[Illustration: 0159]
|ONE great attraction of the Lake district of Cumberland and
Westmoreland lies in its singular compactness. Equal beauties, and
greater sublimity, may be found elsewhere, but nowhere surely has such
immense variety of natural charms been gathered within the same space.
A good pedestrian might pass from the north of the district to the
south--from Keswick to Windermere--in a single day; or in even less time
might make his way from east to west--from Patterdale to the foot of
Wastwater. True, in so hurried a journey he would lose much; for weeks
may delightfully be spent among the mountains, in exploring their hidden
nooks and wonders. But all that is most beautiful is within the compass
of a short tour; and an observation which Mr. Ruskin has somewhere made
about Switzerland is as true of this enchanting country. He says that
the loveliest and sublimest scenes are to be witnessed from beaten roads
and spots easy of access; that things as wonderful are open to the
view of the traveller who cannot leave his carriage as to the Alpine
mountaineer. There is no doubt an exhilaration of mountain air only
to be enjoyed on the heights; and for the view of billowy uplands all
around the spectator, like a Titanic ocean stricken into stillness, the
visitor to the Lakes ought to ascend Helvellyn; but the views from
the valleys, or from the roads that encircle the lower slopes of the
mountains, are incomparable. Familiar as is the road from Ambleside to
Grasmere, or, in another style of beauty, the drive to Red-bank and High
Close, or, in yet another, the ascent to the Castle Hill at Keswick,
they never lose their charm even to those who prefer to leave these easy
ways for the toilsome walk over the Stake or Sty Head Pass, or up the
shaley steeps of Scafell or the tremendous grassy slopes of Skiddaw. The
glories of this district are, in a word, for all who have eyes to see
and hearts to feel.
[Illustration: 0160]
First impressions have great effect, especially in the approach to
beautiful scenery; and there are at least three ways to the Lake
district from the south which compete one with another in their
interest. The first is by rail, northwards from Lancaster to Penrith,
passing by the outside or eastern edge of the fells which bound the
mountain region. This journey throughout is of wonderful beauty,
especially where the broad grassy fells rise steeply on one side of the
line, and on the other the hill abruptly descends to the river Lune,
here little more than a mountain streamlet, eddying and sparkling
through wooded dells. From Penrith, a branch line to Keswick passes in
the latter part of its course through an exquisite glen, watered by the
streams that come down from the great Blencathara ridge, with many
a glimpse of picturesque crags clothed with fern, shrubs and flowers
jutting from the mountain's base. All this well prepares the traveller
for the glorious view that greets him when he emerges from the station
at Keswick, and looks forth upon the amphitheatre of mountains.
Another method of approach is by leaving the Lancaster and Carlisle
Railway at the junction for Kendal, so proceeding to the Windermere
terminus, situated on a height commanding a magnificent view of
the upper part of the lake. The suddenness with which this scene is
disclosed, as well as the completeness of its beauty, makes it to many
the favourite mode of access. It is also perhaps the most convenient,
conveyances to every part of the district being ready as the trains come
in. The traveller, however, should it be his first visit, will do well
to go up to Orrest' Head, behind the hotel, from which the whole of
Windermere, with its islands and the mountains beyond, form a truly
enchanting prospect, suggesting to the delighted spectator the wonders
beyond.
[Illustration: 0161]
But there is another way of entering this fairy region, by which its
beauties are not suddenly disclosed, but grow one by one upon the sight.
Still, perhaps, the unique and impressive character of the approach
gives this method of access the advantage over every other. So we say to
every reader who has not as yet visited the Lakes, Go by the over-land
railway along the edge of Morecambe Bay: and to those who have visited
it by other routes, Go again by this! The line crosses two estuaries,
of the Kent and of the Leven. When the tide is up, the effect of
passing through a wide expanse of sea rising to within a few feet of the
embankment on both sides is wonderfully striking; and at low water the
great reaches of sand are scarcely less impressive. Morecambe Bay, with
its curving shore and many inlets, is at all times beautiful, and the
mountain ranges are seen dimly in outline across its waters. At several
points the railway embankment seems to have effected a change in the
sea-level; fields now fertile being fringed on the side farthest from
the bay by low cliffs, the bases of which were evidently at no remote
period washed by the waters. A vast additional area might, one would
think, be still reclaimed by engineering skill without any serious cost.
But we pass on to Ulverston, where we change carriages, rather than
proceed at present to Furness* and Coniston; the direct entrance to the
district being by a short recently-constructed railway along the shore
of the Leven up to the foot of Windermere. We pass through a pretty
wooded valley beside the bright, swiftly-descending stream, and at the
terminus, on the brink of the lake, find a little steamer ready to pass
upward. At first the charms of Windermere resemble those of some fair
broad river, flowing between ranges of low wood-crowned hills; but the
lake soon opens, and after we have passed Belle Isle, opposite Bowness,
any disappointment we may have felt at first yields to unbounded
admiration. The mountains at the head of the lake disclose their grand
outlines, appearing to change their relative positions at every turn of
the steamer; and some persons acquainted with mountain scenery in many
lands pronounce the view of these heights a little before sunset in
summer time to be unsurpassed in beauty. Wansfell Pike on the right,
Fairfield in front, and the Langdale Pikes in the distance on the left,
with the broken lines and broad uplands of Loughrigg Fells between, all
invested with the shadowy tints of evening, form a picture which in its
tender aerial loveliness seems ready to vanish while we gaze.
* There is another way of entering the district, by the
Furness Railway, and along the west coast, as far as the
station at Seascales or Drigg: thence to Wastwater, and
Wastdale Head. The traveller will thus plunge at once into
the wildest and most desolate part of the Lake country,
emerging into fairer scenes.
[Illustration: 0162]
If the ways of entering this fair district are manifold, so are the
method and order in which its attractions may be viewed. These must be
studied in the guide books, and every traveller will shape his route for
himself. In this, much will depend on the time at command. We have spent
three days among the Lakes, and again a week, again a month; and while
the shorter period enabled us to see much, the longer did but prove to
us that the beauties were inexhaustible. Some visitors take Ambleside
as their headquarters, some Grasmere, some Keswick; others, happier in
their decision, have no headquarters at all, but range from place to
place. As a centre, we should prefer Grasmere; but every one will have
his own preference. It may almost be said that the Lake country has
its controversies and sects, with as many divisions of opinion on the
question which part is the fairest, as on more important matters.
Some give the palm to Ullswater among the lakes, an equal number to
Denventwater, a minority to Windermere, while there are those who prefer
the silent and gloomy Wastwater. Then who shall say whether the view
from Helvellyn, Skiddaw, or Scafell is the most marvellous in its
beauty? Our advice is to join none of the sects, to take no part in
the controversy, to climb all three of the mountains, and to visit, if
possible, all the lakes! After this our advice may be thought to savour
of partisanship, when we say that the visitor who wishes to know the
full and perfect beauty of this region, whether he enter from the north,
or west, or south, must on no account neglect to visit Keswick and
Skiddaw.
[Illustration: 0163]
The lovely lake of Derwentwater is so near to the little town, there are
so many points, as Friar's Crag, Castle Crag, and Latrigg, accessible by
the most moderate walking, and the days' excursions from the place are
so various and delightful, that none will feel our counsel to be out of
place. Not to mention that, in the by no means rare or improbable event
of a rainy day, there are the pencil factories and the models of
the Lake district. The latter should be seen alike by those who have
traversed the region, and by those who have not; the former will be
interested in recognising the places that they have visited, and the
latter, in making out their intended tours.
The great excursion from Keswick is one which is made by multitudes on
foot or in carriages; and for variety of charm within a comparatively
short compass its equal is hardly to be found. First the road leads
between the lake and an almost perpendicular crag, wooded to the summit.
Barrow Falls, in the pleasure-grounds of a mansion, may be visited on
the way; and few will omit to see Lodore, at the other end of the lake.
The charm here is that of a steep and rocky glen: rarely indeed does
the "water come down," at least in the summer-time, after the fashion
described in Southey's famous lines.
[Illustration: 9164]
Then the grandeurs of Borrowdale unfold themselves, and Rossthwaite, in
the heart of this valley, is the very ideal of sequestered loveliness.
The road, turning to the right at Seatoller, climbs a long steep hill
beside a dashing torrent. A little way beyond the summit is Honister
Crag, most magnificent of inland cliffs; and so, amid wild rock-scenery
on either hand, we descend to Buttermere. The drive now discloses
a grand amphitheatre of mountains, whose summits form a rugged
ever-changing line against the sky. Soon the little inn is reached;
but we would advise no tourist so to occupy himself with the welcome
refreshment, though flavoured with that "best sauce," a sharp-set
appetite, or even with the ever-amusing "Visitors' Book," as to neglect
rowing across Crummock Water, when a walk of about a mile will take him
to Scale Force, in its deep rocky glen, the loftiest and noblest, as
well as the most secluded of the lake waterfalls. The drive back from
Buttermere to Keswick, by the Newland Valley, or the Vale of Lorton,
with its old yew tree, is full of interest, from the bold mountain
forms ever in view, but has not the wonderfully varied beauty of the
Borrowdale and Seatoller route.
Everybody, as we have said, takes this drive: but there is an excursion
known to comparatively few, not a very long one, but "beautiful
exceedingly."
Should a morning at Keswick be unemployed, or if the question should
arise in the interval of wider explorations: "What shall I do to-day?"
our advice is to go up to Watendlath. This is a narrow upland valley,
extending from the head of the stream that supplies Barrow Fall, to that
which comes down at Lodore, then up by the latter to the tarn from which
it flows. It may be reached by one of two or three routes from below,
and after a short ascent the traveller finds himself, as it were, in
the very heart of the hills; a still and lovely world, above the beaten
ways, with nature's fragrance and music all around. We have suggested "a
morning" for the excursion, but it is still better to proceed leisurely;
resting on some turfy bank beside the path, in happy talk with congenial
friends; or, if alone, in quiet communion with our own souls and with
Him who has made the world so beautiful. In the earlier parts of the
walk the occasional views over Derwentwater, and down to Bassenthwaite,
with Skiddaw towering grandly in one direction, and the Borrowdale
Mountains in another, are magnificent; but in the heart of the glen,
leading up beside the Lodore torrent, these are gradually left behind.
When the hamlet, and the tarn with its bright rippling waters, at length
are reached, and the torrent has been crossed by a little rustic bridge,
Ross-thwaite is descried below, and may be reached by a steep descent;
or the stout pedestrian may strike boldly over Armboth Fall for
Thirlmere at the foot of Helvellyn, or if he please may climb still
higher by the side of the Lodore stream until he reaches Blea Tarn, high
up among the fells.
Which of the three great mountains of the Lake district to choose in
preference for an ascent, it would be hard to say. On the whole, our
own associations would lead us to select Skiddaw; but if Helvellyn and
Scafell can also be ascended, so much the better. The distant views
from Skiddaw of the Solway Firth and the Scottish hills are very fine
in clear weather; but undoubtedly the wild magnificence of the mountain
groups as seen from Helvellyn is incomparable. The majesty of Scafell is
the majesty of desolation. Carlyle says:--
"From this centre of the mountain region, beautiful and solemn is the
aspect to the traveller. He beholds a world of mountains, a hundred
savage peaks--like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their
silence, in their solitude, even as on the night when Noah's deluge
first dried." *
* _Sartor Resartus._
But of all mountain scenes, that which most abides in our memory is
that which was suddenly outspread before us one summer evening, a little
before sunset, in descending Skiddaw. The afternoon had brought swirling
blinding mists about our upward path; we had reached the summit with
difficulty, only to find ourselves enveloped on all sides in a white
chilly sea of cloud. Passing breezes and sweeping sheets of vapour had
created the hope that the mists would soon pass away; but it seemed in
vain to wait, and we began descending. Then as we reached a little knoll
on the mountain's side, the mist parted before us, and in an instant
had rolled far back on either side. Through its vast shadowy portal,
it was as if Paradise were unveiled! The atmosphere below was perfectly
transparent and still; the rays of the sun were reflected in crimson
glory from the lake, so as in an instant to bring to the mind of every
member of our party the Apocalyptic vision of the "sea of glass mingled
with fire." The splendour lighted up every mountain side where it fell,
their crags were gold and purple, the verdure of the upland slopes and
thick woods, with the living green of the woods and meadows, gleamed
with a more than tropical brilliancy; and the long dark shadows which
everywhere lay athwart the scene only set in brighter contrast the
surrounding glory. The mists fleeted, vanishing as they ascended the
mountain side; the magnificence of colouring soon subsided into quiet
loveliness, then into a sober grey; the vision had faded, leaving deep
suggestions of those possibilities of beauty everywhere latent in this
fair creation, perhaps to be fully disclosed when the new heavens and
earth shall appear.
Space fails us now to speak of the rival beauties of Ullswater, where
the surrounding mountains are closer and grander than in any other part
of the district. Every competent pedestrian we would advise to walk
to this lake, from the border of Thirlmere, and over the summit of
Helvellyn. Should this be too great a tax on the tourist's powers, he
will find the way by Griesdale, a pass between Fairfield and Helvellyn,
a very practicable walk amid grand scenery. And when Ullswater is
reached, what more charming nook can there be than Patterdale, deep set
among the hills? After a little time spent there, we pant perhaps for
more open scenery and a more stimulating atmosphere; and there is the
climb over Kirkstone Pass to meet our desire, and to carry us back to
beautiful Windermere, our first love and our last, in all this haunted
realm!
We have pursued for the most part a beaten track, verily believing, as
we said at the outset, that here the choicest beauties are to be found.
But there is many a hidden little-visited nook where the superadded
charm of solitude seems to enhance all the rest; and we shall be
indignantly told by many that we have left the loveliest spots without
a mention. What can be more perfectly beautiful than the view's from the
hill-sides above the head of Coniston Water? What valley can vie, in its
combination of lofty cliff, green slopes, richly varied woodland, and
gleam of rushing waters, with the approach from Coniston to Little
Langdale? The few who in another part of the district follow the Liza
down to Ennerdale will have it that there is a wild beauty in this glen
which gives it a charm beyond all others. And so is it on the other
side, with the scarcely larger band of visitors to secluded Mardale and
wild and lonely Haweswater. Then, as to mountain passes, the climber
sneers at Griesdale, calls Kirkstone a "Turn-pike-road," thinks there is
nothing worth an effort but the Stake, between Langdale and Borrowdale,
Sty Head, between Langdale and Wastdale, or Black Sail and Scarf Gap,
from Wastdale to Buttermere. And even these passes are not Alpine. Go
in a fault-finding mood, and you will discover that the torrents are
without volume, that the mountains lack elevation, that the lakes are
insignificant in size. But the man whose eye and heart are open to the
impression of beauty will be indifferent to these comparisons, will
rather rejoice in the limitations which permit every element of grandeur
and loveliness to be gathered into so small a space; and for ourselves
we may say that we have never appreciated the charm of the English Lakes
so truly as when we have visited them after a tour amid the mightier
wonders of Switzerland.
[Illustration: 0167]
At Ambleside there is many a pleasant resting-place in which to recall
the pleasures and sum up the impressions of the journey, and to dwell,
as many love to do, upon the associations of one and another great name
by turns with almost every part of the district. First and foremost is
Wordsworth, the poet of nature;--the great "Lake Poet," only because
nature here is at her loveliest,--who from his home at Grasmere, and
afterwards at Rydal Mount, gave utterance, more richly, truly, deeply,
than any writer of his generation, of man's delight in the Creator
s work. The association of his name with his beloved lake country
is imperishable. Many years ago De Quincey wrote, with reference
to Wordsworth's earlier poems, "The very names of the ancient
hills--Fairfield, Seat Sandal, Helvellyn, Blen-cathara, Glaramara; the
names of the sequestered glens--such as Borrowdale, Martindale, Mardale,
Wastdale, and Ennerdale; but, above all, the shy pastoral recesses,
not garishly in the world's eye, like Windermere or Der-wentwater,
but lurking half unknown to the traveller of that day--Grasmere, for
instance, the lovely abode of the poet himself, solitary, and yet
sowed, as it were, with a thin diffusion of humble dwellings--here a
scattering, and there a clustering, as in the starry heavens--sufficient
to afford, at every turn and angle, human remembrances and memorials of
time-honoured affections, or of passions (as the 'Churchyard amongst
the Mountains' will amply demonstrate), not wanting even in scenic and
tragical interest--these were so many local spells upon me, equally
poetic and elevating with the Miltonic names of Valdarno and
Vallombrosa." *
* Works, vol. ii. p. 124.
[Illustration: 9168]
The spell remains, though some of the aspects of the scenery have
changed. Grasmere, for instance, is no longer a "shy pastoral recess,"
but the stream of life that daily pours through the valley cannot impair
its beauty. This of all the lakes possesses, when the wind is still,
the supreme charm of perfect stillness and transparency. We have seen
it when it was absolutely impossible to distinguish its richly-wooded
banks, or the island near its centre, from their reflection in the
unrippled water. The unclouded blue of the heavens was mirrored, as in
fathomless depths. It was a "sea of glass like unto crystal." It may be
hoped that this loveliness will be uninvaded by anything which would mar
its perfection. We know that Wordsworth pathetically protested against
the invasion of the railway; but on the height which the Windermere
station occupies, at the very portal of this beautiful land, it in no
degree interferes with the enjoyment of the scenery, while facilitating
the access of multitudes who could not otherwise share the delight. The
railway station at the foot of the lake, that on the border of Coniston,
and even that at Keswick, are, so to speak, outside the magic circle;
but we can fully sympathise with Mr. Ruskin and others who have employed
such strenuous efforts to resist every threatened or possible inroad.
The very compactness of the region, and the ease with which, when once
reached, it may be traversed throughout, might lead the most impatient
traveller to be satisfied with the existing means of swift access. When
the border is gained, let him proceed leisurely, and enjoy. If young,
the stagecoach travelling, which is here so common, may yield him an
unfamiliar, though old-fashioned kind of delight. To judge from our
own youthful recollections, as well as from the literature of a past
generation, there was, in favourable circumstances of scenery and
weather, an exhilaration in such journeys which never is or can be known
in the rapid rush through railway cuttings, and over high embankments,
behind the "Erebus" or "Phlegethon," at the rate of fifty miles an hour!
And many an elderly or middle-aged man almost unconsciously exults in
the renewal of his youth in that grand coach-drive from Windermere over
Dunmail Raise to Keswick.
[Illustration: 0169]
But we return for a moment to the personal associations of this region.
Southey has often been classed with Wordsworth as belonging to a school
of "Lake Poets." Nothing could be more erroneous, as De Quincey pointed
out long ago. It is true that these poets both lived by the lakes;
but there is no sense in which they can be described as of the same
"school." In fact, they are curiously unlike in many of their chief
characteristics; although they esteemed each other truly; and very
noble are the lines which Wordsworth has dedicated to the memory of his
friend:
"Wide were his aims; yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed,
Through a life long and pure, and Christian faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death." *
* From the Epitaph on Southey, by Wordsworth, in Crosthwaite
Church, Keswick.
[Illustration: 0170]
Other names arise to mind. Close under Orrest Head was Elleray, once
the beautiful home of Professor Wilson, the "Christopher North" whose
"recreations" were to describe, in language of a rich and gorgeous
luxuriance which the present generation is scarcely able to enjoy, but
which the readers of a past age dwelt upon with rapture, the glories of
mountain, lake, and sky. Fox How and the Knoll, between Windermere
and Rydal Water, bring to mind two very different names, each of great
influence in their generation. At the former, Dr. Arnold, of Rugby,
passed his happy vacations; in the latter, Miss Harriet Martineau
endeavoured--with what success we attempt not here to judge--to work out
her theory of life. The name of Coleridge also connects itself with this
region; not of the philosophic teacher and wonderful talker, though we
have known the mistake to be made by people well informed. Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, as Carlyle says, "sat on Highgate Hill having left the lakes
for the great city, never to return." It was his son Hartley whose
brilliant gifts, in their fitful and broken splendour, have caused the
name of Coleridge to be remembered, and repeated with pitying affection,
all through the Grasmere Vale.
[Illustration: 0171]
We turn reluctantly from this world of beauty, happy in the remembrance
of what we have seen and felt, happier perhaps that so much remains
unvisited in a region where every by-way and secluded dell has its own
peculiar loveliness, and that we may hope to return again and yet again
to explore its wonders. For the mountain climber, are there not Great
Gable, Bowfell, Fairfield, Pillar Mountain in Ennerdale, steepest of
all, Blen-cathara, otherwise Saddleback, with its unequalled view of
Derwentwater, and Coniston Old Man, with its grand prospects over land
and sea? These six are scarcely inferior in height to the imperial
three,* whose names and forms are most familiar. Then the Langdales
should be climbed; one or both, as a position below the loftiest in a
mountain land affords the best point of view from which to apprehend the
grandeur of the surrounding hills. And after the greater lakes have been
duly visited, what wealth of hidden beauty is there in those retired
valleys, where rivulets suddenly expand into fair still sheets of
water, reflecting the mountains at whose base they lie; and what lonely
grandeur in the tarns high among the hills, rarely visited by human
foot, and, like Scales Tarn on Blencathara, so surrounded by wild crags
as hardly ever to admit the sunlight! Excursion after excursion may be
made, not only by the angler, but by those who have no taste for such
sport, to these lofty miniature lakes.
[Illustration: 9171]
Or, if the tourist delights in waterfalls, let him seek out Dungeon
Ghyll in Langdale, or go up behind the inn at Ambleside to Stock Ghyll,
or stop on his way through the valley to admire the two picturesque
Falls at Rydal, or ramble through Gowbarrow Park, near Ullswater, as far
as Airey or Ara Force, which "by Lyulph's Tower speaks from the woody
glen," or let him make a special excursion to Eskdale to see Stanley
Ghyll, described by some tourists as the most beautiful of all. The
beauty of these cascades, and of others less famed, arises not from the
volume of water, but from the picturesqueness of the glens in which they
lie; these being, in almost every case, deep and narrow fissures in the
rock, covered with ferns, mosses and shrubs in the utmost luxuriance.
The varied tints of the rocks and of the foliage by which they are
clothed give richness of colouring to the picture; and when the sunlight
falls upon the dashing spray, and rainbow tints hang over the fall, the
surpassing loveliness of the scene is even enhanced by the smallness of
its scale.
It would hardly be possible to omit, in any notice of the Lake district,
however incomplete, a reference to the great uncertainty of the weather.
In the deeper valleys, especially, as Wastdale and Buttermere, the
traveller is often sorely disappointed by incessant rain. Yet even
this has its compensation in the increased translucency of the air,
the beauty of the mountain streams and cascades, with the incomparable
splendours of the parting clouds, when the sunlight has smitten them
apart, and their white trains vanishing up the mountain-side are as the
robes of angels. When the summer airs elsewhere are stifling, and the
ground is parched, the effect of the frequent mists and showers is fully
seen. For then the whole lake country is as green as an emerald; and,
except in the deepest valleys, the wearied brain and limbs are refreshed
by stimulating mountain airs. Such seasons perhaps are the best for a
visit to the Lakes; but they are beautiful in winter too, when the snows
linger on the heights, and in the early spring, when the greensward is
carpeted with wild flowers, and in the autumn, when the purple, gold,
and crimson clothe the woods in a royal array, while the withered Reaves
elsewhere strew all the ground. "Those only know our country," say the
dwellers among the lakes, "who live here all the year round." Be it
so. It is good to carry in memory, into the busy, more prosaic walks of
life, the glimpse, if it be no more, of all this beauty; and, after
all, it is the "still sad music of humanity" that thrills the soul more
deeply than the music of the whispering woods, or of the torrent down
the mountain side. It was the Poet of the Lakes and Mountains who closed
one of the noblest of his odes by the words:
"Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, its fears;
To me, the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
[Illustration: 0174]