Finding the stairs still intact I mounted them, and found a
door, which opened on to the roof. We were now on the top of the
Lancaster Tower. Though not so extensive as the view from the platform
of the great staircase, there is a peep here that is most fascinating; it
is the extreme distance seen through the ruined window of the opposite
nunnery.

The glimpse I had of the bittern lake having sharpened my appetite to see
it, I descended the staircase of the Lancaster turret, and marching off
in a southerly direction hastened towards its shores. But it is so
buried in wood that it was not without some difficulty we found it. Never
in happy England did I see a spot that so forcibly reminded me of
Switzerland. Though formed by Art, so happily is it concealed that
Nature alone appears, and this lovely lake seems to occupy the crater of
an extinct volcano. It is much larger than I anticipated. A walk runs
all round it; I followed its circuit, and soon had a glorious view of the
Abbey, standing in solitary stateliness on its wooded hill on the
opposite side. The waters were smooth as a mirror, and reflected the
ruined building; its lofty towers trembled on the crystal wave, as if
they were really rocking and about to share the fate of the giant Tower
that was once here reflected. We followed the banks of the lake. Passing
some noble oaks that were dipping their extended boughs in the water, we
soon gained the opposite side. Here is a labyrinth of exotic plants, a
maze of rhododendrons, azaleas, and the productions of warmer climes,
growing as if indigenous to the soil. We passed between great walls of
rhododendrons, in some places 15 feet high, and reached a seat, from
whence you see the whole extent of this lovely sheet of water. What I
had seen and admired so much on Lansdown was here carried to its utmost
perfection; I mean the representation of a southern wilderness. In this
spot the formality of gardening is absolutely lost. These enormous
exotic plants mingle with the oak, the beech, and the pine, so naturally
that they would delight a landscape painter. These dark and solemn
groves of fir, contrasting so strikingly with the beech woods, now
arrayed in their last gaudiest dress, remind me forcibly of Switzerland
and the Jura Mountains, which I saw at this very season. Nature at this
period is so gaudily clad that we may admire her for her excessive
variety of tints, but cannot dare to copy her absolute