much slate, flags, birch brooms,
and small timber. Conjointly with the circumjacent mountains and
valleys, and the copper mines, it brings, during each laking season,
a goodly haul of fish to your host’s net, in the form of tourists and
visitors. There has been only one person drowned in it within the
memory of man, and he was a stupid, drunken fellow, who walked into it
over the slate quay. Of course, under these circumstances, the most
harmless water in the world could do nothing else but drown him.
[Sidenote: SOMETHING “OLD KIT” SAYS.]
Of its ornamental characteristics you shall judge for yourself, as soon
as you finish eating.
Well, having despatched a few cups of coffee and a fair proportion
of a most satisfactory array of etceteras, (for be it remarked, _en
parenthese_, that a breakfast furnished by Mrs Atkinson does not
yield even to that at Grasmere described by Christopher North, in
terms sufficiently graphic, “to create an appetite under the ribs of
death,”) you may take a look from the window. Your first impulse is
an expression of gratitude to me for advising you to make a hearty
breakfast before looking forth, for assuredly, say you, this would,
if seen before, have effectually withdrawn your attention from the
creature comforts before you, albeit first-rate.
[Sidenote: RHYME AND A REASON FOR IT.]
The eminent Scotchman already twice mentioned, who is a high-caste
laking authority, although his judgment is somewhat warped by his
attachment to his own Windermere, says, somewhere, that a man sitting
where you do now, might fancy himself looking from the cabin window
of a ship at anchor in a beautiful land-locked bay of some island
in the South Sea. You don’t know how far that flight may be correct;
but you _think_ that the Pacific bays must, in beauty, fall somewhat
short of the scene before you. And you are nearer right than the great
Christopher, who is out of his latitude in the South Seas, else he had
never drawn the pretty-sounding comparison. Though many of the bays in
those seas are lovely enough, yet few, as I am told, can come within
a day’s sail of Conistone Water, so far as ordinary impressions of the
beautiful may bear me out; and the beauties of Conistone, as they are
manifold, so are they manifest even to the lowest order of taste, or
talent, or whatever the principle may be that enables a common-place
man, like myself, to distinguish beauty when he looks at it, and
as they are apparent to all, so must they be appreciable by every
one, and—but I am waxing enthusiastic, and shall, if I go on, become
intolerably nonsensical, for, with me, there is not even the one step
between the sublime and the ridiculous; therefore, as I prefer being
absurd in verse to being ridiculous in prose, till I cool down a little—
“I'll have a shy
At Po—e—try.”
Conistone, fair Conistone, how vain it were to roam
Abroad in search of beauty, with such scenes as thine at home,
For, nowhere,—seek the frigid north, or sultry southern clime,
Are mingled so the beautiful, the sweet and the sublime.
Thy placid lake is beautiful—its winding shores are sweet—
Thine Old Man Mountain is sublime, whose top the white clouds greet,
As brother greeteth brother, with a hearty, close embrace,
And round whose rugged rock-bound sides the sportive cloudlets race.
Though other lakes be passing fair,—though fair be “green Grasmere;”
Though Rydal boast its herony, and Rydal Mount be near;
Though Ullswater be gorgeous, and Bassenthwaite be broad;
Though lovely be the lake that holds Saint Herbert’s old abode;
Though Crummock slumber pleasantly, 'neath high Scale Force’s roar,
“And Butter”-_mere_ “is beautiful, but that you knew before;”
Though Wastwater and Ennerdale look sternly dark, but clear;
Though Eden-like the islets be of regal Windermere;
Though each hath its own beauties, yet amongst them is not one
Can boast of beauty varied so as thine, sweet Conistone!
Thy rivulets are bright as is air bell or crystal bead,
And high, and wild, and lone the Tarns those rivulets that feed.
Thy sunny sky is cloudless oft, and healthful are thy gales;
And sweet, in their secludedness, thy tributary vales;
And pleasant are thy homesteads snug beneath thy mountains dark,
And stately stands thine ancient Hall within its coppiced park.
And lofty are thy crags from whence the wakeful raven stoops,
And wildly are thy fells arranged in strange fantastic groups,
Uprearing their majestic heads in grandeur, gloom, and pride,
And none may tell what treasures vast their rugged bosoms hide.
And such are _some_ attractions which in Conistone we find;
But Conistone! dear Conistone!! thy best remains behind,
For never elsewhere have I found, though I have wander’d far,
A dinner like thy mutton-chops preceded by thy char!
[Sidenote: EASTERN SHORE.]
There, there! you seem to have had enough of that, and I, having let
off my superabundant steam, may now get on in a sedate, business-like
manner. The placid lake and its winding shores you are now staring
at, and tastefully, as you perceive, are its winding shores decorated
with timber disposed in rich variety of thriving young plantations,
clump, grove, coppice, hedge-row, solitary tree, avenue, and shrubbery,
gracefully interblended here, and separated by fields and wide
pastures of glorious verdure there, the whole finished off on the
east, which we shall dispose of first, by miles and miles of heath
purpled moorland. Along the lake on its said eastern side, are the
finely-sheltered grounds of Tent Lodge, Bank Ground, Conistone Bank,
Brantwood, and Water Park. The lake appears to terminate at about five
miles distance—in fact, a little below “the Gridiron,” or a mile and a
half from the lake foot—the water thereabout making a gentle sweep to
the east. The southward prospect is bounded by the high-lying moor of
Gawthwaite, from whence the green and cultivated slopes of Lowick and
Blawith appear to descend in easy gradation to the water edge. Bringing
the eye back along the western shore, your attention is next arrested
[Sidenote: WESTERN SHORE.] by the brightly verdant, cultivated and
conical height of Stable Harvey, standing out in fine contrast against
the dark brown Beacon hill in Blawith, which considerably overtops it,
and forms, with its broken outline, a highly picturesque background to
the landscape in that direction. The landward edge of Stable Harvey is
hidden from where you are, by the lengthened heath-clad summit, and
coppiced and furze-clad side of Torver common, which rises steep from
the margin of the lake to a considerable height. As you follow up the
margin of the lake, you next descry the beautiful farm of Hawthwaite,
with its rookery, plantations, and numerous single trees, occupying
a fine situation under the northern shoulder of Torver common, and
presenting one of the most eligible sites for a gentleman's seat, with
extensive grounds, in the north of England. Nearer still, you see a
promontory covered with bright verdure, and tipped, or fringed, with
low spreading wood, running out, as it seems from the Water Head,
into the very middle of the lake. It is the Hall Point; the grounds
lying between it and Hawthwaite, and extending from the water side to
the tops of the heights more than a mile to the westward, form the
ancient deer-park, which possesses such a luxuriant and widely-extended
covering of natural timber, as might gladden the hearts of those who
affect to hold that any utilitarian interference with nature tends
grievously to degrade or destroy the romantic characteristics of lake
scenery. The Hall itself is concealed by the upper arm of the bay,
with the trees and neat, but singular and high, steep-roofed edifice
upon it. The said building is a boat-house belonging to “The Thwaite,”
a handsome residence upon the southern declivity of the richly-wooded
eminence to your right, over which you may note “The Old Man,”
anciently, and more correctly, “Alt Maen” (British),
“Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,”
and looks, from this window, something like part of the back and head
of a huge elephant, with his trunk slightly extended and a wart on his
forehead.
[Sidenote: GROUNDS, FELLS, AND VILLAGE.]
You had better now take a boat and row a mile or two down the lake, and
row yourself, or, if you are lazy, at least sit with your face to the
stern, and fresh beauties will open upon your enraptured gaze at every
stroke of the oars.
[Sidenote: “TIME’S CHANGES.”]
Beyond, or above, the inn you are leaving, is the residence of Mr
James Garth Marshall, one of the princely manufacturers of that name
in Leeds; it is surrounded by—excepting in some particulars Rydal
Hall—decidedly the finest demesne in the Lake district, so far as
the most beautiful combination of all the elements of natural and
artificial loveliness can establish its superiority; for nowhere else
have I seen wood and water, hill and valley, green sward and purple
heather, rugged crag and velvet slope, grey rock and bright blossoming
shrubs brought under the eye at once, in such magnificent contrast.
Over the western side of the grounds, you may note the picturesquely
rugged and jagged summit of Raven Crag, at the head of Yewdale, and
nearer to you, but still more to the west, the wild, precipitous and
lofty Yewdale crags. Over them the long ridge of Henn Crag, and higher
still the broad summit of Weatherlam; and, as you row farther down the
lake, the lofty undulating range connecting those with the Old Man,
which last you may now contemplate in all his hoary grandeur and rugged
magnificence. And, having just shewn you one of the finest demesnes
and grandest mountain groups in the Lake district, I now shew you the
most romantically situated village, parts nestled at the foot of the
steep craggy hills, and parts stuck here and there upon the face of the
adjacent declivity, every separate detachment, whether consisting of
one or many houses, having its own separate designation, but forming
altogether the village of Church Conistone, and containing, by the
last census, twelve hundred people. Its scattered appearance suggests
the idea of something having, at some former period, flown across the
country with a bagful of houses, and losing a number here in irregular
lots through a hole in the sack. And here, close by in the apex, or,
to speak nautically, the bight of the bay, between a row of lofty
sycamores and the wide-spread woods of the old park, stands Conistone
Hall, the ancient seat of the once warlike family of le Fleming, but
now a farm house—with a considerable portion removed, and the banquet
hall, wherein, of old, knightly revellers befuddled their brains
in honour of high born ladies, converted into a barn, and a mighty
commodious barn it makes; but how very applicable would be a quotation
from Hamlet here, were it not hackneyed. The hall's most striking
features now are its massive ivy-clad chimneys, though it is well
worthy a closer inspection, and I shall perhaps tell you more about it
at our next confabulation.