SECTION I.

BEFORE we make any obſervations on the pictureſque beauty of particular places, it may not be amiſs to take a ſlight view of thoſe great features, on which pictureſque beauty in landſcape ſo much depends.

Almoſt the whole of the weſtern coaſt of England is mountainous, and rocky: and, as [2] it approaches the ſea, it is often ſcooped into large bays, and inlets, invironed by promonto⯑ries.

On the eaſtern ſide, the coaſt conſiſts chiefly of low, flat, ſandy ſhores; from the mouth of the Thames, as far as Scarborough in York⯑ſhire; where the coaſt firſt becomes rocky. At this point, it deviates ſo much from the general character, it has thus far maintained; that the river Derwent, which riſes very near the ſea, inſtead of entering it directly, retires from it; and joins the Humber, at the diſ⯑tance of forty miles.—From Scarborough the eaſtern coaſt aſſumes the character of the weſtern; and is more or leſs rocky, as far as the Tweed.

The ſouthern coaſt, lying between countries of ſuch different characters, participates of both.

Such is the general idea of the great bounda⯑ries of England.

If we leave the coaſt, and take a view of the internal parts of the country, we find the ſouthern counties much varied with- hill and dale. The weſtern rather approach the moun⯑tainous character; almoſt the whole of Wales [3] is in that ſtyle of landſcape. But in the mid⯑land, and eaſtern parts, we ſcarce find any ele⯑vation that deſerves to be mentioned: they are generally level; till we arrive near the centre of the iſland.

In Derbyſhire the firſt mountainous coun⯑try begins. There the high lands forming themſelves by degrees into a chain of moun⯑tains, direct their courſe towards the north-weſt. They firſt divide Lancaſhire from York⯑ſhire: then entering Weſtmoreland, they ſpread themſelves over the whole of that county, and a part of Cumberland. Again contracting them⯑ſelves into a chain, and forming the limits be⯑tween Cumberland, and Northumberland, they continue their courſe northward; and enter Scotland.—It is in the various parts of this vaſt combination of mountains, to which we may add thoſe of Wales, where the admirers of the beautiful and ſublime in Engliſh landſcape are chiefly gratified.

There is another grand feature, that may be noticed in the internal parts of England; and that is, the vaſt beds of chalk, which are found in various parts.

[4]A chalky ſoil has indeed not ſo great an effect on the pictureſque form of a country, as rocks and mountains; and yet it's effect is not incon⯑ſiderable. It generally produces a peculiar ſtyle of landſcape—an impoveriſhed kind; without the grandeur of the rocky country; or the chear⯑ful luxuriance of the ſylvan. It runs out com⯑monly into wide, diffuſive downs; ſwelling into frequent elevations. Theſe are it's uſual cha⯑racters, where the chalk approaches neareſt the ſurface: but as it runs at various depths; it has, of courſe, in many places very little effect on landſcape. In the lower grounds, where the rains, through a ſucceſſion of ages, have waſhed the ſoil from the higher, you ſee often a very luxuriant vegetation.

The great central patria of chalk, if I may ſo phraſe it, ſeems to be in the contiguous parts of Berkſhire, Wiltſhire, Dorſetſhire, and Hamp⯑ſhire. From this vaſt bed, three principal ridges of it extend.

The firſt leaving Berkſhire, croſſes the Thames; and running northward through Buckingham⯑ſhire, enters Bedfordſhire, and ends about Dun⯑ſtable; beyond which, chalk is never found.

A ſecond running eaſtward, occupies great part of Surrey; and turning near Dartford to [5] the ſouth-eaſt, continues in that direction, form⯑ing high grounds, till it meet the ſea abruptly at Dover.

The third great ridge takes a more ſoutherly courſe, occupying a vaſt tract, near eighty miles in length, tho ſcarce any where above four miles broad, which is known by the name of the South-downs of Suſſex. Ports-down may be conſidered as a branch of this ridge.

Beſides theſe three great ridges, it appears in a few other detached parts; but very rarely.

Similar remarks might be made, with ſome accuracy, on the effects, which other ſoils have on landſcape. But as theſe effects, are not ſo ſtriking; I wiſh not to appear refined. I ſhall only obſerve in general, that the variety and intermixture of ſoils, and ſtrata, in this iſland, are very great.

From whatever cauſe it proceeds, certain, I believe, it is, that this country exceeds moſt countries in the variety of it's pictureſque beau⯑ties. I ſhould not wiſh to ſpeak merely as an Engliſhman: the ſuffrages of many travellers, [6] and foreigners, of taſte, I doubt not, might be adduced.

In ſome or other of the particular ſpecies of landſcape, it may probably be excelled. Swit⯑zerland may perhaps exceed it in the beauty of it's wooded vallies; Germany, in it's river-views; and Italy, in it's lake-ſcenes. But if it yield to ſome of theſe countries in particular beauties; I ſhould ſuppoſe, that on the whole, it tranſcends them all. It exhibits perhaps more variety of hill, and dale, and level ground, than is any where to be ſeen in ſo ſmall a com⯑paſs. It's rivers aſſume every character, diffu⯑ſive, winding and rapid. It's eſtuaries, and coaſt-views are varied, of courſe, from the form, and rockineſs of it's ſhores. It's moun⯑tains, and lakes, tho they cannot perhaps rival, as I have juſt obſerved, ſome of the choice lakes of Italy—about Tivoli eſpecially, where the moſt perfect models of this kind of landſcape are ſaid to be preſented; are yet in variety, I pre⯑ſume, equal to the lake-ſcenery of any country.

But beſides the variety of it's beauties, in ſome or other of which it may be rivalled; it [7] poſſeſſes ſome beauties, which are peculiar to itſelf.

One of theſe peculiar features ariſes from the intermixture of wood and cultivation, which is found oftener in Engliſh landſcape, than in the landſcape of other countries. In France, in Italy, in Spain, and in moſt other places, cul⯑tivation, and wood have their ſeparate limits. Trees grow in detached woods; and cultivation occupies vaſt, unbounded common fields. But in England, the cuſtom of dividing property by hedges, and of planting hedge-rows, ſo uni⯑verſally prevails, that almoſt wherever you have cultivation, there alſo you have wood.

Now altho this regular intermixture produces often deformity on the nearer grounds; yet, at a diſtance it is the ſource of great beauty. On the ſpot, no doubt, and even in the firſt diſ⯑tances, the marks of the ſpade, and the plough; the hedge, and the ditch; together with all the formalities of hedge-row trees, and ſquare di⯑viſions of property, are diſguſting in a high de⯑gree. But when all theſe regular forms are ſoftened by diſtance—when hedge-row trees begin to unite, and lengthen into ſtreaks along [8] the horizon—when farm-houſes, and ordinary buildings loſe all their vulgarity of ſhape, and are ſcattered about, in formleſs ſpots, through the ſeveral parts of a diſtance—it is inconceiva⯑ble what richneſs, and beauty, this maſs of de⯑formity, when melted together, adds to land⯑ſcape. One vaſt tract of wild, uncultivated country, unleſs either varied by large parts, or under ſome peculiar circumſtances of light, cannot produce the effect. Nor is it produced by unbounded tracts of cultivation; which, without the intermixture of wood, cannot give richneſs to diſtance.—Thus Engliſh landſcape affords a ſpecies of rich diſtance, which is rarely to be found in any other country.—You have likewiſe from this intermixture of wood and cultivation, the advantage of being ſure to find a tree or two, on the foreground, to adorn any beautiful view you may meet with in the diſtance.

Another peculiar feature in the landſcape of this country, ariſes from the great quantity of Engliſh oak, with which it abounds. The oak of no country has equal beauty: nor does any tree anſwer all the purpoſes of ſcenery ſo well. The oak is the nobleſt ornament of a [9] fore-ground; ſpreading, from ſide to ſide, it's tortuous branches; and foliage, rich with ſome autumnal tint. In a diſtance alſo it appears with equal advantage; forming itſelf into beau⯑tiful clumps, varied more in ſhape; and per⯑haps more in colour, than the clumps of any other tree. The pine of Italy has it's beauty, hanging over the broken pediment of ſome ruined temple. The cheſtnut of Calabria is con⯑ſecrated by adorning the fore-grounds of Sal⯑vator. The elm, the aſh, and the beech, have all their reſpective beauties: but no tree in the foreſt is adapted to all the purpoſes of landſcape, like Engliſh oak.

Among the peculiar features of Engliſh land⯑ſcape, may be added the embelliſhed garden, and park-ſcene. In other countries the environs of great houſes are yet under the direction of formality. The wonder-working hand of art, with it's regular caſcades, ſpouting fountains, flights of terraces, and other atchievements, have ſtill poſſeſſion of the gardens of kings, and princes. In England alone the model of nature is adopted.

[10]This is a mode of ſcenery intirely of the ſylvan kind. As we ſeek among the wild works of nature for the ſublime, we ſeek here for the beautiful: and where there is a variety of lawn, wood, and water; and theſe naturally combined; and not too much decorated with buildings, nor diſgraced by fantaſtic ornaments; we find a ſpecies of landſcape, which no country, but England, can diſplay in ſuch perfection: not only becauſe this juſt ſpecies of taſte prevails no where elſe; but alſo, becauſe no where elſe are found ſuch proper materials. The want of Engliſh oak, as we have juſt obſerved, can never be made up, in this kind of landſcape eſ⯑pecially. Nor do we any where find ſo cloſe and rich a verdure. An eaſy ſwell may, every where, be given to ground: but it cannot every where be covered with a velvet turf, which con⯑ſtitutes the beauty of an embelliſhed lawn.

The moiſture, and vapoury heavineſs of our atmoſphere, which produces the rich verdure of our lawns; gives birth alſo to another pecu⯑liar feature in Engliſh landſcape—that obſcurity, which is often thrown over diſtance. In warmer climates eſpecially, the air is purer. Thoſe miſts [11] and vapours which ſteam from the ground at night, are diſperſed with the morning-ſun. Under Italian ſkies very remote objects are ſeen with great diſtinctneſs. And this mode of vi⯑ſion, no doubt, has it's beauty; as have all the works, and all the operations of nature.—But, at beſt, this is only one mode of viſion. Our groſſer atmoſphere (which likewiſe hath it's ſeaſons of purity) exhibits various modes; ſome of which are in themſelves more beautiful, than the moſt diſtinct viſion.

The ſeveral degrees of obſcurity, which the heavineſs of our atmoſphere gives to landſcape, may be reduced to three—hazineſs, miſts, and fogs.

Hazineſs juſt adds that light, grey tint—that thin, dubious veil, which is often beautifully ſpread over landſcape. It hides nothing. It only ſweetens the hues of nature—it gives a conſequence to every common object, by giving it a more indiſtinct form—it corrects the glare of colours—it ſoftens the harſhneſs of lines; and above all, it throws over the face of land⯑ſcape that harmonizing tint, which blends the whole into unity, and repoſe.

Miſt goes farther. It ſpreads ſtill more ob⯑ſcurity over the face of nature. As hazineſs [12] ſoftens, and adds a beauty perhaps to the cor⯑recteſt form of landſcape; miſt is adapted to thoſe landſcapes, in which we want to hide much, to ſoften more; and to throw many parts into a greater diſtance, than they naturally occupy.

Even the fog, which is the higheſt degree of a groſs atmoſphere, is not without it's beauty in landſcape; eſpecially in the mountain-ſcenes, which are ſo much the object of the following remarks. When partial, as it often is, the effect is grandeſt. When ſome vaſt promon⯑tory, iſſuing from a cloud of vapour, with which all it's upper parts are blended, ſhoots into a lake; the imagination is left at a loſs to diſ⯑cover, whence it comes, or to what height it aſpires. The effect riſes with the obſcurity; and the view is ſometimes wonderfully great.

To theſe natural features, which are, in a great degree, peculiar to the landſcape of Eng⯑land, we may laſtly add another, of the artificial kind—the ruins of abbeys; which, being natu⯑ralized to the ſoil, might indeed, without much impropriety, be claſſed among it's natural beau⯑ties.

[13]Ruins are commonly divided into two kinds; caſtles, and abbeys. Of the former few coun⯑tries perhaps can produce ſo many, as this iſland; for which various cauſes may be aſſigned. The feudal ſyſtem, which laſted long in England, and was carried high, produced a number of caſtles in every part. King Stephen's reign contributed greatly to multiply them. And in the northern counties, the continued wars with Scotland had the ſame effect. Many of theſe buildings, now fallen into decay, remain ob⯑jects of great beauty.

In the ruins of caſtles however, other coun⯑tries may compare with ours. But in the re⯑mains of abbeys no country certainly can.

Where popery prevails, the abbey is ſtill in⯑tire and inhabited; and of courſe leſs adapted to landſcape.

But it is the mode of architecture, which gives ſuch excellence to theſe ruins. The Gothic ſtyle, in which they are generally com⯑poſed, is, I apprehend, unrivalled among foreign nations; and may be called a peculiar feature in Engliſh landſcape.

Many of our ruins have been built in what is often called the Saxon ſtyle. This is a coarſe, heavy mode of architecture; and ſeldom affords [14] a beautiful ruin. In general, the Saxon pre⯑vails moſt in the northern counties; and the Gothic in the ſouthern: tho each diviſion of the kingdom affords ſome inſtances of both: and in many we find them mixed.

What we call Saxon architecture ſeems to have been the awkward imitation of Greek, and Roman models. What buildings of Roman origin were left in England, were probably deſtroyed by the ruthleſs Saxon in his early ravages. Afterwards, when Alfred the great, having eſtabliſhed government, and religion, turned his view to arts, we are told he was obliged to ſend to the continent for architects. In what ſpecies of architecture the buildings of this prince were compoſed, we know not: but probably in a purer ſtyle, than what we now call Saxon; as Alfred lived nearer Roman times; and perhaps poſſeſſed in his own coun⯑try ſome of thoſe beautiful models which might have eſcaped the rage of his anceſtors. Even now, amidſt all that heavineſs, and barbariſm, which we call Saxon, it is not difficult to trace ſome features of Roman origin. Among the ruins of Brinkburn-abbey, between Rothbury, and Warkworth, in Northumberland, we diſ⯑cover in ſome parts even Roman elegance.

[15]This ſpecies of architecture is ſuppoſed to have continued till the time of the cruſades; when a new ſtyle of ornament at leaſt, fantaſtic in the higheſt degree, began to appear. It forms a kind of compoſite with the Saxon; and hath been called by ſome antiquarians the Saracenic: tho others diſallow the term. Many ruins of this kind are ſtill exiſting.

The Engliſh architect however began, by degrees, to ſtrike out a new mode of architec⯑ture for himſelf; without ſearching the conti⯑nent for models. This is called the Gothic; but for what reaſon, it is hard to ſay: for the Goths, who were never in England, had been even forgotten, when it was invented; which was about the reign of Henry II. It is beſides found no where, I believe, but in England; except in ſuch parts of France, as were in poſ⯑ſeſſion of the Engliſh.

In this beautiful ſpecies of architecture the antiquarian points out three periods.

When it firſt appeared, the round Saxon arch began to change into the pointed one; and the ſhort, clumſy pillar began to cluſter: but ſtill the Saxon heavineſs in part prevailed. Saliſ⯑bury-cathedral, which was finiſhed about the year 1250, is generally conſidered as a very [16] pure ſpecimen of the Gothic, in it's firſt, and ruder form.

By degrees improvements in architecture were introduced. The eaſt-window being inlarged, was trailed over with beautiful ſcrawl-work; while the cluſtered-pillar began to increaſe in height, and elegance; and to arch, and ramify along the roof. In ſhort, an intire new mode of architecture, purely Britiſh, was introduced. The grandeur of the Roman—the heavineſs of the Saxon—and the groteſque ornament of the Saracenic, were all equally relinquiſhed. An airy lightneſs pervaded the whole; and orna⯑ments of a new invention took place. The cathedral of York, and part of Canterbury, among many others, are beautiful examples of this period of Gothic architecture.

About the time of the later Henries, the laſt period began to obtain; in the architecture of which the flat, ſtone roof, and a variety of dif⯑ferent ornaments were the chief characteriſtics. Of this inriched ſtyle King's college chapel in Cambridge, and Henry VII's at Weſtminſter, are two of the moſt elegant examples. The flat, ſtone roof is generally, even at this day, conſidered, as a wonderful effort of art. It is ſaid, that Sir Chriſtopher Wren himſelf could [17] not conceive it. He would ſay, ‘Tell me where to place the firſt ſtone; and I will follow it with a ſecond.’

This ſtyle is generally conſidered as the per⯑fection of Gothic architecture. I own, it rather appears to me the decline of the art. The or⯑naments, ſo affectedly introduced, and patched on; as the roſe, and portcullis in King's college chapel, have not, in my eye, the beauty of the middle ſtyle; in which every ornament ariſes naturally from the ſeveral members of the building; and makes a part of the pile itſelf. Nor has the flat roof, with all it's ornaments, in my opinion, the ſimplicity and beauty of the ribbed, and pointed one.

Abbeys formerly abounded ſo much in Eng⯑land, that a delicious valley could ſcarce be found, in which one of them was not ſtationed. The very ſites of many of theſe ancient edifices are now obliterated by the plough; yet ſtill ſo many elegant ruins of this kind are left; that they may be called, not only one of the pecu⯑liar features of Engliſh landſcape; but may be ranked alſo among it's moſt pictureſque beau⯑ties.

SECT. II.

IN the following tour we meant to travel the weſtern road, through Oxfordſhire, War⯑wickſhire, Staffordſhire, Cheſhire, and Lanca⯑ſhire, into Weſtmoreland, and Cumberland; where we propoſed to make the lakes, and moun⯑tains the chief objects of our attention; and to return through Yorkſhire, Derbyſhire, Leiceſ⯑terſhire and Northamptonſhire.

We croſſed firſt into the great Bath road, through Kingſton, in Surrey, over Hounſlow⯑heath; which is a dead flat, together with the country around it. You ſeem to be always in the center of a circle of four or five miles in diameter. This flat is a little relieved by a view [20] of the towers of Windſor-caſtle, riſing at the diſtance of three or four miles on the left; but it is no very conſiderable object from the road

About the twenty-fourth ſtone the eye begins to get a little out of the circle; breaking from it into the country: but it can yet make only ſhort excurſions.

The firſt ſtriking ſcenery, is the woody-bank of Taplow; which, hanging over the Thames; and crowned with Cliefden-houſe, ſeated loftily among the higheſt woods, makes a grand ap⯑pearance.

On the road towards Henly, the views, which may be called firſt diſtances, are not un⯑pleaſing. They conſiſt of little knolls, in va⯑rious ſhapes, covered with beech.

The new road down Henly-hill is a noble work. From the lower grounds (when the work was new, and the chalk was continually ſhivering from the top) it had the whimſical appearance of a vaſt ſheet of water.

[21]Henly lies pleaſantly at the bottom of woody hills, on the banks of the Thames: but the chalk burſting every where from the ſoil, is diſagreeable. When a white ſpot has a mean⯑ing, as in a wicket, or a ſeat, if it be only a ſpot, it may often have a good effect; but when it forces itſelf on the eye in large unmeaning patches, it never fails to diſturb the landſcape.

From Henly we ſtill continued among woody hills; but they became more detached, and un⯑pleaſing. Before we reached Nettlebed, the road paſſed through a beechen-grove, which laſted about a mile: and on our leaving it, we were preſented with extenſive diſtances. Theſe roads have all been made at a great expence, as they are frequently cut through chalky hills.

From Benſington the riſing grounds on the left, along the Thames, at a ſecond diſtance, give ſome little beauty to the off-ſkip, as far as Dorcheſter. From thence to Oxford the country grows more flat and unpleaſant; running ſome⯑times [22] into common fields, and ſometimes into barren waſtes.

The village of Nuneham, through which the road paſſes, was built by Lord Harcourt for his cottagers; and with that regularity, which per⯑haps gives the moſt convenience to the dwell⯑ings of men. For this we readily relinquiſh the pictureſque idea. Indeed I queſtion, whe⯑ther it were poſſible for a ſingle hand to build a pictureſque village. Nothing contributes more to it, than the various ſtyles in building, which reſult from the different ideas of different peo⯑ple. When all theſe little habitations happen to unite harmoniouſly; and to be connected with the proper appendages of a village—a winding road—a number of ſpreading trees—a rivulet with a bridge—and a ſpire, to bring the whole to an apex;—the village is compleat.

Nuneham-houſe ſtands a little out of the London road, about ſix miles from Oxford. The old family-ſeat of Stanton-Harcourt, where Pope, and Gay led the muſes, is now a deſerted ruin. It's ſituation was vile, compared with [23] that of the preſent houſe; which commands, from a riſing ground, an extenſive proſpect over all the intervening flat, as far as the towers of Oxford. In another direction it overlooks the windings of the Thames towards Abingdon. Theſe grand views, terminated by the Berk⯑ſhire hills, and other riſing grounds, compoſe the diſtance; and are preſented from different places around the houſe; particularly from a terrace, which extends at leaſt a mile. The accompaniment alſo of noble trees on the fore-ground ſets off the diſtant ſcenery to great ad⯑vantage.

One of the moſt ſtriking features in theſe ſcenes, is the pariſh-church, which was de⯑deſigned by Mr. Stuart in the form of a Grecian temple of the Ionic order.

We are the leſs able however to ſpeak with any preciſion of the beauty of theſe ſcenes, as a wet evening prevented our examining them, as we could have wiſhed.

The houſe is fitted up uſefully, and elegantly; as if intended rather for comfort, than oſtenta⯑tion. The pictures ſeem, in general, a well-choſen collection. But we had neither time, nor light to examine them thoroughly.

[24]And yet this is not ſo diſadvantageous a cir⯑cumſtance, as it may appear. A diſtinction may be made between the furniture-picture, and the cabinet one. The furniture-picture ſhould have it's full effect as a whole. The compoſition eſpecially, the diſtribution of light, and the harmony of colouring, ſhould be well underſtood. Theſe things will give it value, by pleaſing the eye in a tranſient, unexamined view; tho it may not ſo well bear a nicer ſcrutiny.—And indeed in forming a judgment of ſuch a picture a curſory eye may form the beſt. It is not under the faſcination, and deluſion, which the detail of a ſtudied picture may throw over it: but judges freely of it's general effect. At the ſame time, a picture, which does not thus for⯑cibly ſtrike the eye at once, may yet well re⯑ward an accurate examination; and indeed may be in itſelf a more valuable picture: the parts may be more excellent; the expreſſion, the grace, the drawing, and local colouring. But what⯑ever excellences ſuch a picture may poſſeſs, if it do not pleaſe at ſight; it ſeems fitter for a paint⯑er's chamber, or a curious cabinet, than for a ſaloon, or a drawing-room.

Among the pictures, in this collection, which particularly pleaſed the eye at ſight, were two [25] beggars by Murillo—ſome figures repreſenting night by Caſtelli—a landſcape by Daker; and another by Ruiſdael.

Here are two or three hiſtories by Pouſſin, which having turned black with age, leave us to regret, that ſo able a maſter, tho he was never perhaps an excellent colouriſt, ſhould have been ſo little acquainted with the nature of colours. The Flemiſh ſchool, in general, ſeem to have had the beſt preparations. But it might yet perhaps be uſeful in painting, if the nature of pigments could be brought more to a cer⯑tainty; and that the painter, like the apothe⯑cary, had a ſound diſpenſatory to direct his practice.

To enter into an examination of the ſeveral buildings, chapels, halls, libraries, pictures, and gardens of Oxford, would have engaged us in too great a work. We left Oxford therefore behind; and proceeded to Woodſtock.—The road ſtill continues through a flat country. It may be called a kind of cultivated drearineſs.

[26]The heavineſs and enormity of Blenheim-caſtle have been greatly criticized: perhaps too ſeverely. We may be too much bigotted to Greek, and Roman architecture^*. It was adapted often to local convenience. Under an Italian ſun, for inſtance, it was of great impor⯑tance to exclude warmth, and give a current to air. The portico was well adapted to this pur⯑poſe.

A ſlaviſh imitation alſo of antique orna⯑ments may be carried into abſurdity. When we ſee the ſkulls of oxen adorning a heathen temple, we acknowledge their propriety. But it is rather unnatural to introduce them in a chriſtian church; where ſacrifice would be an offence.

We are fettered alſo too much by orders, and proportions. The ancients themſelves paid no ſuch cloſe attention to them. Our modern code was collected by average calculations from their works; by Sanſovino particularly, and [27] Palladio. But if theſe modern legiſlators of the art had been obliged to produce precedents; they could not have found any two buildings among the remains of ancient Rome, which were exactly of the ſame proportions.

I would not, by any means, wiſh to ſhake off the wholſome reſtraint of thoſe laws of art, which have been made rules; becauſe they were firſt reaſons. All I mean is, to apologize for Vanburgh. For tho it may be difficult to pleaſe in any other form of architecture, than what we ſee in daily uſe: yet in an art, which has not nature for it's model, the mind recoils with diſ⯑dain at the idea of an excluſive ſyſtem. The Greeks did not imagine, that when they had invented a good thing, the faculty was exhauſt⯑ed; and incapable of producing another. Where ſhould we have admired, at this day, the beauty of the Ionic order; if, after the Doric had been invented, it had been conſidered as the ne plus ultra of art; and every deviation from it's proportions reprobated as barbarous innovations? Vanburgh's attempt therefore ſeems to have been an effort of genius: and if we can keep the imagination apart from the five orders, we muſt allow, that he has created a magnificent whole; which is inveſted with an air [28] of grandeur, ſeldom ſeen in a more regular ſtyle of building. It's very defects, except a few that are too glaring to be overlooked, give it an appearance of ſomething beyond com⯑mon; and as it is ſurrounded with great ob⯑jects, the eye is ſtruck with the whole, and takes the parts upon truſt. What made Van⯑burgh ridiculous, was, his applying to ſmall houſes, a ſtyle of architecture, which could not poſſibly ſucceed, but in a large one. In a ſmall houſe, where the grandeur of a whole cannot be attempted, the eye is at leiſure to contemplate parts, and meets with frequent occaſion of diſ⯑guſt.

This immenſe pile ſtands in the middle of an extenſive park. The ſituation is, in general, flat. A lawn, proportioned to the houſe, ſpreads in front; and, at the diſtance of about half a mile, meets an abrupt valley, which winds acroſs the park. The ſides of this valley are ſhagged with well-grown wood. At the bot⯑tom ran once a penurious ſtream; over which, directly oppoſite to the caſtle, is thrown a magnificent bridge, conſiſting of a ſingle arch; intended chiefly to make an eaſy communication between the two ſides of the valley.

[29]About half a mile beyond this arch is reared a triumphal column; which, tho much criticized, I own, gives me no offence; but rather ſeems to carry on the idea of grandeur. The top is crowned with the ſtatue of the duke of Marl⯑borough; and the pedeſtal is inſcribed—not indeed with the terſneſs of a Roman altar—but with the leſs claſſical, tho more honourable de⯑tail of an act of parliament; granting the manor of Woodſtock to the duke for his eminent ſer⯑vices.

All this ſcenery before the caſtle, is now new-modelled by the late ingenious Mr. Brown, who has given a ſpecimen of his art, in a no⯑bler ſtyle, than he has commonly diſplayed. His works are generally pleaſing; but here they are great.

About a mile below the houſe, he has thrown acroſs the valley, a maſſy head; which forms the rivulet into a noble lake, divided by the bridge, (which now appears properly with all the grandeur of accompaniments) into two very extenſive pieces of water. Brown himſelf uſed to ſay, ‘that the Thames would never forgive him, what he had done at Blenheim.’ And every ſpectator muſt allow, that, on entering the great gate from Woodſtock, the whole of this [30] ſcenery, (the caſtle, the lawn, the woods, and the lake) ſeen together, makes one of the grand⯑eſt burſts, which art perhaps ever diſplayed.

The ſcenery below the bridge is the moſt beautiful part. The water here takes the form of a bay, running up into a wooded country; and ſeveral light ſkiffs at anchor, impreſs the idea. The bay appears totally land-locked, and the ground falls eaſily into it in every part.

Behind the houſe, the improved grounds conſiſt, (in Mr. Brown's uſual ſtyle,) of a belt, as it is called, incircling a portion of the park. In this part grandeur gives way to beauty; ex⯑cept where the walk traverſes the ſide of the bay. Here the great idea is ſtill extended; and the banks of the Wye ſcarce exhibit more roman⯑tic ſcenes, than are here diſplayed in the level plains of Oxfordſhire. The walk carried us along the ſide of one woody precipice, ſevered from another, by an expanſe of water, which no Engliſh river could furniſh.

Of this ſituation every advantage is taken, which could add variety to grandeur. In one part, the oppoſite woody ſhore is ſeen alone, ſpreading before the eye in a vaſt profuſion of woody ſcenery. In another part it appears ac⯑companied with the lake: and ſometimes, it is [31] only received in catches, through the woods of the fore-ground, which are generally compoſed of lofty oak.

In the midſt of theſe great ideas, the ſcene was not improved by ſeveral little patches of flowers, and flowering ſhrubs, artificially diſpoſed, and introduced; which ſhewed the hand of art to have been ſtraying, where the imagination would wiſh to be ingroſſed by the grand exhibition of ſimplicity, and nature:

But when we ſaw theſe ſcenes, the work was new. Time has now probably blended all theſe littleneſſes into an harmonious mixture with the grander parts. The mereſt ſhrub may be a com⯑panion to the oak without offence. The offence ariſes only from the artificial diſpoſition.

In the houſe our curioſity was chiefly confined to the pictures—thoſe of Reubens eſpecially; whoſe works are here in greater excellence, and profuſion, than in any collection in England. Many days would be inſufficient to examine them fully. We had time only to mark their general effect.

[32] Reubens's family, by himſelf, conſiſting of three figures as large as the life, is a laboured piece; and yet full of ſpirit. The compoſition, colour⯑ing, and harmony of the whole, are excellent. I ſhould not ſcruple my ſuffrage in ranking this as the firſt family-picture in England. The chaſt ſimplicity of the Cornaro family ^* perhaps might be excepted. I have examined, with great attention, the famous family-picture at Wilton. In that celebrated work the parts are fine, ſome of them extraordinarily ſo; but the whole is ill-managed. Here the eye is not in⯑groſſed by any particular, but is filled and ſa⯑tisfied with the whole; and yet may range with pleaſure over the parts.

The Silenus alſo is a finiſhed piece; and a very noble effort of Rubens's genius, when let looſe among ideal beings, in which it delighted.

The Holy-family ſeems either to be damaged; or to have wanted Reubens's laſt hand. It is flat; and poſſeſſes little of the maſter's fire, except in the old woman's head.

The Andromeda, by Rubens, is a very fine figure.

[33]Lot leaving Sodom, is a noble work alſo, by the ſame maſter. In the colouring of this pic⯑ture there is a peculiar glow. In compoſition it is leſs happy.

SECT. III.

FROM Woodſtock we proceeded to Chapel-houſe, in our way to Warwick.

Our firſt ſtage was barren of beauty. Lord Shrewſbury's on the right, which appears to ſtand at the end of an extenſive plantation, and has much the air of a nobleman's manſion, continues long in view, and is almoſt the only object that engages the eye. But the unifor⯑mity of the woods, at a diſtance, is diſpleaſ⯑ing.

From Chapel-houſe the road leads through a hilly, unpleaſant country. The hills are neither cloathed with wood; nor varied with broken ground—but are mere heavy lumps of earth; and the whole a barren proſpect. I mean barren only in a pictureſque light; for it affords good paſturage; and is covered with [36] herds of cattle; and a beautiful breed of ſheep, with ſilken fleeces, and without horns.

And yet, among theſe hills, the vallies are ſometimes pleaſing. Long Compton, conſiſt⯑ing of a number of thatched cottages, winds pleaſantly along the bottom of one of them: and the ſituation of Mr. Sheldon's at Weſton⯑park ſeems agreeable.

As we enter Warwickſhire, near Shipſton upon Stour, the hills diminiſh into riſing grounds; and a bleak country changes into a woody one. The ſoil changes alſo from a deep clay into a gravelly, red loam; ſprinkled with beautiful pebbles. The road leads generally through pleaſant lanes; leaving on the right the village of Keinton, and Edge-hill, where the unfortunate Charles firſt tried his ſucceſs in arms.

As we approach Warwick, the country becomes ſo flat, that the towers of the caſtle make little appearance at a diſtance.

[37]Warwick contains many beautiful objects. The church is an elegant Gothic ſtructure. A conſiderable part of it was lately burnt: but it is rebuilt with great ſymmetry.

Connected with the church is a curious chapel; decorated in the richeſt Gothic taſte. It is the repoſitory of many of the chiefs of the houſe of Warwick. Among them lies, under a ſplendid monument, the celebrated Dudley, earl of Leiceſter.

The Seſſions-houſe, and the Town-houſe, are both elegant buildings; eſpecially the for⯑mer.

The Priory, ſituated rather without the town, is capable of being made a pleaſing ſcene. Little of the old ſtructure remains; and what is left, is converted into a dwelling-houſe. It ſtands more elevated than monaſtic buildings uſually did; the ground falling from it, tho gently, in almoſt every direction. It's pre⯑cincts contain about ſix or ſeven acres, circum⯑ſcribed [38] by a ſkreen of lofty wood. Beyond this the towers of Warwick caſtle, and other objects are under command.—We can only however admire the beauty of the objects; and the little advantage that hath been taken of them.

But the great ornament of Warwick, is the caſtle. This place, celebrated once for it's ſtrength, and now for its beauty, ſtands on a gentle riſe, in the midſt of a country not abſolutely flat. The river Avon waſhes the rock, from which it's walls riſe perpendicularly. You ſee it's grand foundation to moſt ad⯑vantage from the windows of the great hall; from which you look down a conſiderable height, upon the river.

This noble caſtle having appeared in the different capacities, firſt of a fortreſs, and after⯑wards of a county-jail; was at laſt converted by it's proprietor, the earl of Warwick, into a habitable manſion. The old form is ſtill pre⯑ſerved; at leaſt it may be every where traced; and each addition is in ſymmetry with what is left.

The old entrance is ſtill in uſe. A bridge is thrown over the ditch, and leads into the []

[39] inner area of the caſtle, through a grand tur⯑rited gate. This gate is placed in the middle of a curtain; at the extremities of which ſtand two round towers, known by the names of Guy's, and Caeſar's.

On entering this venerable gate; and ſurvey⯑ing, from it's inner arch, the area or court of the caſtle, which contains about an acre; you ſee the ground-plot, and plan of the whole fortreſs.—On the left is the habitable part. In front riſes a woody mount, probably artifi⯑cial; where formerly ſtood the citadel, part of which ſtill remains. The area itſelf is covered with turf, and ſurrounded by a broad gravel walk, as a coach-ring: and the whole is incom⯑paſſed by a wall, adorned with the ruins of towers, and other mural projections; which being ſhattered in many places, and covered with ivy, catch little breaks of light, and often make a pictureſque appearance.

The houſe is grand, and convenient: the rooms ſpacious, and comfortable. Some of the offices, particularly the kitchen, are hewn out of the ſolid rock, on which the caſtle is founded.

The garden conſiſts only of a few acres; and is laid out by Brown in a cloſe walk, which winds towards the river; and, ſomewhat awk⯑wardly, [40] reverts into itſelf; taking no notice, except in one ſingle point, of the noble pile it inveſts.

The armour, and tilting ſpear of the cele⯑brated Guy, earl of Warwick, a rib of the dun cow, and other monuments of the proweſs of that hero, are ſhewn at the porter's lodge. Theſe remains, tho fictitious, no doubt, are not improper appendages of the place; and give the imagination a kind of tinge, which throws an agreeable, romantic colour on all the veſtiges of this venerable pile.

From Warwick we propoſed to take a view of Kenelworth-caſtle, which lies between it and Coventry. The country is flat, and woody.

Kenelworth-caſtle is one of the moſt magni⯑ficent piles of ruin in England. In the days of it's proſperity, we find it often taking a military part; but in it's ruins we ſee little of a military air. It's light and ornamental members, in general, mark it rather as a peaceful manſion.

This caſtle is mentioned in hiſtory, I believe as early as the reign of Henry I. It was then private property. But it's owner taking an un⯑ſucceſsful part in a civil war, it fell into the [41] hands of the crown: in which it continued till the time of Elizabeth, who gave it to her favourite, the earl of Leiceſter. This noble⯑man, profuſe, and magnificent to the laſt de⯑gree, is ſaid to have expended ſixty thouſand pounds on this ſingle pile; a ſum, enormous in thoſe days. Here he reſided almoſt in regal ſtate.

After the civil wars of Charles the firſt, the pride of this noble manſion was humbled. It's owner was a favourer of the royal cauſe; and Cromwell, in revenge, tore it in pieces; and ſet every thing to auction, that could be ſevered from the walls. Theſe rapacious hands left it in a ſtate, from which it never recovered; yet even ſtill it is a ſplendid ruin.

From it's ſituation it borrows little. The eminence it ſtands on, is too gentle to command an extenſive view: and the country in it's neighbourhood is too barren of objects to fur⯑niſh a rich one.

The plan of the caſtle is very magnificent. The area, or walled-court, conſiſts of ſeven acres; one third of which is occupied by the ruin. But of all this ſuperb pile, nothing re⯑mains intire. The form of no chamber can well be traced; except perhaps that of the great [42] banqueting-hall, which made a principal part of that range of building, which formed the centre of the pile. Among other fragments ſtand the ruins of two maſſy, ſquare, diſſimilar towers, known by the names of Caeſar's, and Leiceſter's. Theſe ſeem to have reſiſted the ſhocks of time longer than any of the other parts; but they have, at length, given way. One ſide of Leiceſter's tower, having fallen in, has laid open the whole internal ſtructure.

Yet, magnificent as theſe ruins are, they are not pictureſque. Neither the towers, nor any other part, nor the whole together, unleſs well aided by perſpective, and the introduction of trees to hide diſguſting parts, would furniſh a good picture; tho the variety of ſhattered ſtair⯑caſes, fractured ſegments of vaulted roofs, and pieces of ornamented windows, afford excellent ſtudies for a painter.

This grand maſs of ruin is now making haſty ſtrides to a total diſſolution. Another century will probably bring it all to the ground—un⯑leſs it's noble owner^* reach out a hand to ſave it. The ſtone of which it is conſtructed, is [43] brown; beautiful to the eye; but of a friable nature. The touch of time, crumbling it im⯑perceptibly away,

Yet not always in ſolemn ſilence. About ſeven years ago, a large fragment of Leiceſter's tower fell down at midnight, and alarmed the neigh⯑bourhood far, and wide, with it's noiſe. And laſt winter an abutment of the banqueting hall fell in; and cruſhed a number of farming uten⯑ſils, which were depoſited under it.

Such is the preſent ſtate of a ſtructure, which two hundred years ago, was ſecond to none in England. ‘Every room (ſays an old author, deſcribing it on the ſpot) was ſpacious, and high-roofed within; and every part ſeemly to the ſight, by due proportion, without; in the day-time, on every ſide glittering with glaſs: at night, tranſparent by continual brightneſs of candle, fire, and torch light.’ —But now, in Oſſian's plaintive language, ‘It's walls are deſolate: the grey moſs whitens the ſtone: the fox looks out from the win⯑dow; and rank graſs waves round it's head.’

When we ſaw theſe ruins, the area, which produces a rich verdure, was grazed by a herd [44] of cattle. Theſe were a great addition to the ſcene, and reminded us of ſome of Berghem's beſt pictures, in which cattle and ruins adorn each other.

The ground, on the outſide of the caſtle, was formerly floated; tho it is now entirely drained. The lake ſpread round the ſouthern, weſtern, and northern ſides; extending on the whole, through the ſpace of two miles. Beyond it lay the park. On the north ſide was the garden, hanging on the bank, between the caſtle-wall, and the water. It contained only an acre; and was joined to the park by a bridge. ‘The left arm of the pool, northward (ſays the author I have juſt quoted) has my Lord adorned with a beautiful bracelet of a fair-timbered bridge, fourteen feet wide, and ſix hundred feet long; railed on both ſides, and ſtrongly planted.’

The garden was laid out, as we may eaſily ſuppoſe, according to the taſte of that day, terrace above terrace, in every mode of expenſive deformity. But the lake ſeems to have had ſome elegance. Indeed water ſweeping round in the ſhape, in which this is deſcribed, muſt be beautiful in ſome degree. It's ſurface could not, like land, be injured by art: the extremities of [45] it would be generally hid; and it would be con⯑tinually unfolding itſelf round the magnificent object, which it encompaſſed: tho, it is proba⯑ble, it's banks were as trim, and neat, as the ſpade, and the line could make them.

One of the moſt memorable particulars of the hiſtory of this caſtle, is an entertainment, which was given here by the earl of Leiceſter to queen Elizabeth. The tradition of this grand feſtivity ſtill lives in the country; and we have hardly any thing equal to it on record. An ac⯑count of it was publiſhed by one Langham, a perſon then in office about the court, and pre⯑ſent at the time. I have already quoted from this work; and ſhall add a part of the account he gives of her majeſty's reception; from which an idea may be conceived of the gallantry of the whole entertainment.

On the 9th of July 1575, in the evening, the queen approaching the firſt gate of the caſtle, the porter, a man tall of perſon, and ſtern of countenance, with a club and keys, ac⯑coſted her majeſty in a rough ſpeech, full of paſſion in metre, aptly made for the purpoſe; and demanded the cauſe of all this din, and [46] noiſe, and riding about within the charge of his office? But upon ſeeing the queen, as if he had been ſtruck inſtantaneouſly, and pierced at the preſence of a perſonage, ſo evidently expreſſing heroical ſovereignty, he falls down on his knees, humbly prays pardon for his ignorance, yields up his club and keys, and proclaims open gates, and free paſſage to all.

Immediately, the trumpeters, who ſtood on the wall, being ſix in number, each an eight foot high, with their ſilvery trumpets of a five foot long, ſounded up a tune of welcome.

Theſe armonious blaſters maintained their de⯑lectable muſic, while the queen rode through the tilt-yard, to the grand entrance of the caſtle, which was waſhed by the lake.

Here, as ſhe paſſed, a moveable iſland ap⯑proached, in which ſat inthroned the Lady of the lake; who accoſted her majeſty in well penned metre, with an account of the antiquity of the caſtle, and of her own ſovereignty over thoſe waters, ſince the days of king Arthur: but that hearing her majeſty was paſſing that way, ſhe came in humble wiſe to offer up the ſame, and all her power, into her majeſty's hands.

This pageant was cloſed with a delectable har⯑mony of hautbois, ſhalms, cornets, and ſuch other [47] loud muſic, which held on, while her majeſty plea⯑ſantly ſo paſſed into the caſtle-gate.

Here ſhe was preſented with a new ſcene. Several of the heathen gods had brought their gifts before her, which were piled up, or hung, in elegant order, on both ſides of the entrance: wild-fowl, and dead game, from Sylvanus god of the woods: baſkets of fruit from Pomona: ſheaves of various kinds of corn from Ceres: a pyramid adorned with cluſters of grapes, gracified with their vine-leaves, from Bacchus; and or⯑namented at the bottom with elegant vaſes and goblets: fiſh of all ſorts, diſpoſed in baſkets, were preſented by Neptune: arms by Mars; and muſical inſtruments by Apollo. An inſcrip⯑tion over the gate explained the whole.

Her majeſty having graciouſly accepted theſe gifts, was received into the gates with a con⯑cert of flutes, and other ſoft muſic; and alight⯑ing from her palfrey, (which ſhe always rode ſingle) ſhe was conveyed into her chamber: and her arrival was announced through the country by a peal of cannon from the ramparts; and a diſplay of fireworks at night.

Here the queen was entertained nineteen days; and it is recorded, that the entertainment coſt the earl a thouſand pounds a day; each of [48] which was diverſified with maſks, interludes, hunting, muſic, and a variety of other amuſe⯑ments. The queen's genius ſeems to have been greatly conſulted in the pomp, and ſolemnity of the whole. Perhaps too it was conſulted, when the claſſical purity of theſe amuſements relaxed; and gave way, (as we find it ſometimes did) to boxing, bear-baiting, and the buffoon⯑ery of the times.

Among other compliments paid to the queen, in this gallant feſtival, the great clock, which was fixed in Caeſar's tower, was ſtopped, du⯑ring her majeſty's continuance in the caſtle; that while the country enjoyed that great bleſ⯑ſing, time might ſtand ſtill.

SECT. IV.

FROM Kenelworth-caſtle we proceeded to Coventry. The intervening country is flat.

The tower of Coventry church, is a beauti⯑ful object: but conſtructed of the ſame kind of mouldering ſtone, which we took notice of in the ruins of Kenelworth; and which indeed is better adapted to a decayed, than to a compleat pile. The ornamental parts of this tower are juſt in that ſtate, which one would wiſh in a ruin: they poſſeſs a ſort of rich mutilation: every part is in ſome degree defaced; and yet the whole ſo perfect, as to leave room for the imagination to put all together. In a ruin this is enough: but where the parts are intire, we require the ornaments to be ſo too.

[50]As we leave Coventry, we find a red, gra⯑velly clay, covering a brown rock; which burſting here and there from the ſoil, often makes a pictureſque fore-ground. The lanes are cloſe; and the country woody.

Between Coventry, and Birmingham lies lord Aylsford's, an ancient ſeat, but now under the hands of improvement. The houſe is rebuild⯑ing, and the grounds are taking a new form, under the taſte of Mr. Brown, who ſeems to be doing all, that a ſituation, with but few ad⯑vantages, will allow. The houſe ſtands in the midſt of a ſcene rather flat. A rill, running near it, is changed into a river. An elegant approach is conducted over it by a handſome bridge; and a belt, winding about two miles, is the circumference of the pleaſure ground: but the country affords few objects to inrich either a fore-ground, or a diſtance.

The reſt of the road to Birmingham leads, at firſt, through an open country; which after⯑wards [51] becomes woody and cloſe; and more plea⯑ſant, as we approach the town.

The buildings, which you ſee ſcattered about the landſcape, near Birmingham, are in great profuſion, and generally of a reddiſh hue. For the country is populous; and the houſes are built of a kind of brick, which has a peculiar red caſt.—This tint predominating in a country, as it does here, is very unpleaſing.

Near Birmingham we went to ſee Bolton's hard-ware manufactory. It is a town under a ſingle roof; containing about ſeven hundred work people. But notwithſtanding it is a ſcene of induſtry, utility, and ingenuity, it is difficult to keep the eye in humour among ſo many fri⯑volous arts; and check it's looking with con⯑tempt on an hundred men employed in making a ſnuff-box.

From Birmingham we left the great road, and paſſed through a pleaſant country to the Leaſowes and Hagley, which lie within a few miles of each other. In our way we had a ſweet ride through an oak-wood, at Smithwick.

[52]Few places had raiſed our expectations more than the Leaſowes. So great a lover of nature as Mr. Shenſtone appears to be in his writings, could not poſſibly, one would imagine, deviate from her in any of the operations of his genius. I ſhall give the reader a ſlight ſketch of the ſcene; and then make a few general obſerva⯑tions.

We entered the grounds, (which contain about an hundred acres) by a wicket, near the bottom of a lane, which leads to the houſe. We ſhould have been carried firſt into the higher parts; where we might have had a view of the whole at once. We ſhould then have ſeen that it is, what is properly called, an adorned farm; and ſhould have taken that idea along with us. The fields lie about the houſe; and a walk leads you round them.

We entered however below the houſe; and were carried firſt into a narrow, woody valley: from which emerging, we had a pleaſant open⯑ing into the country about Hale's-Owen.

From this view we dip into a woody bottom, where we find Melibeus's ſeat, a ſequeſtered [53] ſpot, proper for the noon-tide retreat of a ſhepherd, and his flock.

From hence we penetrate another wood, and come ſuddenly on a long ſucceſſion of waterfalls (fourteen of them) ſeen through an irregular viſta of trees. The ſcenery is whimſical; but amuſing.

Having thus traverſed the lower grounds, the path leads into the higher; and we begin now to diſcover, that it is carrying us round the whole. Here we have diſtant views, bound⯑ed by the Wrekin in Shropſhire.

From theſe grounds the path makes a ſudden dip to a ſequeſtered vale, where Mr. Shenſtone has dedicated an urn to the memory of a be⯑loved lady. From hence it riſes again, in a troubleſome zig-zag, into the Lover's walk; which terminates, (oddly enough,) in the temple of Pan. With more propriety it might have led to the temple of Hymen.

From hence we deſcend again, through hang⯑ing fields, quite unadorned, to the moſt finiſhed ſcene of the whole. It is a grove, ornamented, at the upper end, by a caſcade, from which the ſtream plays in irregular meanders among the trees; and paſſing under a romantic bridge, forms itſelf into a ſmall lake. This whimſical [54] ſpot is dedicated, I think, with ſome impropriety, to Virgil's genius; and is one of thoſe ambigu⯑ous paſſages, which we are at a loſs, whether to blame, or to commend. From hence we paſs again into the lane, where we at firſt en⯑tered,

Tho Mr. Shenſtone has, on the whole, ſhewn great taſte and elegance, and has diverſified his views very much; and been particularly happy in (that moſt agreeable mode of deſign,) affix⯑ing ſome peculiar character to each ſcene; yet in ſome things he has perhaps done too much; and in others not enough.

In the uſe of water he has been too profuſe. He collects it only from a few ſprings, which ouze from his ſwampy grounds. It was a force therefore on nature, to attempt either a river, or a lake. A caſcade, or a purling rill, ſhould have ſatisfied his ambition. Beſides, like the water of all ſwamps, the water of the Leaſowes wants brilliancy. Frothed by a fall, or quick deſcent, the impurities of it are leſs obſerved: in gentle motion they are ſtriking; but in a lake they are offenſive. It was ridiculous to ſee Naiads invited, by inſcriptions, to bath their [55] beauteous limbs in cryſtal pools, which ſtood before the eye, impregnated with all the filth which generates from ſtagnation.

He has done too much alſo in adorning his grounds ſo profuſely with urns, ſtatues, and buildings; which are commonly the moſt ex⯑penſive, and the leaſt beautiful parts of im⯑provement. In the adorned farm at leaſt they are improper decorations.

With his inſcriptions, (in which many peo⯑ple ſay, he has done too much alſo) I own, I was pleaſed. When inſcriptions are well-writ⯑ten, and properly adapted, as theſe generally are, they raiſe ſome leading thought; and im⯑preſs the character of the ſcene in ſtronger ideas, than our own.

In other things Mr. Shenſtone has perhaps done too little.

He might have thrown down more of his hedges: or, if that had been inconvenient, he might at leaſt have concealed his incloſures more in plantations. His path on the higher grounds, is, in general, too open; and his fore⯑grounds are often regular fields. This regula⯑rity might have been diſguiſed. The diſtances too would have appeared to more advantage, if they had been ſeen ſometimes over a wood; and [56] ſometimes through an opening in one; or occa⯑ſionally through interſtices among the boles of the trees.

But Mr. Shenſtone's great deficiency lay in not draining, and cleaning his grounds. If he had made his verdure richer, tho at the expence of his buildings, he had ſhewn a purer taſte. But Shenſtone was poor; and with a little of that vanity, which often attends poverty, he choſe rather to lay out his money on what made the moſt ſhew, than on what would have been moſt becoming. From what he has done how⯑ever, it is eaſy to conceive what he could have done; if he had had a country ſuited to his ideas; and a fortune ſufficient to adorn it.

I cannot leave theſe ſcenes without remark⯑ing the peculiar beauty of his rocks, and caſ⯑cades.

Of all manufacturers, thoſe of rocks are commonly the moſt bungling. How often are we carried, in the improvements even of peo⯑ple of taſte, to ſee a piece of rock-ſcenery, con⯑ſiſting perhaps of half a dozen large ſtones. They neither give us any idea of what they are intended to repreſent; nor are they probably ſuited to the country, in which they are intro⯑duced. In our attempts to improve, if we do [57] more than juſt adorn what nature has done, by planting, and giving a little play to the ground, we err. To aim at changing the cha⯑racter of a country, is abſurd. Where nature diſcourages, it is vain to attempt. She

Mr. Shenſtone however has ſucceeded the beſt in his rock ſcenery, becauſe he has done the leaſt. He pretends only juſt to fret his ſtreams, and break his caſcades; and it would be invi⯑dious not to own, that his caſcades, rocks, and ſtreams are all as exact copies of nature, as we any where find.

On leaving Mr. Shenſtone's, a very few miles brought us to Hagley. The evening was fine; and we ſaw it in all it's glory. Yet we left it diſappointed. The plan of Hagley, (if there be any) is ſo confuſed, that it is impoſſible to deſcribe it. There is no coherency of parts. One ſcene is tacked to another; and any one might be removed, without the leaſt injury to the reſt.

[58]A work of art, (be it what it may, houſe, picture, book, or garden,) however beautiful in it's underparts, loſes half it's value, if the general ſcope of it be not obvious to conception. Even the wild ſcene of nature, however pleaſ⯑ing in itſelf, is ſtill more pleaſing, if the eye is able to combine it into a whole.

But obſcurity in the general plan, is not the only objection we made to Hagley: it is formal in many of it's parts. The view at the en⯑trance is particularly unpleaſing; conſiſting of a lawn riſing from the houſe; cloſed at the upper end, with a regular ſemicircle of wood; and adorned in the middle by an obeliſk.

Many of theſe ſcenes alſo are minute and trifling. The perſpective view at the Palla⯑dian bridge, and the reverſe from the rotunda, are below criticiſm. Such alſo is the ſtream conveyed, in a channel, little wider than a drill, through the extent of a noble lawn. Some pains too have been taken to make it gurgle, as it runs. Mr. Shenſtone wrought in miniature; and tho he rarely trifles, diminu⯑tive beauties were in part accommodated to his ſcheme. But lord Lyttelton wrought on a larger ſcale: his ideas ſhould have inlarged with it. His pencil ſhould have ſcorned the [59] little touches of trifling exactneſs: and he ſhould have conſidered that his piece both conſiſted of nobler objects, and was to be ſeen at a greater diſtance.

Added to theſe defects, there is a want alſo of variety. The ſides of the hills are all planted; and the vallies are all lawns. Through a ſucceſſion of theſe receſſes you are carried. From one lawn you enter another, with little variation of the idea. The ſame thought is repeated over and over:

It would however be invidious not to con⯑feſs, that ſome of theſe lawns, conſidered as independent parts, are very beautiful.

Thompſon's ſeat exhibits a noble diſplay of ſcenery. You look acroſs a ſpacious valley of a mile in extent; the whole a paſture, wind⯑ing at both ends from the eye. The oppoſite bank, which conducts the ſweep, is hung with wood. At one end of the valley is a diſtant view into the country; terminated by the Malvern hills. At the other, the woody bank is adorned by a modern ruin, which ſtands well, but is an object too minute for [60] the ſcene. One large round tower, with an underpart, or two, would have had a better effect at a diſtance, than ſuch a quantity of wall, and other trifling parts, which have been con⯑trived to anſwer ſome purpoſe of utility: whereas the only character ſuch a ruin has to ſupport, is that of being the diſtant ornament of a ſcene; with which it's utility, if it have any, ſhould coincide. If it doth not anſwer this end, the cow-houſe, or the keeper's lodge, or whatever it is, ſhould occupy ſome leſs diſtin⯑guiſhed ſtation. Here, it only ſhews us, that there ſhould have been ſomething, which we do not find.

On the whole, tho there are certainly many very beautiful views in theſe extenſive gardens, yet we may eaſily conceive, the ſame variety of ground, the ſame profuſion of wood, and the ſame advantages of water (tho in this point the deficiency is greateſt) might have been ſo combined as to produce a much nobler whole.

It may be added however, that only the common round of the garden has been here criticized. The rides in the park are very extenſive; and, as they are leſs dreſſed, they may perhaps be more beautiful. The temple [61] of Theſeus ſtands very happily; is a handſome object; and has as grand an effect, as any thing of the kind can have.

The houſe is a good modern pile; but wants a dignity of ſituation, ſuitable to the capital of ſuch extenſive dominions.

SECT. V.

FROM lord Lyttelton's, we propoſed to viſit Mr. Anſon's, near Wolſley-bridge. Our rout led through Stourbridge, Wolver⯑hampton, and Penkridge. The country is rich and woody; but affords little that is pictureſque. In many parts it is much disfigured by a new canal, which cuts it in pieces.

One of the moſt beautiful objects in nature is a noble river, winding through a country; and diſcovering it's mazy courſe, ſometimes half-concealed by it's woody banks; and ſometimes diſplaying it's ample folds through the open vale.

It's oppoſite, in every reſpect, is one of theſe cuts, as they are called. It's lineal, and angu⯑lar courſe—it's relinquiſhing the declivities of the country; and paſſing over hill, and dale; ſometimes banked up on one ſide, and ſome⯑times on both—it's ſharp, parrallel edges, naked, [64] and unadorned—all contribute to place it in the ſtrongeſt contraſt with the river. An object may be diſguſting in itſelf; but it is ſtill more ſo, when it reminds you, by ſome diſtant re⯑ſemblance, of ſomething beautiful.

At Penkridge we left the great road, and de⯑viated to the right, over a wild heath, to Shuck⯑borough, the ſeat of Mr. Anſon.

Mr. Anſon's improvements are nobly con⯑ceived, making their object the whole face of a country. It is a pity ſo generous a deſign had not been directed by a better taſte. His build⯑ings are all on Grecian, and Roman models; and ſome of them very beautiful. But they want accompaniments. There is ſomething rather abſurd in adorning a plain field with a triumphal arch; or with the lanthern of De⯑moſthenes, reſtored to all it's ſplendor. A po⯑liſhed jewel, ſet in lead is ridiculous. But above all, the temple of the winds, ſeated in a pool, inſtead of being placed on a hill, is ill-ſtationed. As it is ſome time however, ſince we ſaw the ſcenes of Shuckborough, they may now be greatly altered, and improved. The [65] temple of the winds, I fear, muſt ever ſtand as it does.

The houſe contains little worth notice. It is furniſhed in a frippery ſort of Chineſe manner. There are few pictures of value. The hall is adorned with the naval atchievements of lord Anſon by Scot; in which the genius of the painter has been regulated by the articles of war. The line of battle is a miſerable arrange⯑ment on canvas; and it is an act of inhumanity in an admiral to injoin it. If the line of battle muſt be introduced, it ſhould be formed at a diſtance; and the ſtreſs laid on ſome of the ſhips, at one end of the line, brought into action, near the eye.

The drawing-room is hung with large ruins, in diſtemper, by Dahl. They are touched with ſpirit; but the compoſition wants ſimplicity. There is a rawneſs alſo, and want of force in diſtemper; tho it certainly gives a more pleaſing ſurface for the eye to reſt on, than oil-painting, which cannot be diveſted of the deluſive lights of varniſh.

The windows of the room, in which theſe pictures hang, look towards a pile of artificial [66] ruins in the park. But Mr. Anſon has been leſs happy in fabricating fictitious ruins; than in reſtoring ſuch as are real.

If a ruin be intended to take a ſtation merely in ſome diſtant, inacceſſible place; one or two points of view are all that need be provided for. The conſtruction therefore of ſuch a ruin is a matter of leſs nicety. It is a ruin in a picture.

But if it be preſented on a ſpot, as this is, where the ſpectator may walk round it, and ſurvey it on every ſide—perhaps enter it—the conſtruction of it becomes then a matter of great difficulty.

This difficulty ariſes firſt from the neceſſity of conſtructing it on as regular, and uniform a plan, as if it had been a real edifice. Not only the ſituation, and general form of the caſtle, or the abbey, ſhould be obſerved; but the ſeveral parts ſhould at leaſt be ſo traced out, that an eye, ſkilled in ſuch edifices, may eaſily inveſti⯑gate the parts, which are loſt, from the parts, which remain. There ſhould always be the disjecta membra. So that in conſtructing a ruin, no part ſhould be preſented, which the eye does not eaſily conceive muſt neceſſarily have been there, if the whole had been compleat.

[67]Nor is the expence, which attends the con⯑ſtruction of ſuch a ruin, a trifling difficulty. The pictureſque ruin muſt have no vulgarity of ſhape: it muſt convey the idea of grandeur: And no ruins, that I know, except thoſe of a caſtle, or an abbey, are ſuited to this purpoſe; and both theſe are works of great expence.

But, you ſay, a part only need be introduced. It is true. But if your ſcene be ample, (and you would introduce it in no other,) the part, you introduce, muſt be ample alſo. A paltry ruin is of no value. A grand one is a work of magnificence. A garden-temple, or a Palla⯑dian bridge, may eaſily be effected: but ſuch a portion of ruin, as will give any idea of a caſtle, or an abbey, that is worth diſplaying, requires an expence equal to that of the manſion you in⯑habit.

There is great art, and difficulty alſo in exe⯑cuting a building of this kind. It is not every man, who can build a houſe, that can execute a ruin. To give the ſtone it's mouldering ap⯑pearance —to make the widening chink run naturally through all the joints—to mutilate the ornaments—to peel the facing from the in⯑ternal ſtructure—to ſhew how correſpondent parts have once united; tho now the chaſm [68] runs wide between them—and to ſcatter heaps of ruin around with negligence and eaſe; are great efforts of art; much too delicate for the hand of a common workman; and what we very rarely ſee performed.

Beſides, after all, that art can beſtow, you muſt put your ruin at laſt into the hands of na⯑ture to adorn, and perfect it. If the moſſes, and lychens grow unkindly on your walls—if the ſtreaming weather-ſtains have produced no variety of tints—if the ivy refuſes to mantle over your buttreſs; or to creep among the ornaments of your Gothic window—if the aſh, cannot be brought to hang from the cleft; or long, ſpiry graſs to wave over the ſhattered battlement— your ruin will be ſtill incomplete—you may as well write over the gate, Built in the year 1772. Deception there can be none. The characters of age are wanting. It is time alone, which meliorates the ruin; which gives it perfect beauty; and brings it, if I may ſo ſpeak, to a ſtate of nature.

On laying all theſe difficulties together, we ſee how arduous a matter it is to conſtruct ſuch a ruin, as is to be ſeen on the ſpot. When it is well done, we allow, that nothing can be more beautiful: but we ſee every where ſo many abſurd attempts of this kind, that when []

[69] we walk through a piece of improved ground; and hear of being carried next to ſee the ruins, if the maſter of the ſcene be with us, we dread the incounter.

From Mr. Anſon's we continued our rout to Stone by Wolſley-bridge, through the ſame kind of rich, pleaſant country: and from thence, in our way to Newcaſtle, we propoſed to take a view of lord Gower's. But a ſhower of rain prevented us. As far however, as we could judge from a haſty glance, the grounds about Trentham are laid out with great ſimplicity and elegance. The ſituation of the houſe is low. Before it lies an extenſive lawn, half-incircled with riſing grounds; along which the planta⯑tions ſweep in one great, varied line.

From Newcaſtle we took our rout to Man⯑cheſter. In our road we wiſhed for time to have viſited the potteries of Mr. Wedgwood; where the elegant arts of old Etruria are revived. It would have been pleaſing to ſee all theſe works in their progreſs to perfection; but it was of leſs moment; as the forms of all his Tuſcan vaſes were familiar to us.

[70]One great principle in the conſtruction of a Tuſcan vaſe, relates to the mode of ſetting on the handle. It always riſes from the veſſel; with which it is united; and of which it makes a part. The ſtrength and beauty of the veſſel depends ſo much on this principle; that one would wonder, how it ſhould ever be overlook⯑ed; and indeed I have ſometimes obſerved it in the conſtruction of ſome of our coarſer jars; for the ſake probably of the ſtrength, which it adds to the handle. But in general, it is totally neglected; and the handles of our modern veſſels, whether of clay, or of metal, tho ſome of them very coſtly, inſtead of making a part of the veſſels themſelves, are awkwardly fixed to them.

At Talk-on-the-hill the views are extenſive, and beautiful on both ſides: the ground is well diſpoſed; and the landſcape woody.

As we deſcended, the knolls, and little de⯑preſſions of the country, which ſeen from the higher grounds, were flat, and undiſtinguiſhed, [71] became now hills and vallies, adding new modes of variety.

We ſoon however left all this landſcape be⯑hind, and entered an unpleaſant country. But after we had paſſed Holm's-chapel, and a dreary common beyond it; a beautiful ſcene opened, in which we continued many miles. The road often led through groves of oak; and often through lanes imbowered with lofty trees; which were beautiful in their natural ſimplicity beyond the improvement of art.

The duke of Bridgewater's works near Man⯑cheſter are very great. We admire equally the grandeur of the conception, and the ſkill of the execution. In a painter's eye indeed, we have juſt ſeen, that works of this kind are of little value.

From Worſley-mills we took a barge to Mancheſter; but found little amuſement in our voyage, except that of exchanging a rough, jolting motion over rugged pavements; with that of gliding gently along the ſurface of a ſmooth canal.

[72]We were ſtruck with one appearance indeed of a ſingular kind; that of Chap-moſs; which ſtretching on the right along the ſpace of thirty miles, held the eye in ſuſpence, through the ſhades of twilight, whether it were land, or water. It's colour ſpoke it one; it's ſurface, the other.

From Mancheſter, around which the country is not unpleaſant, we purſued our rout to Preſton, and Lancaſter. Great part of the road to Bol⯑ton is beautiful. The views about Ringley, where a conſiderable ſtream forces it's way, between ſteep, woody banks, are very pictu⯑reſque. They were the more pleaſing, as we came upon them by accident; having been obliged to leave the great road, which ſome late floods had made impaſſable by carrying away a bridge.

From Bolton we aſcended a heighth of four miles, over a ſort of cultivated mountain. The country, that lay ſtretched beneath, on the left, was ſoftened, without any intervening grounds, into a blue diſtance. When we deſcended the [73] heights, and entered it, it wore a pleaſing, va⯑riegated form. It was woody too, and adorned with little rills, every where working along the vallies.

Between Charly and Preſton there is like⯑wiſe much high ground, which let us down, like the heights of Bolton, into a pleaſant ſcene, rich, flat, and woody.

As we approached Preſton, the retroſpect of Walton-church, over the windings of the Rib⯑ble, is very beautiful.

From Preſton to Garſtang the country is un⯑pleaſant. The ground is varied; but it is de⯑ficient in wood, and has not dignity to ſupport itſelf without it.

Here firſt the mountains begin to riſe; and give us a proſpect of the country before us. But they yet aſſume no formidable features. Tinged with light azure, they only ſkirted the [74] horizon; and at a great diſtance accompanied us, in a lengthened chain on the left.

As we approach Garſtang, the caſtle, tho ruined into a mere block, and without beauty, becomes an object, where there is no other.

From Garſtang to Lancaſter there is little change in the landſcape. It ſtill continues bleak and unpleaſant. But as we now approach⯑ed the mountains, every object began to pro⯑claim the rugged ſcenes, into which we were entering. The country we now traverſed, may be called a kind of connecting thread: itſelf of an uncharacterized ſpecies, ſtriking us with no determined features. It has neither the gran⯑deur of the mountain ſcene; nor the chearful⯑neſs of the ſylvan: what wood there is, is poor, and ſhrivelled. For we now ſkirted the bay of Cartmel, and the ſea-air having caught the trees, had impoveriſhed their foliage, ſtinted their growth, and deſtroyed their very form, with unuſual rigour.

[75]At a mile's diſtance Lancaſter-caſtle riſes to view. It's lofty ſituation, it's maſſy towers, and extenſive buildings (for it is connected with the church) give an air of grandeur to it's ap⯑pearance: but as the parts are neither well ſhaped, nor well combined, it is but an indif⯑ferent object from any point. On the ſpot, the moſt beautiful part is a noble front; which, with it's other grand appendages, afford ſuffi⯑cient matter for the curioſity of an antiquarian.

On the other ſide of the town the river Lune, which is a noble piece of water, when the tide is full, ſufficiently adorns the landſcape.

But here the Lune is a buſy, noiſy ſcene, banked with quays; covered with ſhipping; and reſounding with nautic clamour. Far otherwiſe is it's paſſage, a few miles above, through the vale of Londſdale; where quietly, and unobſerved, it winds around projecting rocks—forms circling boundaries to meadows, paſtured with cattle—or paſſes through groves and thickets, which, in fabulous times, might have been the haunt of wood-gods. In one part, taking a ſudden turn, it circles a little, delicious ſpot, forming it into a peninſula, [76] called vulgarly, the wheel of Lune. Here once dwelt an ancient hermit; where his eyes ſaw nothing, nor wiſhed to ſee any thing, except the ſweet vale, in which he lived.

From the caſtle-hill, or rather from the church-yard, we had a very extenſive view, compoſed of the grandeſt objects. Along the meadows below, the river Lune, now an eſtu⯑ary, and adorned with a variety of coaſting veſſels, (leſſening to the eye, through it's ſeve⯑ral reaches,) haſtens to the ſea. In a mile or two, it enters the bay of Cartmel; which filled with the tide, preſents a noble extent of water, ten or twelve miles acroſs, bounded by the mountains of Furneſs; which extend through vaſt ſpace; and then circling the head of the bay, form many a ſhooting promontory, and many a winding ſhore.

This extenſion of wild country we looked at with regret, knowing the many noble ſcenes it contained, which we had not time to viſit. We were obliged to reſt ſatisfied with forming imaginary pictures among the blue miſts of the mountains. Our guide, an unlettered ſwain, pointed out, in the broad dialect of his country, the ſeveral ſpots—where the ruins of Furneſs-abbey lay ſequeſtered in a lowly vale—where, far [77] to the weſt, Peel-caſtle, running boldly out into the water, commanded the entrance of the bay—where, deep beneath thoſe purpliſh moun⯑tains, the lake of Coniſton occupied a valley ſix miles in length—where Holker-hall; and Bard⯑ſey; and Coniſhed, founded on the ſite of an ancient priory; and many other places of re⯑nowned ſituation, were all ſurrounded with ſcenes of grandeur; and each, as far as we could judge from our intelligence, with ſcenes peculiar to itſelf.

From Lancaſter, in our rout to Kendal, the country, every ſtep, becomes more character⯑iſtic. High, ſhelving grounds ariſe on the right; and on the left, at every opening, we have different views of the bay of Cartmel, and of the mountains of Furneſs. The fore-ground is every where adorned with large, detached ſtones; which indicate the rocks we approach.

A little beyond Burton we left the great road▪ and took a circuit of two or three miles to ſee the country about Milthorp, and Levens.

[78]Cartmel-bay branches here into a creek; on the eaſtern ſide of which lies Milthorp; a little coaſting-port-town; and near it Dalham-tower, in a pleaſant park, defended by a hill from the ſea-air. All around we have beautiful views, conſiſting of woody fore-grounds, and of diſ⯑tances compoſed of different parts of this little eſtuary, and it's appendant mountains.

As we proceeded higher up the creek, the views, increaſed in beauty. About Levens, a ſeat of the earl of Suffolk, there is a happy com⯑bination of every thing that is lovely and great in landſcape. It ſtands at the head of the creek, upon the Kenet, a wild romantic ſtream, which ruſhes into the tide, a little below. The houſe, incompaſſed with hilly grounds, is well ſcreened from the pernicious effects of the ſea-air. But we did not ride up to it. The woods with which it abounds, we were told, grow luxuriantly; and the views at hand are as pleaſing, as thoſe at a diſtance, are great; which conſiſt of a lengthened beach of ſand along the creek; and of Whitbarrow-cragg, a rough, and very pictu⯑reſque promontory; with other high lands, ſhooting into the bay.

[79]Among the beautiful objects of diſtance, we conſider a winding ſand-beach, eſpecially when ſeen from a woody fore-ground. It's hue, amid the verdure of foliage, is a pleaſant, chaſ⯑tiſing tint. When the tide flows, the ſands change their appearance, and take the ſtill more pleaſing form of a noble lake.

Levens is at preſent in a neglected ſtate: but is certainly capable of being made equal to al⯑moſt any ſcene in England.

From hence we proceeded to Kendal; ſituated in a wild, unpleaſant country, which contains no ſtriking objects; and cannot be formed into any of thoſe pleaſing combinations, which con⯑ſtitute a picture. Here and there a view may be found; though but ſeldom. The caſtle, which is a mere ruin, is in ſome ſituations, eſpecially near the bridge, a good object.

Between Kendal and Ambleſide, the wood increaſes in grandeur; but the ſcenery is ſtill undetermined. The whole is a ſort of confuſed greatneſs.

[80]As we deſcend to the left, we approach Windermere, where a different ſpecies of coun⯑try ſucceeds. The wild mountains, which were ſo ill-maſſed, and of a kind ſo unaccom⯑modating to landſcape, are left behind; and the road dips into a lovely ſylvan ſcene, leading interchangeably through cloſe groves, under wooded hills, and along the banks of the lake.

SECT. VI.

WE had now arrived on the confines of thoſe romantic ſcenes, which were the principal inducement to this tour. Here therefore we propoſed to make ſome pauſe; and pay a little more attention to the country, than a haſty paſſage through it, would allow.

But to render a deſcription of theſe ſcenes more intelligible; and to ſhew more diſtinctly the ſources of that kind of beauty, with which they abound; it may be proper, before we examine the ſcenes themſelves, to take a ſort of analytical view of the materials, which com⯑poſe them—mountains—lakes—broken grounds —wood—rocks—caſcades—vallies—and rivers.

With regard to mountains, it may be firſt premiſed, that, in a pictureſque view, we con⯑ſider them only as diſtant objects; their enor⯑mous [82] ſize diſqualifying them for objects at hand. In the removed part of a picture there⯑fore, the mountain properly appears; where it's immenſity, reduced by diſtance, can be taken in by the eye; and it's monſtrous fea⯑tures, loſing their deformity, aſſume a ſoftneſs which naturally belongs not to them.

I would not however be underſtood to mean, that a mountain is proper only to cloſe an ex⯑tended view. It may take it's ſtation in a ſecond, or third diſtance with equal propriety. And even on a fore-ground, a rugged corner of it's baſe may be introduced; tho it's upper regions aſpire far beyond the limits of any picture.

Having thus premiſed the ſtation, which a mountain properly occupies in landſcape, we ſhall now examine the mountain itſelf; in which, four things particularly ſtrike us—it's line— the objects, which adorn it's ſurface—it's tints —and it's light and ſhade.

The beauty of a diſtant mountain in a great meaſure, depends on the line it traces along []

[83] the ſky; which is generally of a lighter hue. The pyramidal ſhape, and eaſy flow of an irregular line, will be found in the mountain, as in other delineations, the trueſt ſource of beauty.

Mountains therefore riſing in regular, ma⯑thematical lines, or in whimſical, groteſque ſhapes, are diſpleaſing. Thus Burnſwark, a mountain on the ſouthern border of Scotland; Thorp-Cloud, near Dovedale in Derbyſhire, eſpecially when ſeen from the garden at Ilam; and a mountain in Cumberland, which from it's peculiar appearance in ſome ſituations, takes the name of Saddle-back, all form diſagreeable lines. And thus many of the pointed ſummits of the Alps are objects rather of ſingularity, than of beauty. Such forms alſo as ſuggeſt the idea of lumpiſh heavineſs are diſguſting— round, ſwelling forms, without any break to diſincumber them of their weight.

Indeed a continuity of line without a break, whether it be concave, ſtraight, or convex, will always diſpleaſe, becauſe it wants variety; unleſs indeed it be well contraſted with other forms. The effect alſo of a broken line is bad, if the breaks are regular.

[84]The ſources of deformity in the mountain-line will eaſily ſuggeſt thoſe of beauty. If the line ſwell eaſily to an apex, and yet by irregu⯑lar breaks, which may be varied in a thouſand modes, it muſt be pleaſing.

And yet abruptneſs itſelf is ſometimes a ſource of beauty, either when it is in contraſt with other parts of the line; or when rocks, or other objects, account naturally for it.

The ſame principles, on which we ſeek for beauty in ſingle mountains, will help us to find it in a combination of them. Mountains in compoſition are conſidered as ſingle objects, and follow the ſame rules. If they break into mathematical, or fantaſtic forms—if they join heavily together in lumpiſh ſhapes—if they fall into each other at right-angles—or if their lines run parrallel—in all theſe caſes, the com⯑bination will be more or leſs diſguſting: and a converſe of theſe will of courſe be agreeable.

Having drawn the lines, which mountains ſhould form, let us next fill them up, and vary them with tints.

[85]The objects, which cover the ſurface of mountains, are wood, rocks, broken ground, heath, and moſſes of various hues.

Ovid has very ingeniouſly given us the furni⯑ture of a mountain in the transformation of Atlas.

His hair and beard become trees, and other vegetable ſubſtance; his bones, rocks; and his head, and ſhoulders, ſummits, and promon⯑tories. —But to deſcribe minutely the parts of a diſtant object (for we are conſidering a mountain in this light) would be to invert the rules of perſpective, by making that diſtinct, which ſhould be obſcure. I ſhall conſider there⯑fore all that variety, which covers the ſurface of diſtant mountains, as blended together in one maſs; and made the ſtratum of thoſe tints, which we often find playing upon them.

Theſe tints, which are the moſt beautiful ornaments of the mountain, are of all colours; but the moſt prevalent are yellow, and purple. We can hardly conſider blue as a mountain-tint. It is the mere colour of the intervening [86] air—the hue, which naturally inveſts all diſtant objects, as well as mountains. The late Dr. Brown, author of the Eſtimate, in a deſcrip⯑tion, which he printed, of the lake of Keſwick, very juſtly calls theſe tints the yellow ſtreams of light, the purple hues, and miſty azure of the mountains. They are rarely permanent; but ſeem to be a ſort of floating, ſilky colours— always in motion—always in harmony—and playing with a thouſand changeable varieties into each other. They are literally colours dipped in heaven.

The variety of theſe tints depends on many circumſtances—the ſeaſon of the year—the hour of the day—a dry, or a moiſt atmoſphere. The lines and ſhapes of mountains (features ſtrongly marked) are eaſily caught and retained: but theſe meteor-forms, this rich fluctuation of airy hues, offer ſuch a profuſion of variegated ſplendor, that they are continually illuding the eye with breaking into each other; and are loſt, as it endeavours to retain them. This airy colouring, tho in ſunſhine it appears moſt brilliant; yet in ſome degree it is generally found in thoſe mountains, where it prevails.

In the late voyages round the world, publiſh⯑ed by Dr. Hawkſworth, we have an account [87] of the great beauty of the colouring obſerved on the peak of Teneriffe. ‘It's appearance at ſun-ſet, ſays the author, was very ſtriking. When the ſun was below the horizon, and the reſt of the iſland appeared of a deep black; the mountain ſtill reflected his rays, and glowed with a warmth of colouring, which no painting can expreſs.’

The rays of the ſun, which are the cauſe of all colour, no doubt, produce theſe tints to the eye; yet we muſt believe there is ſomething peculiar in the ſurfaces of ſome mountains, which diſpoſe them to reflect the rays with ſuch variety of tints. On many mountains theſe appearances are not obſervable; and where the ſurface is uniform, the tint will be ſo likewiſe. ‘The effect in queſtion, ſays Mr. Lock, re⯑marking on this paſſage, is very familiar to me. I ſaw it almoſt every evening in Savoy, when the ſun ſhone. It is only on the tops of the higheſt mountains, that the effect is perfect. Mount Blanc being covered with the pureſt ſnow, and having no tint of it's own, was often of the brighteſt roſe-colour.’

Having thus given the mountain a line; filled it with objects; and ſpread over it a beau⯑tiful [88] aſſemblage of tints; it remains laſtly to throw the whole into light and ſhade.—He who would ſtudy light and ſhade, muſt repair to the mountains. There he will ſee their moſt magnificent effects.

In every object we obſerve a double effect of illumination, that of the parts, and that of the whole. In a building the cornices, the pilaſters, and other ornaments, are ſet off, in the lan⯑guage of art, with light and ſhade. Over this partial effect are ſpread the general maſſes. It is thus in mountains.

Homer, who had a genius as pictureſque as Virgil, (tho he ſeems to have known little of the art of painting) was ſtruck with two things in his views of mountains—with thoſe cavi⯑ties and projections, which abound upon their ſurfaces—and with what he calls their ſha⯑dowing forms. Of the former, he takes notice, when he ſpeaks of a ſingle mountain; of the latter, when he ſpeaks of mountains in combi⯑nation^*. Now it is plain, that in both theſe [89] caſes he was pleaſed with the effect of light and ſhade. In one the partial effect is marked: in the other, the general.

The cavities which he obſerved, and which are ſeen only from their being the deep receſſes of ſhade, together with the rocks, and little projections, which are viſible only from catch⯑ing a ſtronger ray of light, contribute to pro⯑duce the partial effect—that richneſs, and va⯑riety on the ſides of diſtant mountains, which would otherwiſe be a diſplay of flat, fatiguing ſurface. The objects themſelves are formleſs, and indiſtinct; yet, by preſenting different ſur⯑faces for the light to reſt on, the rich and va⯑riegated effect, here mentioned, is produced.

The grand maſſes are formed by one moun⯑tain's over-ſhadowing another—by the ſun's turning round ſome promontory—or by the tranſverſe poſition of mountains; in all which caſes the ſhadow falls broad and deep—ſweeps over all the ſmaller ſhades, to which it ſtill ⁵ [90] gives a deeper tinge; and unites the whole in one great effect.

It is an agreeable amuſement to attend theſe vaſt ſhadows in their ſlow, and ſolemn march over the mountains—to obſerve, how the morn⯑ing ſun ſheds only a faint catching light upon the ſummits of the hills, through one general maſs of hazy ſhade—in a few hours how all this confuſion is diſſipated—how the lights and ſhades begin to break, and ſeparate, and take their form and breadth—how deep and determined the ſhadows are at noon—how fu⯑gitive and uncertain, as the ſun declines; till it's fires, glowing in the weſt, light up a new radiance through the landſcape; and ſpread over it, inſtead of ſober light and ſhade, all the colours of nature, in one bright, momentary gleam.

It is equally amuſing to obſerve the various ſhapes, which mountains aſſume through all this variety of illumination; rocks, knolls, and promontories, taking new forms; appear⯑ing, and diſappearing, as the ſun veers round; [91] whoſe radiance, like varniſh on a picture, (if I may uſe a degrading compariſon,) brings out a thouſand objects unobſerved before.

To theſe more permanent effects of illumina⯑tion may be added another ſpecies, which ariſes from accident—I mean thoſe partial, flit⯑ting ſhades, which are occaſioned by floating clouds. Theſe may ſometimes produce a good effect; but they contribute as often to diſturb the repoſe of a landſcape. To painters how⯑ever they are of great uſe, who are frequently obliged, by an untoward ſubject, to take the advantage of every probability to produce an effect.

SECT. VII.

HAVING thus conſidered the chief cir⯑cumſtances, which occur in diſtant moun⯑tains, let us now inlarge our view, and take in the lake, which makes the next conſiderable part of this romantic country.

The fen, the pool, and the lake would pre⯑ſent very different ideas, tho magnitude were out of the queſtion.

The fen is a plaſhy inundation, formed on a flat—without depth—without lineal boundary— of ambiguous texture—half water—and half land—a ſort of vegetable fluid.

The pool is a collection of the ſoakings of ſome common; or the reſervoir of the neigh⯑bouring ditches, which depoſit in it's ouzy bed [94] the ſoil of the country, clay, or mud; and give a correſpondent tinge to the water.

In ſome things the fen and the pool agree. They both take every thing in, and let nothing out. Each of them is in ſummer a ſink of pu⯑trefaction; and the receptacle of all thoſe un⯑clean, misſhapen forms in animal life, which breed and batten in the impurities of ſtagnation;

Very different is the origin of the lake. It's magnificent, and marble bed, formed in the caverns, and deep receſſes of rocky mountains, received originally the pure pellucid waters of ſome ruſhing torrent, as it came firſt from the hand of nature—arreſted it's courſe, till the ſpacious, and ſplendid baſon was filled brim⯑full; and then diſcharged the ſtream, unſullied, and undiminiſhed, through ſome winding vale, to form other lakes, or increaſe the dignity of ſome imperial river. Here no impurities find entrance, either of animal, or of vegetable life:

[]

[95]From the briſk circulation of fluid through theſe animated bodies of water, a great maſter of nature has nobly ſtyled them, living lakes:

and indeed nothing, which is not really alive, deſerves the appellation better. For beſides the vital ſtream, which principally feeds them, they receive a thouſand little gurgling rills, which trickling through a thouſand veins, give life, and ſpirit to every part.

The principal incidents obſervable in lakes, are, their line of boundary—their iſlands—and the different appearances of the ſurface of the water.

The line of boundary is very various. Some⯑times it is boldly broken by a projecting pro⯑montory—ſometimes indebted by a creek— ſometimes it undulates along an irregular ſhore —and ſometimes ſwells into a winding bay. In each of theſe circumſtances it is ſuſceptible of beauty; in all, it certainly deſerves attention: for as it is a line of ſeparation between land and water, it is of courſe ſo conſpicuous a boundary, that the leaſt harſhneſs in it is diſcernible. I [96] have known many a good landſcape injured by a bad water boundary.

This line, it may be further obſerved, varies under different circumſtances. When the eye is placed upon the lake, the line of boundary is a circular thread, with little undulation; unleſs when ſome promontory of more than uſual magnitude ſhoots into the water. All ſmaller irregularities are loſt. The particular beauty of it under this circumſtance, conſiſts in the oppoſition between ſuch a thread, and the irre⯑gular line formed by the ſummits of the moun⯑tains.

But when the eye is placed on the higher grounds, above the level of the lake, the line of boundary takes a new form; and what ap⯑peared to the levelled eye a circular thread, be⯑comes now an undulating line, projecting, and retiring more or leſs, according to the degree of the eye's elevation. The circular thread was indebted for it's principal beauty to contraſt: but this, like all other elegant lines, has the additional beauty of variety.

And yet, in ſome caſes the levelled eye has the advantage of the elevated one. The line, which forms an acute angle from the higher ſituation, [97] may be ſoftened, when ſeen from the water, into an eaſy curve.

The iſlands fall next under our view. Theſe are either a beauty, or a deformity to the lake; as they are ſhaped, or ſtationed.

If the iſland be round, or of any other re⯑gular form; or if the wood upon it be thick and heavy (as I have obſerved ſome planted with a cloſe grove of Scotch fir) it can never be an object of beauty. At hand, it is a heavy lump: at a diſtance, a murky ſpot.

Again, if the iſland, (however beautifully ſhaped, or planted;) be ſeated in the centre of a round lake; in the focus of an oval one; or in any other regular poſition; the beauty of it is loſt, at leaſt in ſome points of view.

But when it's lines, and ſhape are both irre⯑gular—when it is ornamented with ancient oak, rich in foliage, but light and airy—and when it takes ſome irregular ſituation in the lake; then it is an object truly beautiful—beautiful in itſelf, as well as in compoſition. It muſt how⯑ever be added, that it would be difficult to place ſuch an object in any ſituation, that would be equally pleaſing from every ſtand.

[98]The ſurface of the lake offers itſelf laſt to ob⯑ſervation. The ſeveral incidents, which ariſe here, are all owing to the ſky, and the diſpoſi⯑tion of the water to receive it's impreſſion.

That the ſky is the great regulator of the colour of the water, is known to all artiſts.

And again

The effect indeed holds univerſally; as water in all caſes, expoſed to the ſky, will act as a mirror to it.

In the darkneſs of a brooding ſtorm, we have juſt ſeen, the whole body of the water will be dark: inhorruit unda tenebris.

In clear, and windy weather, the breezy ruffled lake, as Thomſon calls it, is a ſhattered mirror: It reflects the ſerenity; but reflects it partially. The hollow of each wave is com⯑monly in ſhadow, the ſummit is tipped with light. The light or ſhadow therefore prevails, according to the poſition of the waves to the eye: []

[100] Their lubricity is loſt. More or leſs, they all flow cum gurgite flavo. But the lake, like Spencer's fountain, which ſprang from the limpid tears of a nymph,

Refined thus from every obſtruction, it is tremblingly alive all over: the mereſt trifle, a friſking fly, a falling leaf, almoſt a ſound alarms it,

This tremulous ſhudder is ſometimes even ſtill more partial: It will run in lengthened parallels, and ſeparate the reflections upon the ſurface, which are loſt on one ſide, and taken up on the other. This is perhaps the moſt pictureſque form, which water aſſumes; as it affords the painter an opportunity of throwing in thoſe lengthened lights and ſhades, which give the greateſt variety and clearneſs to water.

There is another appearance on the ſurfaces of lakes, which we cannot account for on any principle either of optics, or of perſpective. [99] eye: and at a diſtance, when the ſummits of the waves, agreeably to the rules of perſpective, appear in contact, the whole ſurface in that part will be light.

But when the ſky is ſplendid, and at the ſame time calm, the water (being then a perfect mirror,) will glow all over with correſpondent tints; unleſs other reflections, from the objects around, intervene, and form more vivid pic⯑tures.

Often you will ſee a ſpacious bay, ſcreened by ſome projecting promontory, in perfect re⯑poſe; while the reſt of the lake, more pervious to the air, is criſped over by a gentle ripple.

Sometimes alſo, when the whole lake is tran⯑quil, a gentle perturbation will ariſe in ſome diſtant part, from no apparent cauſe, from a breath of air, which nothing elſe can feel, and creeping ſoftly on, communicate the tremulous ſhudder with exquiſite ſenſibility over half the ſurface. In this obſervation I do little more than tranſlate from Ovid:

No pool, no river-bay, can preſent this idea in it's utmoſt purity. In them every cryſtalline particle is ſet, as it were, in a ſocket of mud. [101] When there is no apparent cauſe in the ſky, the water will ſometimes appear dappled with large ſpots of ſhade. It is poſſible theſe patches may have connection with the bottom of the lake; as naturaliſts ſuppoſe, the ſhining parts of the ſea are occaſioned by the ſpawn of fiſh: but it is more probable, that in ſome way, they are connected with the ſky, as they are generally eſteemed in the country to be a weather-gage. The people will often ſay, ‘It will be no hay-day to day, the lake is full of ſhades.’ —I never myſelf ſaw this appearance; o [...] I might be able to give a better account of it: but I have heard it ſo often taken notice of; that I ſuppoſe there is at leaſt ſome ground for the obſervation. Tho, after all, I think it probable theſe ſhades may be owing only to floating clouds.

From this great variety, which the ſurfaces of lakes aſſume, we may draw this concluſion, that the painter may take great liberties, in point of light and ſhade, in his repreſentation of water. It is, in many caſes, under no rule, that we are acquainted with; or under rules ſo [102] lax, that the imagination is left very much at large.

On the ſubject of lakes, I have only farther to add, that many bodies of water, under this denomination, are found upon the ſummits of lofty mountains. In this ſituation they are commonly mere baſons; or reſervoirs; and want the pleaſing accompaniments, which adorn the lower lakes. Lakes of this kind are a col⯑lection of ſprings; and diſcharge themſelves generally from their elevated ſtations in caſ⯑cades.

SECT. VIII.

WE have now made a conſiderable advance towards a landſcape. The ſky is laid in; a mountain fills the offskip; and a lake, with it's accompaniments, takes poſſeſſion of a nearer diſtance. Nothing but a fore-ground is wanting; and for this we have great choice of objects—broken ground—trees—rocks—caſcades —and vallies.

In a diſtance the ruling character is tender⯑neſs; which on a fore-ground, gives way to what the painter calls force, and richneſs. Force ariſes from a violent oppoſition of colour, light, and ſhade: richneſs conſiſts in a variety of parts, and glowing tints. In ſome degree, richneſs is found in a diſtance; but never, united with force: for in a diſtance; tho the lights may be ſtrong, and the parts varied; yet [104] the ſhades and tints will ever be faint, and tender.

In the mean time, this oppoſition on the fore-ground, violent as it is, muſt always be ſubject to the ruling maſſes of light and ſhade, and colouring, which harmonize the whole.

The effect of this harmony is breadth, or repoſe. It's oppoſite is flutter, and confuſion.

It appears therefore, that the management of fore-grounds is a matter of great nicety. In them a very contradiction muſt be recon⯑ciled: breadth and repoſe, which conſiſt in uniting the parts; muſt be made to agree with force and richneſs, which conſiſt in violently breaking them. And what adds to the diffi⯑culty, the eye, brought thus on the ſpot, is hurt by the minuteſt defect. Whereas, at a diſtance, an irregular daſh of the pencil, if it be not one thing, may be conceived to be another: obſcurity is there a ſource of beauty. —Hence it is, that many great maſters, who can throw a diſtance into a pleaſing confuſion, and give it the effect of nature; have failed in exerciſing their art on a fore-ground.

[105]Having premiſed thus much with regard to fore-grounds in general, let us now examine the fore-grounds, which are preſented to us in this very pictureſque country.

Broken grounds are the firſt objects of our attention. Here they abound in every ſhape. The painter will eaſily find, either ſome rough knoll, whoſe parts are ample—the ſloping corner of a hill, perhaps worn by a mountain-torrent—a rugged road, winding through the chaſm of a rifted promontory—or ſome other part of nature equally grand and pictureſque.

If he chuſe to adorn his fore-ground with wood (and who does not?) he will find it in ſome parts of this country in a tolerable ſtyle of greatneſs. But, in general, the old timber is de⯑cayed, or cut down; and that ſort of wood incou⯑raged, which is the moſt profitable—ſuch wood, as, in a courſe of time, is turned into charcoal. It has, in ſome degree, the effect of better trees in a diſtance; but it is very deficient, when we call for an ancient oak to give the fore-ground [106] ground a grandeur equal to the ſcene—when we want the magnificence of it's ſhadowing form to mantle over the vacant corner of a landſcape—when we wiſh it to hide ſome heavy promontory; or to ſcatter a few looſe branches over ſome ill-ſhaped mountain-line—when it's maſſy foliage is neceſſary to give depth to ſhade —it's twiſted bole, covered with grey moſs, to oppoſe the vivid green in it's neighbourhood —or, laſtly, it's warm autumnal tint to contraſt the colder hues of diſtance. In all theſe caſes a deficiency of foreſt-wood is ſometimes re⯑gretted in the ſcenery before us; but not often: and where it is, the loſs is eaſily ſupplied by other objects; among which rocks are the principal: and theſe, when ornamented with wood, tho of a ſmaller ſize, have generally the effect of the moſt luxuriant foliage.

Rocks differ in ſurface; general form; and colour.

The rock naturally wears that ſmooth weather-beaten ſurface, which time gives it through a ſucceſſion of ages. But rocks, firm as they are, are ſubject to change. Springs undermine them: torrents waſh the earth from around [107] them: froſts looſen them; and ſometimes they are torn by ſtorms and earthquakes. Under theſe circumſtances, when large maſſes fall away, the rock exhibits a fractured ſurface; which in general has a better effect, than the ſmooth one. Nature, in theſe inſtances, may be ſaid to retouch her compoſitions: the frac⯑tured parts are larger and ſharper; and better adapted to receive either ſmart, catching lights; or a body of light and ſhade.—An humble imitation of the ſurfaces of fractured rocks is ſometimes exhibited in large coals: they may at leaſt aſſiſt the imagination of a painter.

With regard to the general form of rocks, both ſpecies, the ſmooth, and the fractured, have equal variety. Both have their bold pro⯑jections—both hang alike over their baſes— are rifted into chaſms—and ſhoot ſometimes into horizontal, and ſometimes into diagonal ſtrata.

The natural colour of rocks is either grey, or red. We have of each kind in England; and both are beautiful: but the grey rock, (which is the common ſpecies in this ſcenery) makes the finer contraſt with the foliage either of ſummer, or of autumn.

[108]I call red, and grey the natural colours of rocks; but more properly they are the ground only of a variety of tints. Theſe tints ariſe from weeds, moſſes, and lychens of various kinds, which uniting together on the ſurface of a rock, often make a rich, and very harmo⯑monious aſſemblage of colouring; and the painter, who does not attend to theſe minutiae (we are conſidering fore-grounds) loſes half the beauty of his original.

Among theſe lychens, the white ſpecies is the leaſt pleaſing. When mixed with other tints, it may form an agreeable contraſt: and even, when it borrows no aid of this kind, if it be ſparingly, and happily introduced, it may add a beauty to the natural colour of the grey rock, by giving it the brilliancy of a few ſharp touches. But when it prevails; and ſpreads, like a bald leprous ſcab, over a whole ſurface; it's mealy hue is very diſguſting, unleſs it be thrown into ſhadow, or ſupported by ſome maſs of foliage, or other vivid tint in contact with it.

Beſides the ſpecies of rocks juſt deſcribed, there is another, called the cragg; which con⯑veys the idea of a rock roughly pounded. With theſe ſhattered fragments whole ſides of [109] mountains are often covered; down which they appear continually to ſhiver. This ſpecies is very inferior to the former. It wants that breadth of ſurface, which gives dignity to an object. In a diſtance indeed, which melts the fragments into one maſs, the effect is good: but in the ſituation, in which we are now con⯑ſidering rocks, as the appendages of a fore-ground, the cragg is meanly circumſtanced.

The caſcade, which is the next object of our obſervation, may be divided into the broken, and the regular fall.

The firſt belongs moſt properly to the rock; whoſe projecting fragments, impeding the wa⯑ter, break it into pieces—daſh it into foam— and give it all the ſpirit, and agitation, which that active element is capable of receiving.— Happy is the pencil, which can ſeize the varie⯑ties, and brilliancy of water under this circum⯑ſtance.

In the regular fall the water meets no ob⯑ſtruction; but pours down, from the higher grounds to the lower, in one ſplendid ſheet.

Each kind hath it's beauties; but, in gene⯑ral, the broken fall is more adapted to a ſmall [110] body of water; and the regular to a large one. The ſmall body of water has nothing to re⯑commend it, but it's variety and buſtle: where⯑as the large body has a dignity of character to maintain. To fritter it in pieces would be to deſtroy in a degree the grandeur of it's effect. Were the Niagara thus broken, at leaſt if ſome conſiderable parts of it were not left broad and ſheety, it might be a grand ſcene of confuſion; but it could not be that vaſt, that uniform, and ſimple object, which is moſt capable of expreſſing the idea of greatneſs.

As there are few conſiderable rivers in the romantic country, we are now examining, the moſt beautiful caſcades, (which are innumera⯑ble) are generally of the broken kind. The regular falls (of which alſo there are many) are objects of little value. Tho they are ſome⯑times four or five hundred feet in height; yet they appear only like threads of ſilver at a diſtance; and like mere ſpouts at hand; void both of grandeur, and variety.—And yet, in heavy rains, ſome of them muſt be very noble, if we may judge from their channels, which often ſhew great marks of violence.—But I was never fortunate enough to ſee any of them in theſe moments of wildneſs.

[111]Theſe two kinds of caſcades, the broken, and the regular, may be combined. If the weight of water be ſmall, it is true, it will admit only the broken fall: but if it be large, it may with propriety admit a combination of both: and theſe combinations may be multi⯑plied into each other with endleſs variety.

The regular fall admits alſo another mode of variety by forming itſelf into what may be called the ſucceſſive fall; in which the water, inſtead of making one continued ſhoot, falls through a ſucceſſion of different ſtories. Of this kind are many of the mountain-caſcades in this country, which are often very beautiful; eſpecially where the ſtages are deranged; and the water ſeeks it's way from one ſtage to ano⯑ther.

This is the ſpecies of caſcade, which was the great object of imitation in all the anti⯑quated water-works of the laſt age. Our fore-fathers admired the ſucceſſive fall; and, agree⯑ably to their awkward mode of imitation, made the water deſcend a regular flight of ſtone-ſtairs.

Before we conclude the ſubject of caſcades, it may be obſerved, that, as in other objects of beauty, ſo in this, proportion muſt be a [112] regulating principle. I ſhall not be ſo preciſe as to ſay, what is the exact proportion of an elegant caſcade. Nor is it neceſſary. The eye will eaſily ſee the enormity of diſproportion, where it exiſts in any great degree: and that is enough. Thus when a mountain-caſcade falls four or five hundred feet, and is perhaps ſcarce two yards broad; every eye muſt ſee the diſ⯑proportion: as it will alſo, when the whole breadth of ſome large river falls only two or three feet. Both would be more beautiful, if their falls held a nearer proportion to their quantities of water.

The laſt ſpecies of fore-grounds are vallies ^*; with regard to which it muſt be remarked firſt, that narrow contracted vallies only are meant. The open valley muſt claſs itſelf among objects of diſtant ſcenery.

It muſt ſecondly be remarked, that even contracted valleys are not purely of the nature of []

[113] fore-grounds, but participate of diſtance. One ſide-ſcreen muſt neceſſarily be a little removed, if you would give your ſcenery the advantage of perſpective.

Theſe things being premiſed, we may con⯑ſider the valley as a ſpecies of fore-ground; the ingredients of which Spencer hath given us in very few words.

Theſe ingredients admit great variety in compo⯑ſition. The ſides of the valley may be high, or low; rocky, or woody; ſmooth, or full of jutting promontories: and theſe variations again may play into each other with a thouſand interchanges.

When we find a concurrence of beautiful circumſtances in theſe ſcenes—when their ſides are well proportioned, and pictureſquely adorn⯑ed—and eſpecially when they are ſo fortunate as to open on a rich diſtance; a lake bounded by a rocky mountain; or any other intereſting object, they form a landſcape of a very pleaſing kind.

[114]The rivers alſo with which theſe vallies ſcarce ever fail of being adorned, have the ſame variety as the hills; and may, now and then, be introduced very happily to aſſiſt the fore-ground. They are pure chryſtalline ſtreams— generally rapid—generally ſparkling over beds of pebbles—often tumbling, and foaming over the ledges of rocks—and forming, through the whole of their courſe, a continuation of little buſtling caſcades.

Nearly allied to the contracted valley, is, what in this country, is called a gill; in others, a dell. It is a narrow cleft, winding between two rocky precipices; and overgrown with wood, which cloſes at the top, and almoſt excludes the day. Through the bottom foams a torrent. You hear it ſounding in it's fall from one rocky ſtage to another: but it is rarely viſible.

Theſe romantic ſpots are generally imper⯑vious. When they are a little more open, ſo as to allow a narrow foot-path to ſtray among them, they are the moſt beloved haunts of ſolitude and meditation; and of all the parts [115] of this delightful ſcenery, afford the moſt re⯑freſhing refuge from noon-tide heat.

Such were the ſcenes the poet panted after, when they drew from his ſoul, oppreſſed by the languor of a ſummer-ſun, that ardent aſ⯑piration;

How intimately acquainted with theſe ſcenes he was, his own very accurate deſcriptions ſhew.

Dat ſonitum, ſays this accurate obſerver of nature; remarking in that expreſſion, that the torrent was an addreſs to the ear, not to the eye.

The contracted valley, we have ſeen, may open to a diſtance; but a view into the gill furniſhes only a fore-ground. It can only con⯑ſiſt of ſome little ſequeſtered receſs—a few twiſted boles—a caſcade ſparkling through the trees—or a tranſlucent pool, formed in the cavity beneath ſome rock, and juſt large enough to reflect the hanging wood, which over ſha⯑dows [116] it. And yet even on this contracted ſcale, we have many a beautiful landſcape:

SECT. IX.

WE have now examined the materials, of which the magnificent ſcenery of this country is compoſed—the diſtant mountain— the lake—and the fore-ground: but a few general obſervations on theſe materials, as united in compoſition, may perhaps throw ſome new and pictureſque lights on the whole.

In many countries much grander ſcenes are exhibited, than theſe,—mountains more mag⯑nificent, and lakes more extenſive: yet, it is probable there are few, in which the ſeveral objects are better proportioned; and united with more beauty.

In America the lakes are ſeas; and the country on their banks, being removed of courſe to a great diſtance, can add no accom⯑paniments.

[118]Among the ſmaller lakes of Italy and Swit⯑zerland, no doubt, there are many delightful ſcenes: but the larger lakes, like thoſe of America, are diſproportioned to their accom⯑paniments: the water occupies too large a ſpace, and throws the ſcenery too much into diſtance.

The mountains of Sweden, Norway, and other northern regions, are probably rather maſſes of hideous rudeneſs, than ſcenes of grandeur and proportion. Proportion indeed in all ſcenery is indiſpenſably neceſſary; and unleſs the lake, and it's correſpondent moun⯑tains have this juſt relation to each other, they want the firſt principle of beauty.

The value of lake-ſcenery ariſes rather from the idea of magnificence, than of variety. The ſcene is not continually ſhifting here, as on the banks of a winding river. The lake is ſo vaſt, that it ſtands ſtill, as it were, before the moving eye. Nor is this attended with ſatiety. A quick ſucceſſion of imagery is neceſſary in ſcenes of leſs grandeur, where little beauties are eaſily ſcanned: but ſcenes, like theſe, de⯑mand contemplation. Theſe rich volumes of [119] nature, like the works of eſtabliſhed authors, will bear a frequent peruſal. Contemplation adds to their value.

In the mean time, with all this magnifi⯑cence and beauty, it cannot be ſuppoſed, that every ſcene, which theſe countries preſent, is correctly pictureſque. In ſuch immenſe bodies of rough-hewn matter, many irregularities, and even many deformities, muſt exiſt, which a practiſed eye would wiſh to correct. Moun⯑tains are ſometimes crouded—their ſides are often bare, when contraſt requires them to be wooded—promontories form the water-boun⯑dary into acute angles—and bays are contracted into narrow points, inſtead of ſwelling into ample baſons.

In all theſe caſes the imagination is apt to whiſper, What glorious ſcenes might here be made, if theſe ſtubborn materials could yield to the judicious hand of art!—And, to ſay the truth, we are ſometimes tempted to let the imagination looſe among them.

By the force of this creative power an intervening hill may be turned aſide; and a diſtance introduced.—This ill-ſhaped moun⯑tain [120] may be pared, and formed into a better line.—To that, on the oppoſite ſide, a light⯑neſs may be given by the addition of a higher ſummit,—Upon yon bald declivity, which ſtretches along the lake, may be reared a foreſt of noble oak; which thinly ſcatter'd over the top, will thicken as it deſcends; and throw it's vivid reflections on the water in full luxuri⯑ance.

The line of the water too, which perhaps is ſtraight, the imagination will eaſily correct. It will bring forward ſome bold promontory; or open ſome winding bay.

It will proceed even to the ornaments of art. On ſome projecting knoll it will rear the majeſty of a ruined caſtle, whoſe ivyed walls ſeem a part of the very rock, on which they ſtand. On a gentle riſe, opening to the lake, and half incircled by woody hills, ſome mouldring abbey may be ſeated; and far beyond may appear diſtant objects, under ſome circum⯑ſtance of pictureſque illumination: ‘The foreſt darkening round, and glittering ſpire.’

Thus the imagination will aſſiſt thoſe ſcenes, which, tho replete with beauties beyond it's power to create, may contain deformities, [121] which it might wiſh to remove. It corrects one part of nature by another; and compoſes a landſcape, as the artiſt compoſed his cele⯑brated Venus, by ſelecting accordant beauties from different originals. Scarce any ſingle archetype is ſufficiently correct. Any other idea of improving nature is abſurd; and can be adopted only by men of falſe taſte, who ima⯑gine they improve her by an addition of heterogeneous decorations.

As to the improvement of ſuch vaſt ſcenes as theſe, it is in every ſhape, except by a little planting, beyond all power of art. I cannot therefore be underſtood to ſuggeſt improvement here. All we get by imagining, how ſuch a country as this might be improved, is merely a little practice in the rules of pictureſque com⯑poſition.

We may remark further, that the power which the imagination hath over theſe ſcenes, is not greater, than the power, which they have over the imagination. No tame country, however beautiful, however adorned, can diſ⯑tend the mind, like this awful, and majeſtic ſcenery. The wild ſallies of untutored genius [122] often ſtrike the imagination more, than the moſt correct effuſions of cultivated parts. Tho the eye therefore might take more pleaſure in a view (conſidered merely in a pictureſque light) when a little adorned by the hand of art; yet I much doubt, whether ſuch a view would have that ſtrong effect on the imagination; as when rough with all it's bold irregularities about it; when beauty, and deformity, grandeur and horror, mingled together, ſtrike the mind with a thouſand oppoſing ideas; and like chymical infuſions of an oppoſite nature, produce an efferveſcence, which no harmonious mixtures could produce.

Were a lover of nature placed abruptly in the midſt of ſuch ſcenes as theſe, the effect might be too ſtrong: and in this inſtance, as in others, he might diſcover the weakneſs of his firſt progenitor; in whom, on viewing ſuddenly a grand landſcape, we are told,

But nature, which brings out the ſun through the medium of twilight, hath in this caſe alſo provided for the weakneſs of the viſual nerve. Theſe grand ſcenes are gradually introduced. The idea grows imperceptibly to maturity. The great ſtones of yeſterday become rocks to⯑day. Hills, in a few ſtages, are converted into mountains; and we ſee, now and then, the glimpſe of a lake; before the eye is filled with the whole vaſt, ſplendid ſurface of it.

If the imagination be thus fired by theſe romantic ſcenes even in their common ſtate, how much more may we ſuppoſe it wrought on, when they ſtrike us under ſome extraordinary circumſtance of beauty, or terror—in the tran⯑quility of a calm, or the agitation of a ſtorm?

Some ſcenes, particularly of the ſylvan kind, are perhaps beſt ſuited to a calm. They receive their principal beauty from the richneſs of the objects; which is improved by chearful and ſplendid lights.

Other ſcenes, leſs inriched by objects, are meagre in a calm, and glaring ſunſhine. A [124] bright hemiſphere only renders their poverty more apparent. To ſuch ſcenes a ſtorm, which produces ſublime ideas by heaving clouds, and burſting lights, gives an adventitious conſe⯑quence, and leads the eye, in it's purſuit of objects, to the grandeur of the effect.

But there are ſome ſcenes in nature, which are adapted to both circumſtances—none more, than the ſcenery of lakes—none perhaps ſo much.

During five days, which we ſpent among the lakes, we ſaw one of them only, and that but once, under the circumſtance of a perfect calm—when there was neither wind to ruffle, nor cloud to obſcure, the reſplendency of the ſurface—when we ſaw the poet's deſcription li⯑terally tranſlated—

If an artificial mirror, a few inches long, placed oppoſite to a door, or a window, occa⯑ſions often very pleaſing reflections; how noble muſt be the appearance, when an area of many leagues in circumference, is formed into one vaſt mirror; and this mirror ſurrounded by a combination of great, and beautiful objects? The majeſtic repoſe of ſo grand, ſo ſolemn, [125] and ſplendid a ſcene raiſes in the mind a ſort of enthuſiaſtic calm, which ſpreads a mild com⯑placence over the breaſt—a tranquil pauſe of mental operation, which may be felt, but not deſcribed;

When the mind has a little recovered it's tone, from the general impreſſion of ſuch a ſcene; it feels a new pleaſure in examining more minutely the ſeveral pictureſque ingre⯑dients, which produced it—the ſtillneſs, and purity of the air—the ſtrong lights and ſhades —the tints upon the mountains—the poliſh of the lake—and, above all, the reflections diſ⯑played upon it's boſom, when

Other adventitious circumſtances, of leſs value in themſelves, but in union very pictu⯑reſque, add new life, and beauty to ſo ſtill a ſcene—groups of cattle in various parts, driven by the heats of noon, along the ſhores of the [126] lake—and fiſhing-boats extending their nets in dotted circles, and forming tremulous reflec⯑tions from their flaccid ſails.

When we take a view of ſuch a glorious ſcene in all it's ſplendor, we regret, that it ſhould ever be deformed by the rough blaſts of tempeſt: and yet I know not, whether, under this lat⯑ter circumſtance, it may not have a ſtill greater power over the imagination. Every little idea is loſt in the wild uproar and confuſion of ſuch a ſcene.

Nor is it in this diſturbed ſtate, leſs an object of pictureſque beauty. The ſky floating with broken clouds—the mountains half obſcured by driving vapours; and mingling with the ſky in awful obſcurity—the trees ſtraining in the blaſt —and the lake ſtirred from the bottom, and whitening every rocky promontory with it's foam; are all objects highly adapted to the pencil.

In the midſt of the tempeſt, if a bright ſun-beam ſhould ſuddenly break out; and in Shake⯑ſpear's language, light up the ſtorm, the ſcenery of an agitated lake, thus aſſiſted by the powers of contraſt, affects both the imagination, and [127] the eye, in a ſtill greater degree. Some broad mountain-ſide, catching a maſs of light, pro⯑duces an aſtoniſhing effect amidſt the leaden gloom, which ſurrounds it. Perhaps a ſun-beam, half-ſuffuſed in vapour, darting between two mountains, may ſtretch along the water in a lengthened gleam, juſt as the ſkiff paſſes to receive the light upon it's ſwelling ſail: while the ſea-gull, wheeling along the ſtorm, turns it's ſilvery ſide, ſtrongly illumined, againſt the boſom of ſome lurid cloud; and by that ſingle touch of oppoſition, gives double darkneſs to the riſing tempeſt.

Compared with ſuch ſcenes, how inanimate do the ſubjects of Canaletti appear!—how flat his ſquare canals, and formal ſtreet-perſpective; when oppoſed to ſpreading lakes, and ſweeping mountains!—the puny labours of men, to the bold, irregular ſcenery of nature! Nor can we help regretting the loſs of ſuch pictures as might have been produced, if Canaletti's free pencil had been thrown looſe in ſuch a country as this.

But theſe ſcenes are not only ſuperior to the ſubjects of Canaletti; but to thoſe of a greater [128] maſter, the younger Vanderveld. Sea-views, tho grander in ſome reſpects, are, on the whole, inferior to the views before us. Their great deficiency is the want of variety in their ac⯑companiments. One ſpecies of them indeed, and but one, is ſuperior to the utmoſt efforts of the lake—the ſegment of ſome land-locked bay; which, in a ſtorm eſpecially, is a noble ſubject: the waters are more agitated, and form bolder ſwells; which, of courſe, receive grander effects of light. Here too, inſtead of the dancing ſkiff, we are preſented with the terrors of ſhipwreck. The beacon alſo, ſeated on a bleak eminence, marks the coaſt with pe⯑culiar danger; while the diſtant port-town, diſcovered by a gleam of light under the ſha⯑dowing cliff, makes the ſcene ſtill more affect⯑ing by the excluſion of hope within ſight of ſecurity.

I have only farther to obſerve, in general, on the ſcenes of this romantic country, that they are ſubject to violent convulſions of vari⯑ous kinds. Every thing, here, is in the grand ſtyle. The very elements, when they do miſ⯑chief, [129] keep in uniſon with it, and perform all their operations with an air of dignity.

Upon ſome of the mountains, particularly on Croſs-fell, a blaſt, called in the country, a helm-wind, will ſometimes ariſe ſuddenly, of a nature ſo violent, that nothing can withſtand it's force. The experienced mountaineer, as he traverſes thoſe wild regions, foreſeeing it's approach, throws himſelf flat upon the ground; and lets it paſs over him. It's rage is momen⯑tary: and the air inſtantly ſettles into it's former calm.

Theſe hurricanes are not uncommon in other mountainous countries. Mr. Miſſon particu⯑larly ſpeaking of the mountains near Inſpruck, tells us, that the winds often force their way through their hollow parts, as if through pipes, and raiſe ſuch furious hurricanes, as will ſometimes root up, not only trees; but even rocks.

The lake too is ſubject to ſomething of the ſame kind of emotion; which the inhabitants of the country call a bottom-wind. Often, [130] when all is calm, and reſplendent around; as the boat is plying it's ſteady way; the boat⯑man will deſcry at a diſtance (happy that it is ſo) a violent ebullition of the water. He will ſee it heave and ſwell; forced upwards by ſome internal convulſion; and ſuffering all the agitation of a ſtorm. But as ſoon as the con⯑fined air has ſpent it's force, the agitated ſur⯑face immediately ſubſides.

Of theſe bottom-winds alſo we meet with frequent accounts: particularly in ſome of the Sweediſh lakes, which are very ſubject to them.

Something of this kind, ſeems to have given Spencer an idea, which he introduces in his idle lake:

Often alſo a vaſt body of water, collected in the entrails of a mountain, it is ſaid, will force a way through it's ſide; and ruſhing down the declivity, take it's courſe through the valley; where it is not uncommon to ſee the marks of it's devaſtation.

[131]The ſame effects are ſometimes produced by water-ſpouts, which, in countries like theſe, are collected, as at ſea, and fall upon moun⯑tains.

The avalanche, or fall of ſnow, is common here too, as in other mountainous countries. Inundations alſo are occaſioned by it's ſudden melting.

But the fall of cliffs, and large fragments of mountains, looſened by rain, and froſt, pro⯑duces one of the greateſt ſcenes of terror, which belongs to this romantic country; and to which we are chiefly indebted for that variety of fractured rock, and broken ground, which are among it's greateſt ornaments. Vir⯑gil has given us a deſcription of this kind in great perfection.

[132] The immediate effect is firſt deſcribed ‘Miſcent ſe maria, & nigrae attolluntur arenae.’ After a ſolemn pauſe, the grand ecchoes, and diſtant repetitions, lengthened out from the rocky ſcenery around, are nobly introduced.

Having thus collected a few of thoſe general ideas, with which the ſcenery of this country abounds, we ſhall now illuſtrate them in a tour through ſome of it's moſt romantic parts.

SECT. X.

AMBLESIDE is an ordinary village; but delightfully ſeated. A cove of lofty mountains half incircles it on the north; and the lake of Wynander opens in front; near the ſhores of which it ſtands.

The ground between it and the mountains, which are at leaſt two miles diſtant, is various, broken, and woody. A mountain-torrent, about half a mile from the village, forms a grand caſcade; but it was ſo overgrown with thickets, that we had no point of view to ſee it from, but the top; which is the moſt unpictureſque we could have.

From this fall the ſtream ruſhes along a narrow valley, or gill, luxuriantly adorned with rock, and wood: and winding through it about a mile, emerges near the head of the lake, into which it enters. This gill was [134] ſo overgrown with wood, that it appeared al⯑moſt impervious: but if a path could be carried through it, and the whole a little opened, it might be made very beautiful. A ſcene in itſelf ſo pleaſing, with a noble caſcade at one end, and an extenſive lake at the other, could not fail, to ſtrike the imagination in the moſt forcible manner.

From Ambleſide we ſet out for Bowneſs, to take a view of the lake. Part of the road we had traverſed, the day before, from Ken⯑dal; and were a ſecond time amuſed by the woody landſcape it afforded; and it's ſudden, interrupted openings to the lake, before the whole burſt of that magnificent ſcene was preſented.—From the higher grounds, above Bowneſs, we had an elevated view of it's whole extent.

Windermere, or Winander-water, as it is ſometimes called, extends from north to ſouth, about twelve or fourteen miles. In breadth, it rarely exceeds two; and is ſeldom narrower than one. The ſouthern end winds a little towards the weſt. The northern, and weſt⯑tern coaſts are wild, and mountainous—the eaſtern, and ſouthern are more depreſſed; in []

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[135] ſome parts cultivated, in others woody. Op⯑poſite to Bowneſs, the lake is divided into two parts by a cluſter of iſlands; one of which is larger than the reſt.

Bowneſs is the capital port-town on the lake; if we may adopt a dignified ſtyle, which the grandeur of the country naturally ſuggeſts. It is the great mart for fiſh, and charcoal; both which commodities are largely imported here; and carried by land into the country. It's harbour is crouded with veſſels of various kinds; ſome of which are uſed merely as pleaſure-boats in navigating the lake.—In one of theſe we embarked, and ſtanding out to ſea; made for the great iſland; which we were informed was a very intereſting ſcene.

We ſoon arrived at it; and landing at the ſouth end, we ordered our boat to meet us at the north point; meaning to traverſe it's little boundaries.

A more ſequeſtered ſpot cannot eaſily be conceived. Nothing can be more excluded from the noiſe, and interruption of life; or abound with a greater variety of thoſe cir⯑cumſtances, which make retirement pleaſing.

The whole iſland contains about thirty acres. It's form is oblong: it's ſhores irregular; retiring into bays, and broken into creeks. [136] The ſurface too is uneven; and a ſort of little Appennine ridge runs through the middle of it; falling down, in all ſhapes, into the water. —Like it's great mother-iſland, the ſouthern part wears a ſmoother aſpect, than the northern, which is broken, and rocky.

Formerly the whole iſland was one entire grove. At preſent, it is rather bare of wood; tho there are ſome large oaks upon it.

One of it's greateſt beauties ariſes from that irregular little Appennine, juſt mentioned, which extends from one end to the other. This circumſtance hides it's inſularity, by con⯑necting it with the continent. In every part, except on the high grounds, you ſtand in an amphitheatre compoſed of the nobleſt ob⯑jects; and the lake performing the office of a ſunk fence, the grandeur of each part of the continent is called in, by turns, to aid the inſignificance of the iſland.

The oblong form alſo of the lake gives the iſland another great advantage. On both it's ſides, the oppoſite ſhores of the continent are little more than half a mile diſtant: but at the northern and ſouthern points there is a large ſheet of water. The views therefore, as you walk round, are continually changing [137] through all the varieties of diſtance; which are ſtill farther improved by a little degree of obliquity, in the poſition of the iſland.

He who ſhould take upon him to ornament ſuch a ſcene as this, would have only to con⯑duct his walk and plantations, ſo as to take advantage of the grand parts of the continent around him;—to hide what is offenſive—and, amidſt a choice of great and pictureſque ſcenes, to avoid ſhewing too much. As he would have, at all times, an exuberance of water, he ſhould not be oſtentatious in diſ⯑playing it. It would be a relief to the eye ſometimes to exclude it wholly; and to in⯑troduce a mere ſylvan ſcene, with diſtant mountains riſing above it. A tranſient glance of the water, with ſome well-choſen objects beyond it, would often alſo have a good effect; and ſometimes a grand expanſion of the whole. —Thus the objects around, tho unmanage⯑able in themſelves, might be brought under command by the aſſiſtance of an inſular ſitu⯑ation.

With regard to the ornamenting of ſuch a ſcene, an elegant neatneſs is all the improver [138] ſhould aim at. Amidſt theſe grand objects of nature, it would be abſurd to catch the eye with the affected decorations of art. The ſimple idea he would deſire to preſerve, is, what the place itſelf ſuggeſts, a ſequeſtered retreat. The boundaries ſhould in a great meaſure be thicket—on the eaſtern coaſt eſ⯑pecially, which is oppoſed to the only culti⯑vated part of the country: and if there be any thing in that part worth giving to the eye, it might be given through ſome unaffected opening.

For thickets, the wild wood of the coun⯑try would abundantly ſuffice. It grows luxu⯑riantly, and would ſoon produce it's effect.

The middle parts of the iſland, with a few clumps properly diſpoſed, might be neat paſturage, with flocks, and herds; which would contraſt agreeably with the rough ſcenery around.

The houſe, at preſent, ſtands too formally in the middle of the iſland. It might ſtand better near the ſouthern promontory. The air of this ſweet retreat is ſaid to be very pure.^*

[139]This iſland belonged formerly to the Philip⯑ſons, a family of note in Weſtmoreland. Du⯑ring the civil wars, two of them, an elder, and a younger brother, ſerved the king. The former, who was the proprietor of it, com⯑manded a regiment: the latter was a major.

The major, whoſe name was Robert, was a man of great ſpirit, and enterprize; and for his many ſeats of perſonal bravery, had ob⯑tained, among the Oliverians of thoſe parts, the appellation of Robin the Devil.

After the war ſubſided, Col. Briggs, a ſteady friend to the uſurpation, reſiding at Kendal, under the double character of a lead⯑ing magiſtrate (for he was a juſtice of the peace) and an active commander, held the country in awe. This perſon having heard, that Major Philipſon was at his brother's houſe on the iſland in Windermere, reſolved, if poſſible, to ſeize, and puniſh a man, who [140] had made himſelf ſo particularly obnoxious. With this view he muſtered a party, which he thought ſufficient; and went himſelf on the enterprize. How it was conducted, my au⯑thority ^* does not inform us—whether he got together the navigation of the lake, and blockaded the place by ſea; or whether, he landed, and carried on his approaches in form. Neither do we learn the ſtrength of the gar⯑riſon within; nor of the works without: tho every gentleman's houſe was, at that time, in ſome degree a fortreſs. All we learn, is, that Major Philipſon endured a ſeige of eight, or ten days with great gallantry; till his bro⯑ther, the colonel, hearing of his diſtreſs, raiſed a party, and relieved him.

It was now the major's turn to make re⯑prizals. He put himſelf therefore at the head of a little troop of horſe, and rode to Kendal, where Col. Briggs reſided. Here being in⯑formed, that the colonel was at prayers, (for it was on a ſunday morning) he ſtationed his men properly in the avenues; and himſelf, armed, rode directly into the church. It is [141] ſaid, he intended to ſeize the colonel, and carry him off: but as this ſeems to have been totally impracticable, it is rather probable, that his intention was to kill him on the ſpot; and in the midſt of the confuſion, to eſcape. Whatever his intention was, it was fruſtrated; for Briggs happened to be elſewhere.

The congregation, as might be expected, was thrown into great confuſion on ſeeing an armed man, on horſeback, enter the church; and the major taking the advantage of their aſtoniſhment, turned his horſe round, and rode quietly out. But having given an alarm, he was preſently aſſaulted as he left the church: and being ſeized; his girths were cut; and he was unhorſed.

At this inſtant, his party made a furious attack on the aſſailants; and the major, kill⯑ing with his own hand, the man, who had ſeized him, clapped the ſaddle, ungirthed as it was, upon his horſe; and vaulting into it, rode full ſpeed through the ſtreets of Kendal, calling to his men to follow him; and with his whole party made a ſafe retreat to his aſylum in the lake.—The action marked the man. Many knew him; and they who did not, knew as well from the exploit, that it [142] could be nobody, but Robin the Devil.— Such are the calamities of civil war! After the direful effects of public oppoſition ceaſe; revenge, and private malice long keep alive the animoſity of individuals.

SECT. XI.

HAVING thus taken a view of a place abounding with ſo many beauties, we found our bark waiting for us at the northern point; and ſetting ſail, inſtead of returning to Bowneſs, we ſtood for Ambleſide. We could have wiſhed to navigate the whole lake; but it was too great an undertaking for mea⯑ſured time; and we contented ourſelves with going in queſt of the beauties of it's northern diviſion.

As we left the iſland, the ſcene opening on every ſide, we found ourſelves ſurrounded with objects of great magnificence.

On the weſtern coaſt ran a continuous range of craggy mountains, thinly ſcattered over with trees, which had formerly overſpread it. It is a part of Furneſs-fell; the whole of which [144] we had before ſeen, in one vaſt combination of diſtant mountains, bounding our view over the bay of Cartmel. The part we now ſaw ſtretches about two leagues along the lake.

On the eaſtern ſide, we paſſed ſeveral ſmall iſlands, ſome of which were well-wooded; others were mere rocks with low, twiſted trees burſting from their crevices; all of them pro⯑bably worth viſiting, if our time had allowed. Through the openings of theſe iſlands, we had partial views of the eaſtern coaſt; till having advanced further through this little archipelago into the body of the lake, the whole eaſtern ſkreen opened to the eye—This ſide, tho leſs magnificent than the mountains of Furneſs on the left, contains however more variety. It is broken into hills; ſome of which are culti⯑vated, and others covered with wood.

But, on the whole, neither of theſe ſide-ſcreens is an object purely pictureſque. The weſtern ſhore is great indeed; but it is an unvaried maſs of heavy greatneſs. The eaſtern is broken too much, and wants both unity and grandeur. When we rode through it in the morning, it made an admirable fore-ground in almoſt every part: but we now found it leſs qualified as a diſtance.

[145]The ſide-ſcreens however are the leaſt eſ⯑ſential parts of this vaſt ſcene. The front is the capital part—that part, on which the eye immediately ſettles. It conſiſts of that im⯑menſe body of barrier mountains, which ſepa⯑rate the two counties of Cumberland and Weſt⯑moreland; appearing in this view to be drawn up in a ſort of tumultuary array, mountain beyond mountain, as far as the eye could reach.

As we advanced in our voyage, this great diviſion of the lake (from the iſlands to it's northern point,) tho really oblong, aſſumed the form of a vaſt circular baſon: and the rough mountains, ariſing round it, appeared, from ſo ſplended an area, with new grandeur. Indeed contraſt gave an additional force to the character of each.

This great ſcene however, ſurveyed thus from a centre, was rather amuſing, than pic⯑tureſque. It was too extenſive for the painter's uſe. A ſmall portion of the circle, reduced to paper, or canvas, could have conveyed no idea; and a large ſegment would have exceeded all the powers of the pallet.

[146]It is certainly an error in landſcape-painting, to comprehend too much. It turns a picture into a map. Nothing is more deluſive, than to ſuppoſe, that every view, which pleaſes in nature, will pleaſe in painting. In nature, the pleaſure ariſes from the eye's roaming from one paſſage to another; and making it's re⯑marks on each. In painting, (as the eye is there confined within certain limits,) it ariſes from ſeeing ſome ſelect ſpot adorned agreeably to the rules of art. And the painter, who wiſhes to make a pleaſing compoſition, muſt not include more than he can thus adorn. His fore-ground, and his diſtance muſt bear a proportion to each other; which cannot be the caſe, if he include a vaſt compaſs. For as he can only take in a certain quantity of fore-ground; the removed parts of his picture ſhould bear a proper proportion to it. Well-managed exceptions may be found: yet ſtill, in general, the rule is good.

But altho the whole of the amphitheatre we are now ſurveying, was, in it's full dimenſions, no ſubject for a picture; yet it exhibited many parts which, as diſtances, were purely pictu⯑reſque; and afforded an admirable collection of mountain ſtudies for a painter. I ſpeak [147] particularly of the front ſkreen, in which the lines of the mountains were beautiful, and various—the interſections alſo of thoſe lines— the promontories; with the deep ſhades they projected—and above all, the mountain colour⯑ing, which was the moſt ſplendid we had ever ſeen. Airy tints of vivid yellow, green, and purple, we could priſmatically ſeparate. Bright ſpots of effulgence alſo appeared; which could not well be denominated of any colour. Yet all, tho diſplayed in ſuch rich profuſion, were blended with ſuch nice harmony; and tem⯑pered ſo modeſtly by the grey miſtineſs of diſtance; that gorgeous as theſe hues were, there was not a ſingle colour, that glared, or was out of place.

We had now made a conſiderable progreſs in our voyage. The ſide-ſcreen on the left, kept ſtill the ſame diſtance; but the mountains in front, as we approached them, began now to ſeparate into near, and diſtant grounds: [148] and the rocks and woods, which, in the painter's language, adhered before; now broke away in a variety of projections; tho ſtill o'erſpread with ſoft colouring, and tender ſha⯑dow.

As we approached nearer, this ſoftneſs of colouring took a more vivid hue; and the pro⯑montories, and rocks continued ſtill projecting to the eye with new force of ſhade: while the mountains, which ranged behind, began more and more to retire. The length of the lake, tho it affected the nearer grounds, made no change in the diſtant mountains: ſo that the comparative diſtance between the fore-ground and them, was now much greater, than it had been.

An appearance of this kind is beautifully deſcribed by Virgil. When Aeneas came in ſight of Italy, he firſt ſaw a hazy appearance of hills, and low land;

On a nearer approach, he diſcovered the temple of Minerva, which, being ſeated on [149] high ground, ſeemed, as if it ſtood on a pro⯑montory hanging over the ſea.

But as he came cloſe in with the land, the rocks took their proper form; and the temple retreated to a diſtance.

As we approached the end of the lake, the promontories and rocks aſſumed new height; and almoſt hid the mountains, which continued to retire beyond them; while the form of the nearer grounds began alſo to vary. The water, which, a little before, ſeemed in contact with the rocks, appeared now to waſh a meadow; beyond which the rocks formed a firſt diſtance.

The ſcenery put us in mind of Berghem; who often choſe a meadow, with a rock behind it, to relieve his cattle. His rock is generally left plain, and ſimple, almoſt with⯑out a ſingle varying tint; a mere maſs of tender ſhadow: while the cattle are touched with infinite force and ſpirit. We ſaw the picture realized. Berghem's imagination could not [150] have formed a better back-ground, nor a more beautiful group. Such combinations are plea⯑ſing in life, in painting, and in poetry.

Through the meadow at the bottom of the rocky ground, two rivers, the Bratha, and the Rotha, wind their way; and uniting be⯑fore they meet the lake, enter it with a full, but quiet ſtream; and furniſh it with large ſupplies.

The Rotha takes it's riſe from mountains about twelve miles diſtant; and forms the two lakes of Graſmer, and Rydal, before it enter Windermere.

The Bratha riſes from the pike of Langdale, in a mountainous, and rocky country; and [151] after a turbulent courſe, buries at length all it's inquietude in the peaceful waters of the lake, where it's name is no more remembred.

Our boatmen having conveyed us a con⯑ſiderable way up theſe united ſtreams, landed us on the meadows, within half a mile of Ambleſide.

Before we leave this grand expanſe of water, I cannot forbear remarking a few circum⯑ſtances, that relate to it.

In the firſt place we admired it's extraordinary brightneſs. It is all over nitidis argenteus undis. The eye can ſee diſtinctly, in ſmooth water, through a medium of at leaſt a dozen yards; and view the inhabitants of it's deep receſſes, as they play in ſhoals, and

How far the tranſparency of water is an addition to a ſcene, I cannot take upon me to ſay. Moſt of the lakes in Scotland, which I ſaw, are of a moſſy-tinctured hue; and yet had their full effect in landſcape.—As a de⯑tached object however the tranſparent lake is [152] incomparably the moſt beautiful. I ſhould ſuppoſe alſo, that the more brilliant the water is, the more brilliant are the reflections.

Among the great variety of fiſh, which inhabit the extenſive waters of this lake, the char is the moſt remarkable. It is near twice the ſize of a herring. It's back is of an olive-green: it's belly of a light vermilion; ſoften⯑ing in ſome parts into white; and changing into a deep red, at the inſertion of the fins.

A parcel of char, juſt caught and thrown together into the luggage-pool of a boat, makes a pleaſant harmony of colouring. The green olive-tint prevails; to which a ſpirit is here and there given by a light bluſh of vermilion; and by a ſtrong touch of red, if a fin happen to appear. Theſe pleaſing colours are aſſiſted by the bright ſilvery lights, which play over the whole; for nothing reflects light more beautifully than the ſcales of fiſh.

Char are caught only in the winter-ſeaſon, when twenty dozen in a day, are ſometimes taken by a ſingle boat. In ſummer they re⯑tire to the rocky caves below, ſome of which are ſaid to be unfathomable: nor do they breed [153] in any lake, in which ſuch deep receſſes are not found.

The char-fiſhing is a very profitable branch of trade to the proprietors of the lake. The whole area of it is divided into five diſtricts. An inviſible line croſſes the ſurface from crag to crag—a limit, which the fiſherman cor⯑rectly knows. But tho the ſpace of each fiſhery is nearly equal, yet the produce is otherwiſe; the fiſh running in ſhoals ſometimes in one part of the lake, and ſometimes in another.—When the farmer rents land, he can judge of his bargain by the ſurface. When he rents water, he muſt take his chance.

But fiſh are not the only inhabitants of this lake. Innumerable flights of water-fowl fre⯑quent it's extenſive plain. The naturaliſt may declare their names, and claſſes: the painter has only to remark the variety of forms, in which they appear—ſometimes ſitting in black groups upon the water, riſing and ſinking with the waves: at other times in the air, circling the lake in figured files; or with he⯑ſitating wing ſeizing ſome ſtation on it's banks, or ſurface.—With regard to theſe minute ap⯑pendages [154] of landſcape, let me only ſuggeſt, that birds ſhould never be introduced upon the wing, near the eye. Quick motion, of any kind, repreſented, is an abſurdity: and the longer you look, the more abſurd it becomes. But at a little diſtance the motion of a bird appears ſo ſlow, that the eye will endure a degree of improbability in the repreſentation of it.

I have only to add, that this magnificent piece of water ſuffers little change, in appear⯑ance, from ſeaſons; but preſerves the dignity of it's character under all circumſtances; ſel⯑dom depreſſed, and as ſeldom raiſed above it's ordinary level—Even in the moſt violent rains, when the country is drenched in water, when every rill is ſwelled into a river; and the mountains pour down floods through new channels; the lake maintains the ſame equal temper; and tho it may ſpread a few yards over it's loweſt ſhores (which is the utmoſt it does) yet it's increaſe is ſeldom the object of obſervation: nor does the ſeverity of the greateſt drought make any conſiderable altera⯑tion in it's bounds. Once, (it is recorded,) [155] it roſe ſeven feet in perpendicular height. It's boundaries would then certainly appear in⯑larged; but this was a very uncommon caſe.

But if it be not raiſed by rains, it is often greatly agitated by winds. Of all the lakes of this country, none lies ſo expoſed, through the whole length of it, to ſudden ſqualls, as this: nor does any piece of freſh water in the whole iſland perhaps emulate the grandeur of a diſturbed ocean ſo much. It is of courſe navigated with great caution, whenever there is a tendency to ſtormy weather. Many acci⯑dents have ſhewn the neceſſity of this caution: but one made ſuch an impreſſion on the country, as a century cannot efface. Several people in the neighbourhood of Bowneſs, having been attending a fair at Hawkſhed, a town on the other ſide of the lake, had embarked, in the evening, on their return home. But before this little voyage could be performed, ſo vio⯑lent a ſtorm aroſe, that their boats foundered; and no fewer than forty-ſeven perſons periſhed^*. []

SECT. XII.

FROM Ambleſide we propoſed to ſet out for Keſwick; being obliged, for want of time, to leave one ſcene behind us, which we wiſhed much to viſit—that of Furneſs-abbey. But the loſs was in a great meaſure made up, and our curioſity ſatisfied, by the accounts and drawings of Mr. John Smith^*, an ingenious young painter, who had been ſtudying the ruins on the ſpot.

Furneſs-abbey lies about twenty miles from Ambleſide, beyond thoſe mountains, which range on the weſtern ſide of Windermere. It is ſituated in a beautiful valley, in the midſt [158] of a wide, open, cultivated country, which riſes every where in large ſwells; but is no where diverſified by any objects of pictureſque beauty. In ſo inanimate a ſcene we are ſur⯑prized to find a valley of ſo different a ſtruc⯑ture; adorned with rock, and wood; through which winds a rapid ſtream.

At the entrance of this ſcene ſtands the village of Dalton; from whence the valley, winding about four miles in one large, ſweep⯑ing, narrow curve, opens on a rich view of Cartmel-bay.

About a mile within the valley, in the wideſt part, ſtands the abbey. It ſeems to have been conſtructed in a good ſtyle of Gothic architecture; and has ſuffered, from the hand of time, only ſuch depredations, as pictureſque beauty requires. The intire plan of the abbey-church, and a large fragment of it, ſtill re⯑main. The tower in the centre, which ſeems never to have been lofty, is perforated with large arches. At the end of the weſtern aile ſtand the ruins of a low, ſimple tower, where the bells of the abbey are ſuppoſed to have hung: and from the ſouth aile projects a building, which is called the chapter-houſe. The cloyſters are continued in the ſame di⯑rection; [159] one wall of which, and all the in⯑ternal ſtructure are gone. At the end of the cloyſters ariſes a very rich and pictureſque fragment, which is called the ſchool.

Round the whole runs an irregular wall, which croſſing the valley in two places, and mounting it's ſides, makes a circuit of about two miles. In many parts it is hid with trees, or ſhrubs: in ſome parts, where it is diſcovered, it is beautiful; and in very few, diſguſting.

In this wall are two gates, one to the north, and the other to the weſt; which ſeem to have been the only outlets of the place. That to the north has been the great entrance: the other has more the appearance of a poſtern with a porter's lodge.

The proprietor of this noble ſcene is lord George Cavendiſh, who is a faithful guardian of it, and, I am informed, takes care to pre⯑vent any further depredations.

From Ambleſide we ſet out for Keſwick, which is about eighteen miles farther north.

We were now about to enter the middle, and moſt formidable part, of that vaſt chain [160] of mountains, which I have before men⯑tioned, as the barrier between Cumberland, and Weſtmoreland; and which promiſed, from a diſtant view, to preſent us with a great variety of very grand ſcenery. Our morning's voyage on the ſmooth expanſe of the lake aided our preſent expedition with all the powers of contraſt.

But before we enter theſe majeſtic ſcenes, it may be neceſſary to premiſe a diſtinction between a ſcene of mountains, and a mountain ſcene.

Mountainous countries moſt commonly pre⯑ſent only the former. The objects are grand; but they are huddled together, confuſed, with⯑out connection; and the painter conſiders them only as ſtudies; and forms them into pictures by imaginary combinations.

We ſometimes however ſee a mountainous country, in which nature itſelf hath made theſe beautiful combinations—where one part relates to another, and the effect of a whole is produced. This is what I call a mountain ſcene.

[161]Of this latter kind is almoſt the whole road between Ambleſide, and Keſwick. The mountains are naturally combined into ſcenes; which if not, in all parts, purely pictureſque; are, in all parts, marked with the great lines of compoſition; tho often on too wide a ſcale for imitation.

The firſt object of our attention, on leaving Ambleſide, was Rydal-hall, the ſeat of Sir Michael le Fleming. It ſtands on a riſing lawn. On the north and eaſt it is ſheltered by lofty mountains. In front, towards the ſouth, it commands a noble diſtance, conſiſt⯑ing of the extenſive vale of Windermere, bound⯑ed by the lake. The mountain, on the north, called Rydal-cragg, riſing cloſe behind the houſe, is high and rocky. That on the eaſt, is of inferior ſize, but is covered with wood. Between theſe mountains runs a narrow, wood⯑ed valley; through which a conſiderable ſtream, falling down a quick deſcent, along a rocky channel, forms a ſucceſſion of caſcades.

One of theſe, tho but a miniature, is ſo beautiful both in itſelf, and in it's accompani⯑ments, as to deſerve particular notice.—It is [162] ſeen from a ſummer-houſe; before which it's rocky cheeks circling on each ſide form a little area; appearing through the window like a picture in a frame. The water falls within a few yards of the eye, which being rather above it's level, has a long perſpective view of the ſtream, as it hurries from the higher grounds; tumbling, in various, little breaks, through it's rocky channel, darkened with thicket, till it arrive at the edge of the precipice, before the window; from whence it ruſhes into the baſon, which is formed by nature in the native rock. The dark colour of the ſtone, taking ſtill a deeper tinge from the wood, which hangs over it, ſets off to wonderful advantage the ſparkling luſtre of the ſtream; and produces an uncommon effect of light. It is this effect indeed, from which the chief beauty of the ſcene ariſes. In every repreſentation, truly pictureſque, the ſhade ſhould greatly overbalance the light. The face of nature, under the glow of noon, has rarely this beautiful appearance. The artiſt therefore generally courts her charms in a morning, or an evening hour, when the ſha⯑dows are deep, and extended; and when the ſloping ſun-beam affords rather a catching, []

[163] than a glaring light. In this little exhibition we had an admirable idea of the magical effect of light pictureſquely diſtributed.

On leaving Rydal, we entered a vaſt chaſm between two mountains, which may properly be called a portal to the ſcenes we approached.

On paſſing it, we were preſented with a grand ſcene of mountains; adorned by a lake, called Rydal-water, on the left; not indeed adequate to the greatneſs of the ſurrounding objects; but of ſuch beauty, as immediately to fix the eye. In the midſt of it is a rocky iſland, covered with wood. The little river Rotha, winding round a promontory, enters it on the north.

Leaving theſe ſcenes, we aſcended a very ſteep hill; from the ſummit of which was diſplayed a proſpect of deſolation in a very dignified form. It was an amphitheatre of craggy mountains, which appeared to ſweep round a circumference of at leaſt thirty miles; tho in fact, perhaps it did not include half that ſpace. But great objects naturally form a [164] wide ſcale of menſuration.—The ſoul involun⯑tarily ſhuddered at the firſt aſpect of ſuch a ſcene.—At the diſtant part of it lay Graſmer-lake; which being ſo far removed from the eye, ſeemed only a bright ſpot at the bottom of the mountains.

To this lake the road directly led. A nearer approach preſented us with ſome beautiful views on it's banks; tho, on the whole, it's principal merit conſiſted in refreſhing the eye with a ſmooth expanſe of water, in the midſt of ſuch a variety of rough mountain-ſcenery. As we ſkirted it's limits, it ſeemed larger, than that of Rydal; and tho it appeared like a ſpot at a diſtance, became now the principal feature of this vaſt vale.

From hence the road led us into another amphitheatre, wild, and immenſe like the former; but varied greatly in the ſhapes of the mountains; which were here more broken and irregular; ſhooting, in many places, into craggy ſummits, and broken points.

And yet even theſe wild ſcenes, covered, as they are, with craggs, and ſcarce furniſhing the leaſt tint of vegetation, are ſubject to rights, [165] for which none but the hard inhabitant would think it worth his while to contend. You ſee every where their bare, and barren ſides marked with partition-walls—ſtones with⯑out morter, laid upon each other, croſſing at right angles; and running down ſteeps, and along precipices, where the eye can ſcarce conceive they could have any foundation. All theſe partitions of deſolation, as they may be called, have their inhabitants; each maintain⯑ing a few ſtunted ſheep, which picking the meagre tufts of graſs, which grow under the ſheltered ſides of craggs, and ſtones, earn, like their owners, a hard ſubſiſtence.

At the concluſion of this immenſe amphi⯑theatre, into which we laſt entered, we found an exit, equal to the ſcene—another grand mountain-gap, or portal, through which the road carried us up another ſteep mountain— At the top we pauſed, and looking back on the ſcenes we had left, were preſented with a view, which wholly filled the imagination.

It was a retroſpect of the amphitheatre we had paſſed; but in a ſtyle ſtill grander, than the proſpect of it. It was more ſtrongly marked with the great out-lines of compoſi⯑tion; and was, of courſe, more a whole.

[166]A wide vale, thrown by perſpective into a circular form, lay before the eye. Here alſo the diſtant part ſeemed occupied by the lake of Graſmer; but a greyiſh miſt left the idea ambiguous. Beyond the lake aroſe various mountains, which bounded it: and ſtill beyond theſe, appeared the blue heads of other moun⯑tains. Thoſe, which formed the ſide-ſcreens of the vale, advancing forward from the diſtant mountains beyond the lake, approached the eye in a grand ſweep, by the eaſy gradations of perſpective. The promontories, and re⯑ceſſes, of the more removed parts were mark⯑ed by a faint ſhadow; till by degrees both the ſide-ſcreens, growing boldly on the eye, were loſt behind the two cheeks of the craggy por⯑tal, which, with the road between them, formed a fore-ground equal to the ſcene. The whole view is entirely of the horrid kind. Not a tree appeared to add the leaſt chearful⯑neſs to it.

With regard to the adorning of ſuch a ſcene with figures, nothing could ſuit it better than a group of banditti. Of all the ſcenes I ever ſaw, this was the moſt adapted to the per⯑petration of ſome dreadful deed. The imagi⯑nation can hardly avoid conceiving a band of robbers lurking under the ſhelter of ſome pro⯑jecting [167] rock; and expecting the traveller, as he approaches along the valley below.

Nothing however of this kind was ever heard of in the country. The depredations of foxes, are the only depredations, to which the cottages in theſe vallies are expoſed. Our poſtilion pointed to a rugged part on the ſum⯑mit of a rocky mountain on the left, which, he told us, was the great harbour of theſe animals. Here they bred; from hence they infeſted the country; and to this inacceſſible aſylum they retreated in the hour of alarm.

After we left the two amphitheatres, juſt deſcribed, we met with nothing very intereſt⯑ing, till we came to the celebrated paſs, known by the name of Dunmail-Raiſe, which divides the counties of Cumberland, and Weſt⯑moreland.

The hiſtory of this rude monument, which conſiſts of a monſtrous pile of ſtones, heaped on each ſide of an earthen mound, is little known. It was probably intended to mark a diviſion, not between thoſe two northern counties; but rather between the two king⯑doms of England, and Scotland, in elder times, when the Scottiſh border extended [168] beyond it's preſent bounds. And indeed this chain of mountains ſeems to be a much more na⯑tural diviſion of the two kingdoms, in this part, than a little river in a champaign country, like the Eſk, which now divides them. It is ſaid, this diviſion was made by a Saxon prince, on the death of Dunmail the laſt king of Cum⯑berland, who was here ſlain in battle.—But for whatever purpoſe this rude pile was fabri⯑cated, it hath yet ſuffered little change in it's dimenſions; and is one of thoſe monuments of antiquity, which may be characterized by the ſcriptural phraſe of remaining to this very day.

The entrance ^* into Cumberland preſents us with a ſcene very ſtrongly marked with the ſublime; grander, tho leſs pictureſque, than the amphitheatre we had paſſed. It is a viſta of mountains purſuing each other, if I may ſo phraſe it, through an eaſy deſcent [169] of not leſs than ſix, or ſeven miles; and cloſed at the diſtant end by Wyburn-lake, a conſi⯑derable piece of water.

This ſcene is great in all it's parts; and in it's general compoſition. The mountains, of which the ſide-ſcreens of this viſta are formed, fall generally in eaſy lines, and range at the diſtance of a mile and a half, or two miles, from each other. But it is difficult to aſcertain a diſtance of this kind: for as the m [...]ntain riſes gradually from it's baſe, we c [...]not eaſily fix where it begins. It is enough to obſerve, that through the whole immenſity of the view before us there appeared no diſ⯑proportion.

Among the mountains, which compoſe this magnificent ſcene, there is one on the right, of ſuperior grandeur; ſtretching, near a league and a half, in one vaſt concave ridge. This mountain is known by the name of Helvellin; with which three mountains only, through this vaſt region, diſpute the point of altitude— Croſs-fell—Graſmer—and Skiddaw. The in⯑habitants of it's invirons give it univerſally for Helvellin: but, I believe, it is no where elſe treated with ſuch reſpect.

[170]Beſides the general grandeur of this view, there is a wonderful variety in the ſhapes of the ſeveral mountains, which compoſe it. Na⯑ture's viſtas are never formed by rule, and compaſs. Whenever ſhe deviates towards a re⯑gular ſhape, ſhe does it with that negligent air of greatneſs, which marks ſublimity of genius. No attention to trifles characterizes her ſcenes. Her very regularities diſcover thoſe ſtrong touches of contraſt, that range of imagination, which deſtroys every idea of ſameneſs.

Of all the rude ſcenery we had yet viſited, none equalled this in deſolation. The whole is one immenſity of barrenneſs. The moun⯑tains are univerſally overſpread with craggs, and ſtones, which are ſometimes ſcattered careleſsly over their ſurfaces; and ſometimes appear ſhivering in caſcades of crumbling frag⯑ments down their ſides. Helvellin, through all it's ſpace, is one intire pavement. Nor is the view disfigured by the abundance of this more ordinary ſpecies of rock^*. In it's vaſtneſs the parts coaleſce; and become a [171] whole.—The fractured rock, ſo beautiful in itſelf, is calculated rather for ſmaller pictures. Here it would be loſt.

Theſe vaſt regions, whoſe parts are thus abſorbed in the immenſity of a whole, have the ſtrongeſt effect on the imagination. They diſtend the mind, and fix it in a kind of ſtupor:

We now approached the lake of Wyburn, or Thirlmer, as it is ſometimes called; an object every way ſuited to the ideas of deſola⯑tion, which ſurround it. No tufted verdure graces it's banks, nor hanging woods throw rich reflections on it's ſurface: but every form, which it ſuggeſts, is ſavage, and deſolate. It is about two miles in length, and half as much in breadth, ſurrounded by barren mountains, and precipices, ſhelving into it in all direc⯑tions:

[172] And to impreſs ſtill more the characteriſtic idea of the place, the road hanging over it, ran along the edge of a precipice.—One pecu⯑liar feature alſo belongs to it. About the middle of the lake, the ſhores, on each ſide, nearly uniting, are joined by an Alpine bridge. I did not obſerve any pictureſque beauty ari⯑ſing from this circumſtance: but rather a formality; at leaſt from the ſtand, where I viewed it. A communication however of this kind rather increaſes the romantic idea.

Beyond Wyburn-lake we deviated into a mere ſcene of mountains. Nature ſeemed to have aimed at ſome mode of compoſition, which ſhe had left unfiniſhed; but it was difficult to conceive, what ſpecies of landſcape ſhe meant; a valley, or a woody receſs; a barren ſcene, or a cultivated one. There was a mix⯑ture of all.

This miſcellaneous paſſage however did not continue long. It appeared only a ſhort inter⯑ruption of the grand viſta, from which we had deviated at the lake of Wyburn; and into which we now returned. Nature however ſeemed to have ſpent her force in her firſt [173] effort; which was greatly ſuperior to the ſecond.

The thickets among theſe mountains, and indeed many other parts of the country, are frequented by the wild-cat; which Mr. Pen⯑nant calls the Britiſh tyger; and ſays, it is the fierceſt, and moſt deſtructive beaſt we have. He ſpeaks of it as being three or four times as large as the common cat. We ſaw one dead, which had been hunted on the day we ſaw it; and it ſeemed very little inferior, if at all, to the ſize he mentions.

By this time we approached Keſwick; and from the deſcent of Caſtle-hill, at about two miles diſtance, had an extenſive view of the whole country around that celebrated ſcene of romantic beauty.

Before us lay a plain many leagues in circum⯑ference, divided into two large portions; each of which is floated by a lake. Derwent-water overſpreads the nearer; and Baſſenthwait, the more diſtant. Surrounding the whole, riſes a vaſt, circular chain of mountains; and tow⯑ering [174] over them all, on the eaſtern ſide of the iſthmus, ſtands the mountain of Skiddaw. We had heard too much of this mountain, to meet it properly: it has none of thoſe bold projections, and ſhaggy majeſty about it, which we expected to have ſeen in this king of mountains. It is a tame, inanimate object; except at ſuch a diſtance, as ſmooths the imboſſed work of all theſe rich fabrics; and where it's double top makes it a diſtinguiſhed object to mark, and characterize a ſcene.— But if the mountain diſappointed us; the ſcene, over which it preſided, went beyond our imagination.

This rich, extenſive view was aided, when we ſaw it, by all the powers (or, more pro⯑perly, the reſplendency) of light and ſhade. The morning had been fine: but in the after⯑noon the clouds began to gather, threatening rain. A heavy ſky overſpread the higher, and middle regions of the air with all the ſo⯑lemnity of gloom; dropping it's dark mantle to the ſkirts of the horizon. Juſt as we arrived at the brow of the hill, with the ſcenery of the two lakes, and their accompani⯑ments before us, the ſetting ſun burſt forth in a glow of ſplendor.

[175]If a common ſun-ſet often gives a beautiful appearance even to an ordinary landſcape; what muſt have been the effect of an uncommon one, on ſuch a landſcape as this—a ſun-ſet not merely a flood of ſplendor, but contraſted by the fulleſt depth of ſhade? Here we had the beauties of the little ſummer-houſe ſcene, on the moſt extenſive ſcale. The effect was aſtoniſhing. The whole was a ſcene of glory— but a ſcene of glory painted by the hand of nature. Tho every part glowed with tran⯑ſcendent luſtre; the whole was in niceſt har⯑mony. But it was a tranſitory viſion. While we gazed; it faded: and in a few moments nothing was left, but the great outlines—the grand compoſition of the ſcene. We ſhould have ſtood over it even thus, in rapture; if we had not juſt ſeen what a ſplendid addition it was capable of receiving.

We have a grand picture from the pencil of a great maſter, of the cloſe of ſuch an even⯑ing.

But Milton's ideas, I think, in general, are rather muſical, than pictureſque. We have the ſame picture by an inferior maſter; tho a better colouriſt.

Here we have all the reſplendency of light; but not a ſufficient balance of ſhade. Milton gives the balance in the other ſcale. If Thomſon had introduced, like Milton, the louring element ſcowling over his darkened landſcape, his reſplendent tints would have had their full force; and the effect had been com⯑plete.

Keſwick is the firſt town we meet with, on our entrance into Cumberland; and tho a place of no conſequence, is however much [177] ſuperior to Ambleſide. Between the two places there is a great reſemblance. Keſwick ſtands at the north-point of Derwent-water; which is the very point, that Ambleſide occupies on Windermere. But the ſituation of Ambleſide is more romantic, as it ſtands more in the middle of that chain of mountains, which ſeparates the two counties. At Keſwick the roughneſſes of the country are wearing off: for in a few miles beyond it, this great barrier ends.

Here we reſolved to fix our head-quarters for a few days; and from thence to viſit ſuch of the neighbouring lakes, and mountains, as had been moſt recommended to our notice.

[]

SECT. XIII.

ON the 9th of June we ſet out on horſe⯑back (which I mention, as it is the only conveyance the road will admit) on an expe⯑dition into Borrodale; a wild country ſouth⯑weſt of Keſwick. Our road led along the lake of Derwent, which was the firſt object we ſurveyed.

But before we examined the particulars of this grand ſcene, we took a general view of the whole, from it's northern ſhore; which is the only part unblockaded by mountains. This is the iſthmian part, which joins the valley of Derwent-water with that of Baſſen⯑thwait. It was eaſy from the higher grounds of this iſthmus to obtain the ſtation we deſired.

[180]The lake of Derwent, or Keſwick-lake, as it is generally called, is contained within a circumference of about ten miles; preſenting itſelf in a circular form, tho in fact it is rather oblong. It's area is interſperſed with four or five iſlands: three of which only are of con⯑ſequence, Lord's iſland, Vicar's iſland, and St. Herbert's iſland: but none of them is com⯑parable to the iſland on Windermere, in point either of ſize, or beauty.

If a painter were deſirous of ſtudying the whole circumference of the lake from one ſtation, St. Herbert's iſland is the ſpot he ſhould chooſe; from whence, as from a centre, he might ſee it in rotation. I have ſeen a ſet of drawings taken from this ſtand; which were hung round a circular room, and intended to give a general idea of the boundaries of the lake. But as no repreſentation could be given of the lake itſelf; the idea was loſt, and the drawings made but an awkward appearance.

[181]Lord's iſland had it's name from being the place, where once ſtood a pleaſure-houſe, be⯑longing to the unfortunate family of Derwent-water, which took it's title from this lake. The ancient manor-houſe ſtood on Caſtle-hill above Keſwick; where the antiquarian traces alſo the veſtiges of a Roman fort. But an heireſs of Derwent-water marrying into the family of the Ratcliffs; the family-ſeat was removed from Keſwick to Dilſton in Nor⯑thumberland.

As the boundaries of this lake are more mountainous than thoſe of Windermere; they, of courſe, afford more romantic ſcenery. But tho the whole ſhore, except the ſpot where we ſtood, is incircled with mountains; they rarely fall abruptly into the water; which is girt almoſt round by a margin of meadow—on the weſtern ſhores eſpecially. On the eaſtern, the mountains approach nearer the water; and in ſome parts fall perpendicularly into it. But as we ſtood viewing the lake from it's northern ſhores, all theſe marginal parts were loſt; and [182] the mountains (tho in fact they deſcribe a circle of twenty miles, which is double the circumference of the lake) appeared univer⯑ſally to riſe from the water's edge.

Along it's weſtern ſhores on the right, they riſe ſmooth and uniform; and are therefore rather lumpiſh. The more removed part of this mountain-line is elegant: but, in ſome parts, it is diſagreeably broken.

On the eaſtern ſide, the mountains are both grander, and more pictureſque. The line is pleaſing; and is filled with that variety of objects, broken-ground,—rocks,—and wood, which being well combined, take from the heavineſs of a mountain; and give it an airy lightneſs.

The front-ſcreen, (if we may ſo call a por⯑tion of a circular form,) is more formidable, than either of the ſides. But it's line is leſs elegant, than that of the eaſtern-ſcreen. The fall of Lodoar, which adorns that part of the lake, is an object of no conſequence at the diſtance we now ſtood. But in our intended ride we propoſed to take a nearer view of it.

[183]Of all the lakes in theſe romantic regions, the lake we are now examining, ſeems to be moſt generally admired. It was once admira⯑bly characterized by an ingenious perſon,^* who, on his firſt ſeeing it, cryed out, Here is beauty indeed—Beauty lying in the lap of Horrour! We do not often find a happier illuſtration. Nothing conveys an idea of beauty more ſtrongly, than the lake; nor of horrour, than the mountains; and the former lying in the lap of the latter, expreſſes in a ſtrong man⯑ner the mode of their combination. The late Dr. Brown, who was a man of taſte, and had ſeen every part of this country, ſingled out the ſcenery of this lake for it's peculiar beauty^†. And unqueſtionably it is, in many places, very ſweetly romantic; particularly along it's eaſtern, and ſouthern ſhores: but to give it pre-eminence may be paying it perhaps as much too high a compliment; as it would be too [184] rigorous to make any but a few comparative objections.

In the firſt place, it's form, which in ap⯑pearance is circular, is leſs intereſting, I think, than the winding ſweep of Windermere, and ſome other lakes; which loſing themſelves in vaſt reaches, behind ſome cape or promontory, add to their other beauties the varieties of diſtance, and perſpective. Some people object to this, as touching rather on the character of the river. But does that injure it's beauty? And yet I believe there are very few rivers, which form ſuch reaches, as the lake of Win⯑dermere.

To the formality of it's ſhores may be added the formality of it's iſlands. They are round, regular, and ſimilar ſpots, as they appear from moſt points of view; formal in their ſituation, as well as in their ſhape; and of little advan⯑tage to the ſcene. The iſlands of Windermere are in themſelves better ſhaped; more varied; and uniting together, add a beauty, and con⯑traſt to the whole.

But among the greateſt objections to this lake is the abrupt, and broken line in ſeveral of the mountains, which compoſe it's ſcreens, (eſpecially on the weſtern, and on part of [185] the ſouthern ſhore) which is more remarkable, than on any of the other lakes. We have little of the eaſy ſweep of a mountain-line: at leaſt the eye is hurt with too many tops of mountains, which injure the ideas of ſim⯑plicity, and grandeur. Great care therefore ſhould be taken in ſelecting views of this lake. If there is a littleneſs even amidſt the grand ideas of the original, what can we expect from repreſentations on paper, or canvas? I have ſeen ſome views of this lake, injudiciouſly choſen, or taken on too extenſive a ſcale, in which the mountains appear like hay-cocks.— I would be underſtood however to ſpeak chiefly of the appearance, which the lines of theſe mountains occaſionally make. When we change our point of view, the mountain-line changes alſo, and may be beautiful in one point, tho it is diſpleaſing in another.

Having thus taken a view of the whole lake together from it's northern point, we pro⯑ceeded on our rout to Borrodale, ſkirting the eaſtern coaſt along the edge of the water. The grand ſide-ſcreen, on the left, hung over us; and we found it as beautifully romantic, [186] and pleaſing to the imagination, when it's rocks, precipices, and woods became a fore-ground; as it appeared from the northern point of the lake, when we examined it in a more removed point of view.

Nor do theſe rocky ſhores recommend themſelves to us only as fore-grounds. We found them every where the happieſt ſtations for obtaining the moſt pictureſque views of the lake. The inexperienced conductor, ſhewing you the lake, carries you to ſome gariſh ſtand, where the eye may range far and wide. And ſuch a view indeed is well cal⯑culated, as we have juſt ſeen, to obtain a general idea of the whole. But he, who is in queſt of the pictureſque ſcenes of the lake, muſt travel along the rough ſide-ſcreens that adorn it; and catch it's beauties, as they ariſe in ſmaller portions—it's little bays, and winding ſhores—it's deep receſſes, and hang⯑ing promontories—it's garniſhed rock, and diſ⯑tant mountain. Theſe are, in general, the pictureſque ſcenes, which it affords.

Part of this mountain is known by the name of Lady's-rake, from a tradition, that a young lady of the Derwentwater family, in the time of ſome public diſturbance, eſcaped a purſuit []

[187] by climbing a precipice, which had been thought inacceſſible.—A romantic place ſel⯑dom wants a romantic ſtory to adorn it.

Detached from this continent of precipice, if I may ſo ſpeak, ſtands a rocky hill, known by the name of Caſtellet. Under the beetling brow of this natural ruin we paſſed; and as we viewed it upwards from it's baſe, it ſeemed a fabric of ſuch grandeur, that alone it was ſuffi⯑cient to give dignity to any ſcene. We were deſired to take particular notice of it for a reaſon, which ſhall afterwards be mentioned.

As we proceeded in our rout along the lake, the road grew wilder, and more roman⯑tic. There is not an idea more tremendous, than that of riding along the edge of a preci⯑pice, unguarded by any parapet, under im⯑pending rocks, which threaten above; while the ſurges of a flood, or the whirlpools of a rapid river, terrify below.

Many ſuch roads there are in various parts of the world; particularly among the moun⯑tains of Norway and Sweden; where they are [188] carried along precipices of ſuch frightful height, that the trees at the bottom aſſume the azure tint of diſtance; and the cataracts which roar among them, cannot even be heard, unleſs the air be perfectly ſtill. Theſe tremendous roads are often not only without rail, or parapet of any kind; but ſo narrow, that travellers in oppoſite directions cannot paſs, unleſs one of them draw himſelf up cloſe to the rock. In ſome places, where the precipice does not afford footing even for this narrow ſhelf; or, where it may have foundered, a cleft pine is thrown acroſs the chaſm. The appalled traveller arriving at the ſpot, ſurveys it with diſmay.—Return, he dare not—for he knows what a variety of terrors he has already paſſed.—Yet if his foot ſlip, or the plank, on which he reſts, give way; he will find his death, and his grave together; and never more be heard of.

But here we had not even the miniature of theſe dreadful ideas, at leaſt on the ſide of the lake: for in the ſteepeſt part, we were ſcarce raiſed thirty or forty feet above the water.

[189]As we edged the precipices, we every where ſaw fragments of rock, and large ſtones ſcattered about, which being looſened by froſts and rains, had fallen from the cliffs above; and ſhew the traveller what dangers he has eſcaped.

Once we found ourſelves in hands more capricious than the elements. We rode along the edge of a precipice, under a ſteep woody rock; when ſome large ſtones came rolling from the top, and ruſhing through the thickets above us, bounded acroſs the road, and plunged into the lake. At that inſtant we had made a pauſe to obſerve ſome part of the ſcenery; and by half a dozen yards eſcaped miſchief. The wind was loud, and we conceived the ſtones had been diſlodged by it's violence: but on riding a little further, we diſcovered the real cauſe. High above our heads, at the ſummit of the cliff, ſat a group of mountain⯑eer children, amuſing themſelves with puſhing ſtones from the top; and watching, as they plunged into the lake.—Of us they knew nothing, who were ſcreened from them by intervening thickets.

[190]As we approached the head of the lake, we were deſired to turn round, and take a view of Caſtellet, that rocky hill, which had appeared ſo enormous, as we ſtood under it. It had now ſhrunk into nothing in the midſt of that ſcene of greatneſs, which ſurrounded it. I mention this circumſtance, as in theſe wild countries, compariſon is the only ſcale uſed in the menſuration of mountains. At leaſt it was the only ſcale, to which we were ever referred. In countries graced by a ſingle mountain, the inhabitants may be very accurate in their inveſtigation of it's height. The altitude and circumference of the Wrekin, I have no doubt, is accurately known in Shropſhire; but in a country like this, where chain is linked to chain, exactneſs would be endleſs.

By this time we approached the head of the lake; and could now diſtinguiſh the full ſound of the fall of Lodoar; which had be⯑fore reached our ears, as the wind ſuffered, indiſtinctly in broken notes.

[191]This water-fall is a noble object, both in itſelf, and as an ornament of the lake. It appears more as an object connected with the lake, as we approach by water. By land, we ſee it over a promontory of low ground, which, in ſome degree, hides it's grandeur. At the diſtance of a mile, it begins to appear with dignity.

But of whatever advantage the fall of Lodoar may be as a piece of diſtant ſcenery, it's effect is very noble, when examined on the ſpot. As a ſingle object, it wants no accompaniments of offſkip; which would rather injure, than aſſiſt it. They would diſturb it's ſimplicity, and repoſe. The greatneſs of it's parts affords ſcenery enough. Some inſtruments pleaſe in concert: others you wiſh to hear alone.

The ſtream falls through a chaſm between two towering perpendicular rocks. The in⯑termediate part, broken into large fragments, forms the rough bed of the caſcade. Some of theſe fragments ſtretching out in ſhelves, hold a depth of ſoil ſufficient for large trees. Among theſe broken rocks the ſtream finds it's way through a fall of at leaſt an hundred feet; and in heavy rains, the water is every way ſuited to the grandeur of the ſcene. Rocks and [192] water in oppoſition can hardly produce a more animated ſtrife. The ground at the bottom alſo is very much broken, and over-grown with trees, and thickets; amongſt which the water is ſwallowed up into an abyſs; and at length finds it's way, through deep channels, into the lake. We diſmounted, and got as near as we could: but were not able to approach ſo near, as to look into the woody chaſm, which receives the fall.

Having viewed this grand piece of natural ruin, we proceeded in our rout towards the mountains of Borrodale; and ſhaping our courſe along the ſouthern ſhores of the lake, we came to the river Derwent, which is a little to the weſt of the Lodoar.

Theſe two rivers, the Lodoar, and the Derwent, furniſh the chief ſupplies of Der⯑wentwater. But thoſe of the latter are much ampler. The Lodoar accordingly is loſt in the lake: while the Derwent, firſt giving it's name to it, retains it's own to the ſea.

[]

[193]On paſſing this river, and turning the firſt great promontory on our left, we found ourſelves in a vaſt receſs of mountains. We had ſeen them at a diſtance, from the northern extremity of the lake. They were then objects of grandeur. But now they had aſſumed their full majeſtic form; ſurrounding us on every ſide with their lofty barriers; and ſhutting out, in appearance, every idea of an eſcape. Wild and various beyond conception were their ſhapes: but they parti⯑cipated rather of the deſolate, than of the fan⯑taſtic idea. From the bottom of the lake in⯑deed they formed too great a combination of pointed ſummits. But here all theſe groteſque ſhapes diſappeared. The ſummits receded far behind; and we only ſaw the burſting rocks, and bold protuberances, with which the ſides of theſe enormous maſſes of ſolid earth are charged. Many of them are covered, like the ſteeps of Helvellin, with a continued pave⯑ment of craggs.

The winding of the Derwent was the clue we followed in our paſſage through theſe re⯑gions of deſolation. An aperture between the [194] mountains brought us into another wild receſs, where a ſimilar ſcene opened; diverſified from the firſt only by ſome new forms, or new poſition, or varied furniture, of the incumbent mountains.

As we doubled one promontory, another unfolded; and we found ourſelves, not in, what appeared at firſt, a receſs of mountains; but in a narrow, winding valley; the ſcenes of which, by quick tranſitions, were conti⯑nually ſhifting. This valley ſo replete with hideous grandeur, is known by the name of the ſtraits of Borrodale.

In the middle of one of the receſſes of the valley lies an enormous ſtone; which is called in the country Boother-ſtone. Maſſy rocks of immenſe ſize, rent from mountains, are every where found: but this ſtone appears to be of a different kind. It does not ſeem to have been the appendage of a mountain; but it⯑ſelf an independent creation. It lies in a ſort of diagonal poſition; overſhadowing a ſpace, ſufficient to ſhelter a troop of horſe.

[195]Not far from hence ariſes a woody hill, called Caſtell-cragg; which is alſo detached from the ſcenery around it. On the ſummit of this hill, ſtood formerly a fortreſs, ſuppoſed to be of Roman origin; intended to guard this avenue into the country. After it had been relinquiſhed by the Romans, it was oc⯑cupied by the Saxons; and, after their day, it was given, with all the lands about Borro⯑dale, by one of the lords of Derwent-water, to the monks of Furneſs. By theſe religious it was ſtill maintained in it's military capacity; which is perhaps a ſingular inſtance of the kind. But as the Scots, in thoſe days, made frequent irruptions even thus far into the coun⯑try; and as the monks had great poſſeſſions to defend in the valley of Borrodale; where one of their principal magazines was eſta⯑bliſhed; the holy fathers thought it proper to adopt this uncommon meaſure. Beſides their tythe-corn, they amaſſed here the valuable minerals of the country; among which, ſalt, produced from a ſpring in the valley, was no inconſiderable article.

[196]We had now travelled three or four miles in this winding valley; which, as we ad⯑vanced, began to aſſume a ſofter form. The hills became cloathed with verdure; and the little receſſes of the valley, ſhaded with wood. Theſe receſſes alſo, which were before ſhut up, and confined by rocky barriers, now open⯑ed in different ſhapes; and many of them were pleaſantly varied with wooded hillocs: while the ſtony banks of the Derwent, began to change into meadows; ſcanty indeed; but affording paſturage for a few cattle; and a pleaſant tint of verdure, as a contraſt with the rocky ſcenery in it's neighbourhood.

We were now in that part of the valley, which is properly called the valley of Borro⯑dale—a large, circular receſs, conſiſting of much broken ground; and, except where the valley ſtill purſues it's courſe, ſurrounded by lofty mountains; from which pour innumera⯑ble rills and torrents, tho little intereſting in the ſcene, as objects of pictureſque beauty.

[197]In this deep retreat lies the village of Roſ⯑thwait; having at all times, little intercourſe with the country; but during half the year, almoſt totally excluded from all human com⯑merce.

Here the ſons, and daughters of ſimplicity enjoy health, peace, and contentment, in the midſt of what city-luxury would call the ex⯑treme of human neceſſity;

Their ſcanty patches of arable land, and theſe cultivated with difficulty; and their crops late-ripening, and often a prey to autumnal rains, which are violent in this country, juſt give them bread to eat. Their herds afford them milk; and their flocks, cloaths; the ſhepherd himſelf being often the manufacturer alſo. No dye is neceſſary to tinge their wool: it is naturally a ruſſet-brown; and ſheep and ſhepherds are cloathed alike; both in the ſim⯑ple livery of nature.

The procuring of fuel is among their great⯑eſt hardſhips. In moſt parts of the world [198] this article is ſought either in pits, or on the ſurface of the earth. Here the inhabitants are obliged to get it on the tops of mountains; which abounding with moſſy grounds, ſeldom found in the vallies below, ſupply them with peat. The difficulty lies in conveying it from ſuch immenſe heights. In doing this they have recourſe to a ſtrange, and dangerous ex⯑pedient; tho ſimilar to the modes of con⯑veyance, which neceſſity dictates in other mountainous countries. They make their peat into bundles, and faſten it upon ſledges; on each of which a man ſits, and guides the machine with his foot down the precipice. We ſaw many tracks along the ſides of moun⯑tains, made by theſe ſledges; ſeveral of which were four or five hundred feet high, and ap⯑peared from the bottom almoſt perpendicular.

After a long and fatiguing morning we refreſhed ourſelves at the village of Roſthwait on eggs, and milk; and they who cannot be ſatisfied with ſuch a meal in a mountainous country, muſt carry their larder with them.

SECT. XIV.

FROM Roſthwait the valley purſues it's courſe towards the eaſt; and loſing again it's milder features, grows every ſtep more wild, and deſolate. After a march of two miles farther, we came to the village of Satterthwait, ſtill more intrenched in moun⯑tains, than Roſthwait itſelf. Here, in the depth of winter, the ſun never ſhines. As the ſpring advances, his rays begin to ſhoot over the ſouthern mountains; and at high noon to tip the chimney tops of the village. That radiant ſign ſhews the cheerleſs winter to be now over; and rouſes the hardy peaſant to the labours of the coming year.

A little beyond this ſcene of deſolation, the Derwent, on whoſe banks we ſtill continued, ruſhes down a long declivity between two [200] mountains. At the fall of Lodoar the higher level comes abruptly upon the lower: here, the two levels are united by a gradual deſcent. The ſtreams of courſe taking the ſame modes of precipitation as the land, the Lodoar forms a perpendicular fall; and the Derwent, a declivous one. But the fall of the Derwent is more ſingular; and is the only one of the kind perhaps in the country.

And here I cannot help remarking the ſin⯑gular character of this mountain-ſtream. There is not perhaps a river in England, which paſſes through ſuch a variety of different ſcenes. What wild, romantic channel it ſhapes, before it enter the vale of Borrodale, is to us un⯑known. There firſt we commenced our ac⯑quaintance with it. It's paſſage through that mountain-chaſm, is marked with objects, not only great in themſelves; but rarely to be found elſewhere in ſuch intereſting combina⯑tions.

From a mountain-ſtream it ſoon aſſumes a new character, and changes into a lake; where it diſplays the wonders, we have juſt ſeen.

From hence emerging, it again becomes a river: but ſoon forms the lake of Baſſenthwait; [201] of form, and dimenſions very different from that of Keſwick.

Contracting itſelf again into a river, it puts on a character intirely new. Hitherto it has adorned only the wild, rough ſcenes of nature. All theſe it now relinquiſhes—rocks—lakes— and mountains; and enters a ſweet delightful country, where all it's accompaniments are ſoft, and lovely. Among other places it viſits the noble, and pictureſque ruins of Cockermouth-caſtle; under the walls of which it glides.

From hence it paſſes to the ſea, which many ſtreams of greater conſequence never meet under their own names; but are abſorbed by larger rivers: while the Derwent, after all the aſtoniſhing ſcenes it has adorned, adds to it's other beauties, thoſe of an eſtuary.

In this laſt part of it's courſe it viſits Workington-hall, one of the grandeſt and moſt beautiful ſituations of the country. Beſides it's hanging woods, and ſloping lawns, it is remarkable for having been the firſt priſon-houſe of the unfortunate Mary of Scot⯑land, after ſhe had landed within the dominions of her rival. Here the Derwent becomes navigable; and forms the beſt natural harbour in Cumberland.

[202]I have often thought, that if a perſon wiſhed particularly to amuſe himſelf with pictureſque ſcenes, the beſt method he could take, would be to place before him a good map of England; and to ſettle in his head the courſe of all the chief rivers of the country. Theſe rivers ſhould be the great directing lines of his excurſions. On their banks he would be ſure, not only to find the moſt beautiful views; but would alſo obtain a compleat ſyſtem of every kind of landſcape. He would have no occaſion to keep ſo cloſe to the river he purſued, as not to deviate a little, for the ſake of a beautiful ſcene. Caſtles and abbeys this plan would almoſt univerſally comprehend; for moſt of them are ſeated either on rocks, or knolls pro⯑jecting into rivers; or in ſome ſweet valley, which opens to them. Bridges of courſe it would include; which make a pleaſing ſpecies of ſcenery. Mountains, and lakes I need not mention: the former produce rivers; and the latter are produced by them. It would alſo include ſea-coaſt views; many of which are very intereſting, when the eſtuary opens to [203] ſome beautiful, winding ſhore, with views of diſtant country.

I once attempted to analyze the Thames in this way. But I was obliged to divide ſo magnificent a ſubject. Indeed it naturally divided itſelf into three parts—from Oxford to Windſor—from Windſor to London—and from London to the ſea. An imperial river, like the Thames, muſt be navigated; at leaſt it's two lower diviſions: but inferior rivers are beſt examined by an excurſion along their banks.

We left the Derwent in it's declivous courſe between two mountains. One of them, under whoſe ſhadow the torrent pours, is called Eagle's-cragg; as it's tremendous rocks are the chief habitation of theſe birds; and ſeem to be conſidered by them as a ſort of caſtle, which from time immemorial they have poſ⯑ſeſſed. It is a common ſpecies of traffic in this country to ſupply the curious with young eagles; in the taking of which the inhabitants are very expert. They obſerve the neſts from the bottom; and judging of the age of the young birds, they catch the opportunity, [204] when the old eagles are abroad, and let them⯑ſelves down by ropes from the ſummits of the cliffs. We ſaw one which had been juſt taken. It was only ſix weeks old; and was nearly of the ſize of a turkey-hen. It ſeemed to have acquired already a full ſhare of ferocity; and ſcreamed violently, if we offered to touch it.

Many large birds we ſaw amongſt theſe mountains, ſailing about the air, which we imagined to be eagles: but one of our com⯑pany, being a naturaliſt, bad us obſerve their tail feathers. If their tails were forked, they were of the buzzard ſpecies: the tail of the eagle is circular.

Among the anecdotes we heard in this country of eagles, one was rather curious —An eagle was ſeen at a diſtance, to pounce it's prey; which it carried, in a perpendicular aſcent, aloft into the air; and hanging dubious for ſome time, it was at length obſerved to deſcend in the ſame direct line; and it's fall, as it approached, ſeemed attended with an odd, tumbling motion. The cauſe was ſoon diſcovered. It fell ſtone dead on the ground; and a weaſel, which it had carried up, and which had had the addreſs to [205] kill it's adverſary in the air, being now at liberty, ran away.

We had accompanied the valley of Borro⯑dale as far to the eaſt, as Eagle's-cragg. It ſtretches alſo to the weſt; tho in a more broken, and abrupt form.

Somewhat further, on this ſide, than Eagle's-cragg lies on the other, riſe thoſe mountains, where the celebrated black-lead mine is wrought. I could not help feeling a friendly attachment to this place, which every lover of the pencil muſt feel, as deriving from this mineral one of the beſt inſtruments of his art; the freeſt and readieſt expoſitor of his ideas. We ſaw the ſite of the mine at a diſtance, marked with a dingy yellow ſtain, from the ochery mixtures thrown from it's mouth, which ſhiver down the ſides of the mountain.

During the periodical ſeaſon of working it, for it is opened only once in ſeven years, many people pick up a comfortable ſubſiſtence from the ſcraps of black-lead, which eſcape amongſt the coarſer ſtrata. Theſe are honeſt gains. But a late prolific genius in fraud took a very indirect method of poſſeſſing a [206] ſhare of this rich mineral. A part of the mountain, contiguous to the mine, was his property. Here, at the expence of great labour, he ſank a ſhaft, which he carried diagonally, till he entered the mine; where, with ſubterraneous wickedneſs, he continued his depredations for ſome time undiſcovered. At length his fraud was brought to light; and he was tried at Carliſle. The peculiarity of his caſe had no precedent. He ſaved his life; but a law was obtained by the proprietors of the mine, to defend their property from ſuch indirect attacks for the future.

The ſun was now declining, and it was too late to take a nearer view of the mine: nor indeed did it promiſe more on the ſpot, than it diſcovered at a diſtance. Beſides, the beauties of Watenlath had been ſo ſtrongly repreſented to us; that we were reſolved to go in queſt of thoſe ſcenes, in preference to any other.

Watenlath is that tract of mountainous country (itſelf ſurrounded by mountains ſtill higher) which coming boldly forward, breaks down abruptly from the ſouth, upon the vale [207] of Keſwick. The ſtream, which forms the fall of Lodoar, adorns firſt the ſcenes of Wa⯑tenlath.

"Which way to Watenlath?" ſaid one of our company to a peaſant, as we left the vale of Borrodale. "That way," ſaid he, pointing up a lofty mountain, ſteeper than the tiling of a houſe.

To thoſe, who are accuſtomed to moun⯑tains, theſe perpendicular motions may be amuſing: but to us, whoſe ideas were leſs elevated, they ſeemed rather peculiar. And yet there is ſomething unmanly in conceiving a difficulty in traverſing a path, which, we were told, the women of the country would aſcend on horſeback, with their panniers of eggs, and butter, and return in the night. To move upwards, keeping a ſteady eye on the objects before us, was no great exerciſe to the brain: but it rather gave it a rotation to look back on what was paſt—and to ſee our companions below clinging, as it ap⯑peared, to the mountain's ſide; and the riſing breaſts and bellies of their horſes, ſtraining up a path ſo ſteep, that it ſeemed, as if the leaſt falſe ſtep would have carried them rolling many hundred yards to the bottom.

[208]We had another apprehenſion; that of miſ⯑taking our way. If a miſt had ſuddenly overſpread the mountain, which is a very common incident, we might have wandered all night: for we had not the precaution to take a guide. The queſtion we aſked of the peaſant, at the bottom of the mountain; "Which way to Watenlath?" we found was a very improper one. We ſhould have aſked, in what direction we were to ſeek it? For way there was none; except here and there a blind path; which being itſelf often bewildered, of courſe, ſerved only to bewilder us. The inhabitants pay little attention to paths: they ſteer along theſe wilds by land⯑marks, which to us were unknown.

At length however, after a painful perpen⯑dicular march of near two miles, and many a breathing pauſe, which our horſes required, we gained the top. Here we expected at leaſt to be rewarded by an amuſing proſpect over the neighbouring country. But in this too we were diſappointed. We found ourſelves in the midſt of a bog, with ſtill higher grounds around us: ſo that after all our toil, we had a view only of a vile circumſcribed waſte.

[209]It was our buſineſs now to get out of this unpleaſant ſcene, as ſoon as we could, which was a matter of no great difficulty. An eaſy, and ſhort deſcent, on the other ſide of the mountain, brought us quickly to Watenlath. Here our labours were amply rewarded. We fell into a piece of ſcenery, which for beauty, and grandeur, was equal, if not ſuperior, to any thing we had yet ſeen.

The firſt object we found was a ſmall lake, about two miles in circumference, through which flows the Lodoar, and after a courſe of three miles farther, forms that noble caſ⯑cade, which we had ſeen, in the morning, at the head of Derwentwater.

The accompaniments of this river, from the lake of Watenlath to it's fall, make the ſcenery, of which we came hither in queſt.

It is a valley ſo contracted, that it affords room for little more than the river, and a path, at the bottom; while the mountains, on each ſide, are ſo perpendicular, that their ſummits are ſcarce more aſunder than their baſes. It was a new idea. Many mountains we had ſeen hanging over the ſides of vallies: [210] but to be immured, through a ſpace of almoſt three miles, within a chaſm of rifted rocks, (for that was in fact the idea preſented by the ſcene before us,) was a novel circumſtance tho we had now been two or three days the inhabitants of mountains.

The form of this valley was very different from the valley of Borrodale. The one led us through a winding rout: the other is nearly a viſta. Each hath it's mode of grandeur. The valley of Borrodale has more variety: but this is certainly the more majeſtic ſcene. The whole is only one vaſt effort. In point of immenſity indeed it yields to the viſta at the entrance into Cumberland. It is not ſo vaſt a whole: but being contracted within a ſmaller compaſs, we examine it's limits with more eaſe: and with regard to the grandeur and variety of the ſeveral objects, it loſes no⯑thing. As we ſtood under the beetling cliffs on each ſide, they were too near for inſpection: their harſh features wanted ſoftening: but we had noble views of them all in order, both in proſpect, and retroſpect. Not only the de⯑ſign, and compoſition, but the very ſtrokes of nature's pencil might be traced through the whole ſcene; every fractured rock, and every [211] hanging ſhrub, which adorned it, was brought within the compaſs of the eye: each touch ſo careleſs, and yet ſo determined: ſo wildly irregular; and yet all conducing to one whole.

When we arrived at the cloſe of the valley, the grandeur of the ſcene increaſed. It open⯑ed into an amphitheatre, the area of which, like the valley, that led to it, was contracted; ſcarce containing the circumference of a mile: but the mountains, which invironed it, were grand and beautiful.

In moſt of the ſcenes we had paſſed, we were obliged to look for contraſt in the dif⯑ferent modes of deſolation: but here barren⯑neſs was contraſted with all the tints of vege⯑tation. The mountains in front, and on the left, were covered with wood, which mantled from the top to the bottom. Thoſe on the right were barren; yet broken ſo variouſly, as even in themſelves to make a contraſt. We admire the ruins of a Roman amphi⯑theatre: but what are the moſt magnificent of the works of art, compared with ſuch an amphitheatre as this? Were the Coloſſeum itſelf brought hither, and placed within this area, the grandeur of the idea would be loſt; [212] and the ruin, magnificent as it is, would dwindle into the ornament of a ſcene.

At the entrance of the amphitheatre, an⯑other bright mountain-torrent joins the Lodoar from the eaſt, and forms it into a more con⯑ſiderable ſtream. With increaſed velocity, (the ground growing every ſtep more declivous) it now pours along with great rapidity; and throwing itſelf into the thickeſt of the woods, which cloſe the ſcene, diſappears. The ima⯑gination purſues it's progreſs. It's roar is heard through the woods; and it is plain from the ſound, that it ſuffers ſome great convul⯑ſion. But all is cloſe; impervious rocks and thickets intervene, and totally exclude the ſight.

We indeed had been behind the ſcenes; and knew we were, at that inſtant, upon the ſummit of the fall of Lodoar: but the ima⯑gination of a ſtranger would be held in ſti⯑mulating ſuſpenſe. The grandeur of the ſound would proclaim the dignity of the fall; and his eye would wiſh to participate of what his ear alone could inadequately judge.

Tho we had ſeen the fall of Lodoar from the bottom, we had a curioſity to ſee how [213] it appeared from the top; and diſmounting, we contrived, by winding round the thickets, and clinging to the projections of the rocks, to get a dangerous peep down the abyſs. There was nothing pictureſque in the view, but ſomething immenſely grand. We ſtood now above thoſe two cheeks of the chaſm, through which the water forced it's way; and which in the morning, when ſeen from the bottom, appeared towering to a great height, and were the moſt intereſting parts of the view. But amidſt the greatneſs of the objects, which now ſurrounded them they were totally loſt; appearing leſs than warts upon thoſe vaſt limbs of nature, to which they adhered.

In our paſſage through the valley of Waten⯑lath, we met with many fragments of rocks, in which the ſeveral component ſtrata were very ſtrongly marked. In ſome they could not have been more regularly formed by a rule and chiſſel: and in a few, (whoſe ſofter lamina the weather had decayed,) as perfect cornices remained, as art could have produced.

[214]Having taken a view of all this ſcenery, and the evening beginning now to cloſe, we thought it time to put a ſtop to our curioſity, and return to Keſwick; from which we were about four miles diſtant. In the morning we rode alone the edge of the lake: but as we were now upon the higher grounds, we were obliged to make a compaſs round the moun⯑tains.

Theſe deſolate grounds are very little in⯑habited. We heard of a deſign to introduce goats among them, with a view to make Keſ⯑wick as celebrated for drinking goat's-whey, as ſeveral of the mountainous parts of Scot⯑land. In ſome places indeed, where there are valuable woods, the goat might be a per⯑nicious inmate. But in many places, as we rode, the bare and craggy ſides of hills ſeemed capable of feeding nothing elſe. Frequent little plots of herbage grow every where among the rocks, inacceſſible to any other animal. Even ſheep on many of theſe ſloping ſhelves could find no footing. All this paſturage [215] therefore is loſt for want of goats to brouze it.

In a pictureſque light, no ornament is more adapted to a mountainous, and rocky coun⯑try, than theſe animals. Their colours are beautiful, (in thoſe particularly of a darker hue) often playing into each other with great harmony. But among theſe animals, (as among all others) the pied are the moſt unpleaſing; in which oppoſite colours come full upon each other, without any intervening tint.

The ſhaggineſs of the goat alſo is as beau⯑tiful, as the colours, which adorn him; his hair depending in that eaſy flow, which the pencil wiſhes to imitate.

His actions are ſtill more pleaſing. It would add new terror to a ſcene, to ſee an animal brouzing on the ſteep of a perpen⯑dicular rock; or hanging on the very edge of a projecting precipice. Virgil ſeems to have looked at theſe attitudes of terror with delight:

SECT. XV.

IN our rout to Borrodale, we paſſed through the eaſtern, and ſouthem parts of that mountainous country, which bounds the lake of Derwent:—in our next expedition we pro⯑poſed to view the weſtern.

From Keſwick we mounted the hills on the north-weſt of the lake; and, on the other ſide, fell into the valley of Newlands, which we traverſed from end to end. It was a lovely ſcene, totally different from the rude vallies we had yet met with. The mountains, in general, on this ſide of the lake wear a ſmoother form, than thoſe either on the eaſt, or on the ſouth. Of this ſmoothneſs of fea⯑ture in the higher grounds the lower participate. The mountain vallies we had hitherto ſeen, were wild, rocky, and deſolate. But here [218] the idea of terror was excluded. The valley of Newlands was even adorned with the beau⯑ties of luxuriant nature. We travelled through groves, which were ſometimes open, and ſometimes cloſe; with a ſparkling ſtream, the common attendant of theſe vallies, ac⯑companying us, through the whole ſcene.

Having been amuſed with this ſweet ſcenery about three miles, we entered another valley, or rather a mountain receſs, called the valley of Gaſcadale. I call it a receſs, becauſe it is ſoon terminated by a mountain running athwart, which denies any further paſſage. Inſtead therefore of entering Gaſcadale, we were obliged to climb the hill, which forms one of it's ſides: and from the ſummit, we had a view not only of Gaſcadale, but of many other mountain receſſes, all which par⯑ticipate more or leſs, of the ſmoothneſs of the high grounds in their neighbourhood. Some of them were ſcooped, and hollowed into very beautiful forms; in which wood alone was wanting.

The valley of Gaſcadale had nothing to recommend it, but novelty. It was (a ſcene [219] wholly new in this rugged country) a deep mountain receſs, invironed on every ſide, except the entrance, by ſmooth, ſloping hills, which are adorned neither with wood, nor rock, nor broken ground; but ſweep down from ſide to ſide, with the greateſt regularity. We ſcarce remembered to have ſeen in any place, an operation of nature more completely formal. At the head of this receſs is a grand caſcade. We ſuppoſed it to be no great object of beauty, as it was probably void of all accom⯑paniments: but it's poverty was hid beneath a veil. The clouds which were gathering upon the mountains, and ſweeping along the val⯑lies, began to intercept our view. Every thing was wrapped in obſcurity. When we ſtood even on the ſummit of the caſcade, we could only hear the torrent roar; but could not obtain the leaſt glimpſe of it, tho no object intervened. The whole valley of Gaſ⯑cadale ſmoaked like a boiling caldron; and we got our ideas of it only by catches, as the volumes of clouds diſperſed, at intervals, into purer air.

But what we loſt in one reſpect by the groſſneſs of the atmoſphere, we gained in another. Tho it is probable ſome views were [220] obſcured, which might have pleaſed as; it is equally probable, that many of thoſe diſguſting features, with which we might have been preſented, were ſoftened, and rendered more agreeable to the eye.—Here indeed the miſty hue was, in general, laid on with too full a pencil. The face of nature was rather blotted out, than obſcured. The whole view was in that ſtate, which Thomſon ſo well de⯑ſcribes:

Among the beautiful appearances of fogs, and miſts, their gradually going off may be obſerved. A landſcape takes a variety of pleaſ⯑ing hues, as it paſſes, in a retiring fog, through the different modes of obſcurity into full ſplendor.

[221]There is great beauty alſo in a fog's partially clearing up at once, as it often does; and preſenting ſome diſtant piece of landſcape under great radiance; when all the ſurround⯑ing parts are ſtill in obſcurity. The curtain is not intirely drawn up; it is only juſt raiſed, to let in ſome beautiful, tranſient view; and perhaps falling again, while we admire, leaves us that ardent reliſh, which we have for pleaſing objects ſuddenly removed.—Some very beautiful ideas of this kind were diſplayed on the ſummits of Gaſcadale. Tho the moun⯑tains around us, and the contracted vallies in our neighbourhood, were all ſo much abſorbed in the dark atmoſphere of clouds and vapours; we could diſcover, in catches, through their thinner ſkirts, the vale of Keſwick, at a diſtance, overſpread with ſerenity and ſun⯑ſhine.

The mountain, over which we paſſed, is called, in the language of the country, a hawſe, or ſtoppage, in paſſing from one diſtrict to another; the valley being cloſed, and no other way left. This hawſe, tho not ſo ſteep as the mountain, which led us to Watenlath, [222] was of much longer continuance; and in ſome parts carried us very near the edges of preci⯑pices: but ſurrounded by fogs, we kept the path before us; and if there was danger, we ſeldom ſaw it.

As we began to deſcend, we breathed a purer air; and got a ſight of the landſcape before us. It was a ſcene, unlike what we had juſt paſſed; but only, as the botaniſt ſpeaks, a variety of the ſame genus; corre⯑ſponding intirely with the character of the country, which we now traverſed. Three broad mountains, ſloping into each other, formed a tripartite valley, centering in one point. The ſurface of each mountain was ſmooth to it's very ſummit; except that, here and there, a few large ſtones lay ſcattered about: ſome of them fixed in the ſoil; but none of them deſerving the appellation of a rock. Through two of the diviſions of this valley ran different ſtreams; each of them as unfringed, and ſimple, as the mountains they ſevered. Theſe ſtreams uniting in the centre, formed a third. The whole was a peculiar and novel ſcene; but neither intereſting, nor pictureſque.

[223]Theſe ſmooth-coated mountains, tho of little eſtimation in the painter's eye, are how⯑ever great ſources of plenty. They are the nurſeries of ſheep; which are bred here, and fatted in the vallies.

But the life of a ſhepherd, in this country, is not an Arcadian life. His occupation ſub⯑jects him to many difficulties, in the winter eſpecially, when he is often obliged to attend his flock on the bleak ſide of a mountain, which engages him in many a painful vigil. And when the mountains are covered with ſnow, which is frequently the caſe, his em⯑ployment becomes then a dangerous one. It ſeldom happens, but that ſome part of his flock is ſnowed up; and in preſerving their lives, he muſt often expoſe his own.

After winding about two miles along the edge of one of theſe ſmooth mountains, we dropped at once into a beautiful vale, called the vale of Butermer, the bottom of which was adorned by a lake of the ſame name.

[224]This lake is ſmall; about a mile and a half in length, and half a mile in breadth; of an oblong form; ſweeping, at one end, round a woody promontory. But this ſweep is rather forced; and from ſome points makes too acute an angle. It is one of thoſe lines, which would have a better effect from a boat^*. A lower point would ſoften it's abruptneſs. In other parts alſo the lines of this lake are rather too ſquare. The ſcenery however about it is grand, and beautiful.

On the weſtern ſide, a long range of moun⯑tainous declivity extends from end to end; falling every where precipitately into the water, at leaſt it had that appearance to the eye: tho on the ſpot probably a margin of meadow might ſhoot from the bottom of the mountain, as we obſerved at Keſwick. Of the line, which the ſummit of this mountain formed, we could not eaſily judge; as it was in a great meaſure hid in clouds.

The eaſtern ſide of the lake is woody; and contraſts happily with the weſtern. But the wood is of that kind, which is periodically [225] cut down, and was not in perfection, when we ſaw it.

Near the bottom of this lake, is the loftieſt caſcade we had ever ſeen. It hardly, I think, falls through a leſs deſcent than three or four hundred yards. But it is an object of no beauty; it is barren of accompaniments; and appears, at a diſtance, like a white ribbon biſecting the mountain. The people of the country, alluding to the whiteneſs of it's foam, call it ſour-milk-force.

The vale of Butermer is rather confined in that part, which the lake occupies. Below, it extends a conſiderable way: but our rout led us firſt above, in queſt of ſome rocky mountains, which are ſuppoſed to be the higheſt precipices in the country. Theſe ſcenes, which are known by the name of Gateſgarth⯑dale, open at the head of the lake.

Here we found two vallies, formed by a mountain on each ſide, and one in the middle. The right hand valley was ſoon cloſed by a hawſe: that on the left led directly to the ſcenes we ſought.

The tranſition here, contrary to the uſual proceſs of nature, is abrupt. We had been travelling, all the morning, among mountains [226] perfectly ſmooth, and covered with herbage; and now found ourſelves ſuddenly among craggs and rocks, and precipices, as wild, and hide⯑ous, as any we had ſeen.

Gateſgarth-dale, into which we ſoon entered, is indeed a very tremendous ſcene. Like all the vallies we had yet found, it had a peculiar character. It's features were it's own. It was not a viſta like the valley of Watenlath; nor had it any of the ſudden turns of the valley of Borrodale: but it wound ſlowly, and ſo⯑lemnly in one large ſegment. It was wider alſo than either of thoſe vallies; being at leaſt half a quarter of a mile from ſide to ſide; which diſtance it pretty uniformly obſerved; the rocky mountains, which invironed it, keeping their line with great exactneſs; at leaſt, never breaking out into any violent projections.

The area of this valley is, in general, con⯑cave; the ſides almoſt perpendicular, compoſed of a kind of broken craggy rock, the ruins of which every where ſtrew the valley; and give it ſtill more the idea of deſolation.

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[227]The river alſo, which runs through it, and is the principal ſupply of the lake, is as wild as the valley itſelf. It has no banks, but the fragments of rocks; no bed, but a channel compoſed of rocky ſtrata, among which the water forces it's courſe. It's chan⯑nel, as well as it's bank, is formed of looſe ſtones, and fragments, which break, and di⯑vide the ſtream into a ſucceſſion of wild, im⯑petuous eddies.

A ſtream, which is the natural ſource of plenty, is perhaps when unaccompanied with verdure, the ſtrongeſt emblem of deſolation. It ſhews the ſpot to be ſo barren, that even the greateſt ſource of abundance can produce nothing. The whole valley indeed joined in impreſſing the ſame idea. Fruitful nature, making in every part of her ample range, un⯑remitting efforts to vegetate, could not here produce a ſingle germin.

As we proceeded, the grandeur of the valley increaſed. We had been prepared indeed to ſee the higheſt precipices, which the country produced. Such a preface is generally pro⯑ductive of diſappointment; but on this occaſion it did no injury. The fancy had ſtill it's ſcope. We found the mountains ſo over-hung with [228] clouds, that we could form little judgment of their height. Our guide told us, they were twice as high, as we could ſee: which however we did not believe from the obſerva⯑tions we were able to make, as the clouds, at intervals, floated paſt; and diſcovered, here and there, the ſhadowy forms of the rocky ſummits. A great height however they cer⯑taily were; and the darkneſs, in which they were wrapped, gave us a new illuſtration of the grandeur of thoſe ideas, which ariſe from obſcurity. ‘Dark, confuſed, uncertain ima⯑ges, Mr. Burk very juſtly obſerves, have a greater power on the fancy to form the grander paſſions, than thoſe, which are more clear, and determinate. For hardly any thing can ſtrike the mind with it's greatneſs, which does not make ſome ſort of approach towards infinity; which no⯑thing can do, whilſt we are able to per⯑ceive it's bounds: but to ſee an object diſtinctly, and to perceive it's bounds, is one, and the ſame thing. A clear idea therefore is another name for a little idea^*.’

[229]The middle of the valley is adorned, as theſe vallies, in ſome part, often are, by a craggy hill; on the top of which ſtands the fragment of a rock; that looks, in Oſſian's language, like the ſtone of power—the rude deity of deſolation, to which the ſcene is ſacred.

This valley is not more than ſix miles from the black-lead mines; and would have led us to them, if we had purſued it's courſe.

Having travelled about three miles in this dreary ſcene; and having taken ſuch a view, as we could obtain, of the bold incloſures, which contained it; we returned by the ſame rout we came, threading the valley, and ſkirt⯑ing the lake along it's eaſtern coaſt, till we arrived at the bottom of it. Here we fell into a country very different from that we had left.

The vale of Butermer, which extends many miles below the lake, is a wide, variegated ſcene, full of riſing and falling ground; woody [230] in many parts; well inhabited in ſome; fruit⯑ful, and luxuriant in all.

Here we found a village, where we made a luxurious repaſt, as uſual, on eggs and milk; and met, in the chearful and healthy looks of the inhabitants, new proofs of the narrow limits, in which all the real wants of life are comprized.