In sailing, you discover many arms of the lake;--here, a bold
headland, where black rocks dip into unfathomable water;--there, the white
sand in the bottom of a bay, bleached for ages by the waves. In walking on
the north side, the road is sometimes cut through the face of a solid rock,
which rises upwards of 200 feet perpendicular above the lake. Sometimes the
view of the lake is lost, then it bursts suddenly on the eye, and a cluster
of islands and capes appear at different distances, which give them an
apparent motion, of different degrees of velocity, as the spectator rides
along the opposite beach. At other times his road is at the foot of rugged
and stupendous cliffs, and trees are growing where no earth is to be seen.
Every rock has its echo; every grove is vocal, by the melodious harmony of
birds, or by the sweet airs of women and children gathering filberts in
their season. Down the side of the mountain, after a shower of rain, flow a
hundred white streams, which rush with incredible velocity and noise into
the lake, and spread their froth upon its surface. On one side, the
water-eagle sits in majesty, undisturbed, on his well-known rock, in sight
of his nest, on the face of Ben Venue; the heron stalks among the reeds in
search of his prey; and the sportive ducks gambol on the waters or dive
below.
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