AGENTS IN AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK First Edition July , 1905 Second Edition October , 1908...

The present book, it must be understood, treats the English Lakes rather apart from various other elements comprised in what is known as the Lake District. There is so much to say of the waters and their immediate surroundings that no space has remained to describe mountain, pass, and tarn in the manner their beauties merit. Other limits to the book are due to the writer’s promiscuity of taste. I am interested in most things—antiquities, fauna, flora, sports, geology, entomology, and the like; b

From its foot at Newby Bridge to the circling beach at Waterhead, Windermere, the largest of our Lakes, is full of interest. Not a bay on either bank fails in variety of scene, while from mid-lake the surroundings are ever changing. The ideal way to see Windermere is from a small boat; the journey, coasting every bay and yet not losing the broader views of mid-water, should not take less than two long summer days. Of course few can spare so much time to the pleasant task. By steamer in a short a

Even during the height of summer there are dull days sometimes, when dense clouds simply stifle the dales in gloom. This is the more tantalising when one is at Ambleside in the midst of the beauties of Lakeland. But after two o’clock the day became perceptibly brighter; Loughrigg discovered itself opposite our window, a kindly precipice of damp grey crags rearing through a forest of dwarf oaks and clinging ash, green plumed larches and verdant undergrowth, its long crest crowned with patches of

It is unfortunate that so many see Lakeland from its main ways only. They realise its narrow bounds, but cannot justly appreciate its rare beauties. For a week or two such travel our macadam roads; they climb the most frequented mountains, visit ghylls and tarns and waterfalls, wander by the favourite lakes: then away they pass, believing doubtless that Lakeland offers nothing further. Could they but come again, and discover our wealth of bypaths! Why I, a native of and dweller upon the soil, ha

If, after a complete survey of our Lakes, one is asked which could be spared, there is little doubt that often Esthwaite Water would be the one selected: so uncharacteristic is it, so unlike the rest of the country. It is a lowland mere strayed into a district of crag and brae and foaming rivulet. I don’t wish to agree with such an opinion, for Esthwaite has its real beauties. Esthwaite mere certainly possesses no bold scenery; its shores are regular, its bays sweep in smooth curves among the me

On a sultry afternoon, the wanderer over High Cross from Hawkshead suddenly sees a gulf beneath, a delectable vision of waters, the ancient Thurston mere; a lake of shining silver, chased with darker lines and patches as faint catspaws play here and there, with calm pools irradiating the sunlight like clusters of diamonds, the glow fining down to a distant wisp of blue threading between hills and woods. The setting is lovely as the gem: fertile, swelling farmlands, with here and there a white-wa

I never think of Wastwater without recalling some exciting hours—Wastwater surrounded by crag-set mountains and wide bouldery moorlands where foxes rule wild and strong. Under Tommie Dobson, that genius among fell-land huntsmen, a pack of wiry hounds has been raised in the bordering dales. In pursuit ruthless, untiring, determined; a chase from dawn to night, over country bristling with difficulties, is no unusual thing to them. Screes, miles of frittering mountain rampart, Yewbarrow, ridged lik

Lying beyond the pale of great mountains, and only connected by rugged passes with other sights of Lakeland, the lake of Ennerdale does not attract many tourists. The approach to it, otherwise than by mountain road, is circuitous; the traveller, coming by ordinary routes from the outside world, is carried across a great ironworking district, where every stream runs red mud, and where black smeltery smoke hangs low. Yet Ennerdale in its own peculiar fashion is beautiful. In my early days the lake

Close enfolded in the lap of mountains, Loweswater is seldom seen by the casual tourist. At Scale Hill, a rugged ravine with a white river dashing down, is pointed as the direction in which it lies. At the sight of that crag-set hillside the cyclist turns regretfully and, down the good Lorton road, speeds away for Cockermouth or Keswick. Yet if the writer were compelled to seek another home among the Lakes, after Rothay’s magic glen he would select Loweswater. And there are others who would do l

Two chief routes bring you easily to Crummock Water—the first to Scale Hill at its foot, the other to its head, over Newlands Hause. From northward, as you approach, the hills on either side the vale of Lorton rise to higher flights, to greater ruggedness. At Scale Hill there is a sudden glimpse up the lake, a silvery level stretching far into the mountain land. Your way has wound round a great tumulus of rock and larch and oak which chokes the vale, to bring you so quickly to this lovely view.

Buttermere is Crummock’s sister-lake, divided only by half a mile of level, swampish meadows. Doubtless, in early ages, the twain formed one long water, reaching from the foot of Fleetwith eight miles to the hill at Scale. In size the upper lake is much the smaller: even more than Crummock it is a mountain mere. The fells rising from its shores are among the lofty ones of the Lake Country: Red Pike and High Stile with their back views into Ennerdale, Robinson and Hindscarth facing the vale of De

Proud Cumberland ranks Derwentwater as queen of the English Lakes; but I was born south of Dunmail raise, and feel at liberty to worship at other altars. To see the lake at its best one needs be afoot long before the coaches and motors appear. A road smothered in dust clouds, an atmosphere quivering with clatter, the fumes of petrol and the general unpleasantness of heavy traffic, detract from the most imperious beauty. At daybreak the town is almost silent: sweet mountain air has descended to d

Jacob is wary and needs some management. First we chat about the exceeding fine autumn passing. “Aye, it’s fine, hooivver.” Jacob is slow of idea and of speech: no duty in his varied life ever needs lightning thought or action; he is decisive enough, but never precipitate. A typical dalesman—tall and broad-shouldered, stooping somewhat. Until you have walked a few miles by his side, you think he is a slow plodder, but experience teaches much. Without the slightest exertion he makes his four mile

The fact that Thirlmere is the reservoir for the drinking water of Manchester renders it somewhat unapproachable. Main roads encircle the lake at no great distance, but the whole watershed—Dunmail, Helvellyn-side, and Armboth—has been purchased on behalf of the city, and at hardly any point can one reach the lake-shore without breaking some bylaw. There is, I believe, only one boat allowed on its surface, strictly for the surveyors responsible for the embankment, etc. Though the lake was restock

In touring, extremes in conveyances and men meet—or perhaps, in these days of petrol, avoid one another. As the motor begins to monopolise the main roads, the true pedestrian is driven to the byways and field-paths. Gone for us seems the pleasure of swinging steadily, easily, over the hard turnpike; instead, we trudge in narrow, rutted lanes. Where, ten years ago, we watched the great events of the dale—the funerals, the weddings, the infants carried to church—now we must acquire a love for the

To see Ullswater is to love it, and to love a scene is to often travel that way. I often travelled there even when so to do meant an eighteen miles’ tramp there and an eighteen miles’ tramp back again. I have walked there to go fox-hunting, and some rare chases I have enjoyed—crags of Fairfield and Helvellyn, yes! (I have tramped back, too, with shins bumped and skinned through scrambling among the rocks, and oh, so weary and footsore.) But we are not fox-hunters always in the land of the fells,

Perhaps it were more correct to say “minor waters,” for some are hardly within the pale of the mountains. There are, on fell and in dale, above thirty of these tarns, and, as the lakes vary in type of charm, so do these. Their variety, moreover, is even more bewildering than that of the lakes. In the latter’s wide landscapes, no matter what the circumstances of weather or season, one cannot mistake Windermere for Ullswater, Derwentwater for Wastwater. The tarns are, however, entirely different.