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The Lake

From: After London

There now only remains the geography of our country to be treated of
before the history is commenced. Now the most striking difference
between the country as we know it and as it was known to the ancients is
the existence of the great Lake in the centre of the island. From the
Red Rocks (by the Severn) hither, the most direct route a galley can
follow is considered to be about 200 miles in length, and it is a
journey which often takes a week even for a vessel well manned, because
the course, as it turns round the islands, faces so many points of the
compass, and therefore the oarsmen are sure to have to labour in the
teeth of the wind, no matter which way it blows.

Many parts are still unexplored, and scarce anything known of their
extent, even by repute. Until Felix Aquila's time, the greater portion,
indeed, had not even a name. Each community was well acquainted with the
bay before its own city, and with the route to the next, but beyond that
they were ignorant, and had no desire to learn. Yet the Lake cannot
really be so long and broad as it seems, for the country could not
contain it. The length is increased, almost trebled, by the islands and
shoals, which will not permit of navigation in a straight line. For the
most part, too, they follow the southern shore of the mainland, which is
protected by a fringe of islets and banks from the storms which sweep
over the open waters.

Thus rowing along round the gulfs and promontories, their voyage is
thrice prolonged, but rendered nearly safe from the waves, which rise
with incredible celerity before the gales. The slow ships of commerce,
indeed, are often days in traversing the distance between one port and
another, for they wait for the wind to blow abaft, and being heavy,
deeply laden, built broad and flat-bottomed for shallows, and bluff at
the bows, they drift like logs of timber. In canoes the hunters, indeed,
sometimes pass swiftly from one place to another, venturing farther out
to sea than the ships. They could pass yet more quickly were it not for
the inquisition of the authorities at every city and port, who not only
levy dues and fees for the treasury of the prince, and for their own
rapacious desires, but demand whence the vessel comes, to whom she
belongs, and whither she is bound, so that no ship can travel rapidly
unless so armed as to shake off these inquisitors.

The canoes, therefore, travel at night and in calm weather many miles
away from the shore, and thus escape, or slip by daylight among the
reedy shallows, sheltered by the flags and willows from view. The ships
of commerce haul up to the shore towards evening, and the crews,
disembarking, light their fires and cook their food. There are, however,
one or two gaps, as it were, in their usual course which they cannot
pass in this leisurely manner; where the shore is exposed and rocky, or
too shallow, and where they must reluctantly put forth, and sail from
one horn of the land to the other.

The Lake is also divided into two unequal portions by the straits of
White Horse, where vessels are often weather-bound, and cannot make way
against the wind, which sets a current through the narrow channel. There
is no tide; the sweet waters do not ebb and flow; but while I thus
discourse, I have forgotten to state how they came to fill the middle of
the country. Now, the philosopher Silvester, and those who seek after
marvels, say that the passage of the dark body through space caused an
immense volume of fresh water to fall in the shape of rain, and also
that the growth of the forests distilled rain from the clouds. Let us
leave these speculations to dreamers, and recount what is known to be.

For there is no tradition among the common people, who are extremely
tenacious of such things, of any great rainfall, nor is there any
mention of floods in the ancient manuscripts, nor is there any larger
fall of rain now than was formerly the case. But the Lake itself tells
us how it was formed, or as nearly as we shall ever know, and these
facts were established by the expeditions lately sent out.

At the eastern extremity the Lake narrows, and finally is lost in the
vast marshes which cover the site of the ancient London. Through these,
no doubt, in the days of the old world there flowed the river Thames. By
changes of the sea level and the sand that was brought up there must
have grown great banks, which obstructed the stream. I have formerly
mentioned the vast quantities of timber, the wreckage of towns and
bridges which was carried down by the various rivers, and by none more
so than by the Thames. These added to the accumulation, which increased
the faster because the foundations of the ancient bridges held it like
piles driven in for the purpose. And before this the river had become
partially choked from the cloacae of the ancient city which poured into
it through enormous subterranean aqueducts and drains.

After a time all these shallows and banks became well matted together by
the growth of weeds, of willows, and flags, while the tide, ebbing lower
at each drawing back, left still more mud and sand. Now it is believed
that when this had gone on for a time, the waters of the river, unable
to find a channel, began to overflow up into the deserted streets, and
especially to fill the underground passages and drains, of which the
number and extent was beyond all the power of words to describe. These,
by the force of the water, were burst up, and the houses fell in.

For this marvellous city, of which such legends are related, was after
all only of brick, and when the ivy grew over and trees and shrubs
sprang up, and, lastly, the waters underneath burst in, this huge
metropolis was soon overthrown. At this day all those parts which were
built upon low ground are marshes and swamps. Those houses that were
upon high ground were, of course, like the other towns, ransacked of all
they contained by the remnant that was left; the iron, too, was
extracted. Trees growing up by them in time cracked the walls, and they
fell in. Trees and bushes covered them; ivy and nettles concealed the
crumbling masses of brick.

The same was the case with the lesser cities and towns whose sites are
known in the woods. For though many of our present towns bear the
ancient names, they do not stand upon the ancient sites, but are two or
three, and sometimes ten miles distant. The founders carried with them
the name of their original residence.

Thus the low-lying parts of the mighty city of London became swamps, and
the higher grounds were clad with bushes. The very largest of the
buildings fell in, and there was nothing visible but trees and hawthorns
on the upper lands, and willows, flags, reeds, and rushes on the lower.
These crumbling ruins still more choked the stream, and almost, if not
quite, turned it back. If any water ooze past, it is not perceptible,
and there is no channel through to the salt ocean. It is a vast stagnant
swamp, which no man dare enter, since death would be his inevitable

There exhales from this oozy mass so fatal a vapour that no animal can
endure it. The black water bears a greenish-brown floating scum, which
for ever bubbles up from the putrid mud of the bottom. When the wind
collects the miasma, and, as it were, presses it together, it becomes
visible as a low cloud which hangs over the place. The cloud does not
advance beyond the limit of the marsh, seeming to stay there by some
constant attraction; and well it is for us that it does not, since at
such times when the vapour is thickest, the very wildfowl leave the
reeds, and fly from the poison. There are no fishes, neither can eels
exist in the mud, nor even newts. It is dead.

The flags and reeds are coated with slime and noisome to the touch;
there is one place where even these do not grow, and where there is
nothing but an oily liquid, green and rank. It is plain there are no
fishes in the water, for herons do not go thither, nor the kingfishers,
not one of which approaches the spot. They say the sun is sometimes
hidden by the vapour when it is thickest, but I do not see how any can
tell this, since they could not enter the cloud, as to breathe it when
collected by the wind is immediately fatal. For all the rottenness of a
thousand years and of many hundred millions of human beings is there
festering under the stagnant water, which has sunk down into and
penetrated the earth, and floated up to the surface the contents of the
buried cloacae.

Many scores of men have, I fear, perished in the attempt to enter this
fearful place, carried on by their desire of gain. For it can scarcely
be disputed that untold treasures lie hidden therein, but guarded by
terrors greater than fiery serpents. These have usually made their
endeavours to enter in severe and continued frost, or in the height of a
drought. Frost diminishes the power of the vapour, and the marshes can
then, too, be partially traversed, for there is no channel for a boat.
But the moment anything be moved, whether it be a bush, or a willow,
even a flag, if the ice be broken, the pestilence rises yet stronger.
Besides which, there are portions which never freeze, and which may be
approached unawares, or a turn of the wind may drift the gas towards the

In the midst of summer, after long heat, the vapour rises, and is in a
degree dissipated into the sky, and then by following devious ways an
entrance may be effected, but always at the cost of illness. If the
explorer be unable to quit the spot before night, whether in summer or
winter, his death is certain. In the earlier times some bold and
adventurous men did indeed succeed in getting a few jewels, but since
then the marsh has become more dangerous, and its pestilent character,
indeed, increases year by year, as the stagnant water penetrates deeper.
So that now for very many years no such attempts have been made.

The extent of these foul swamps is not known with certainty, but it is
generally believed that they are, at the widest, twenty miles across,
and that they reach in a winding line for nearly forty. But the outside
parts are much less fatal; it is only the interior which is avoided.

Towards the Lake the sand thrown up by the waves has long since formed a
partial barrier between the sweet water and the stagnant, rising up to
within a few feet of the surface. This barrier is overgrown with flags
and reeds, where it is shallow. Here it is possible to sail along the
sweet water within an arrow-shot of the swamp. Nor, indeed, would the
stagnant mingle with the sweet, as is evident at other parts of the
swamp, where streams flow side by side with the dark or reddish water;
and there are pools, upon one side of which the deer drink, while the
other is not frequented even by rats.

The common people aver that demons reside in these swamps; and, indeed,
at night fiery shapes are seen, which, to the ignorant, are sufficient
confirmation of such tales. The vapour, where it is most dense, takes
fire, like the blue flame of spirits, and these flaming clouds float to
and fro, and yet do not burn the reeds. The superstitious trace in them
the forms of demons and winged fiery serpents, and say that white
spectres haunt the margin of the marsh after dusk. In a lesser degree,
the same thing has taken place with other ancient cities. It is true
that there are not always swamps, but the sites are uninhabitable
because of the emanations from the ruins. Therefore they are avoided.
Even the spot where a single house has been known to have existed, is
avoided by the hunters in the woods.

They say when they are stricken with ague or fever, that they must have
unwittingly slept on the site of an ancient habitation. Nor can the
ground be cultivated near the ancient towns, because it causes fever;
and thus it is that, as I have already stated, the present places of the
same name are often miles distant from the former locality. No sooner
does the plough or the spade turn up an ancient site than those who work
there are attacked with illness. And thus the cities of the old world,
and their houses and habitations, are deserted and lost in the forest.
If the hunters, about to pitch their camp for the night, should stumble
on so much as a crumbling brick or a fragment of hewn stone, they at
once remove at least a bowshot away.

The eastward flow of the Thames being at first checked, and finally
almost or quite stopped by the formation of these banks, the water
turned backwards as it were, and began to cover hitherto dry land. And
this, with the other lesser rivers and brooks that no longer had any
ultimate outlet, accounts for the Lake, so far as this side of the
country is concerned.

At the western extremity the waters also contract between the steep
cliffs called the Red Rocks, near to which once existed the city of
Bristol. Now the Welsh say, and the tradition of those who dwell in that
part of the country bears them out, that in the time of the old world
the River Severn flowed past the same spot, but not between these
cliffs. The great river Severn coming down from the north, with England
on one bank and Wales upon the other, entered the sea, widening out as
it did so. Just before it reached the sea, another lesser river, called
the Avon, the upper part of which is still there, joined it passing
through this cleft in the rocks.

But when the days of the old world ended in the twilight of the
ancients, as the salt ocean fell back and its level became lower, vast
sandbanks were disclosed, which presently extended across the most part
of the Severn river. Others, indeed, think that the salt ocean did not
sink, but that the land instead was lifted higher. Then they say that
the waves threw up an immense quantity of shingle and sand, and that
thus these banks were formed. All that we know with certainty, however,
is, that across the estuary of the Severn there rose a broad barrier of
beach, which grew wider with the years, and still increases westwards.
It is as if the ocean churned up its floor and cast it forth upon the

Now when the Severn was thus stayed yet more effectually than the
Thames, in the first place it also flowed backwards as it were, till its
overflow mingled with the reflux of the Thames. Thus the inland sea of
fresh water was formed; though Silvester hints (what is most improbable)
that the level of the land sank and formed a basin. After a time, when
the waters had risen high enough, since all water must have an outlet
somewhere, the Lake, passing over the green country behind the Red
Rocks, came pouring through the channel of the Avon.

Then, farther down, it rose over the banks which were lowest there, and
thus found its way over a dam into the sea. Now when the tide of the
ocean is at its ebb, the waters of the Lake rush over these banks with
so furious a current that no vessel can either go down or come up. If
they attempted to go down, they would be swamped by the meeting of the
waves; if they attempted to come up, the strongest gale that blows could
not force them against the stream. As the tide gradually returns,
however, the level of the ocean rises to the level of the Lake, the
outward flow of water ceases, and there is even a partial inward flow of
the tide which, at its highest, reaches to the Red Rocks. At this state
of the tide, which happens twice in a day and night, vessels can enter
or go forth.

The Irish ships, of which I have spoken, thus come into the Lake,
waiting outside the bar till the tide lifts them over. The Irish ships,
being built to traverse the ocean from their country, are large and
stout and well manned, carrying from thirty to fifty men. The Welsh
ships, which come down from that inlet of the Lake which follows the
ancient course of the Severn, are much smaller and lighter, as not being
required to withstand the heavy seas. They carry but fifteen or twenty
men each, but then they are more numerous. The Irish ships, on account
of their size and draught, in sailing about the sweet waters, cannot
always haul on shore at night, nor follow the course of the ships of
burden between the fringe of islands and the strand.

They have often to stay in the outer and deeper waters; but the Welsh
boats come in easily at all parts of the coast, so that no place is safe
against them. The Welsh have ever been most jealous of the Severn, and
will on no account permit so much as a canoe to enter it. So that
whether it be a narrow creek, or whether there be wide reaches, or what
the shores may be like, we are ignorant. And this is all that is with
certainty known concerning the origin of the inland sea of sweet water,
excluding all that superstition and speculation have advanced, and
setting down nothing but ascertained facts.

A beautiful sea it is, clear as crystal, exquisite to drink, abounding
with fishes of every kind, and adorned with green islands. There is
nothing more lovely in the world than when, upon a calm evening, the sun
goes down across the level and gleaming water, where it is so wide that
the eye can but just distinguish a low and dark cloud, as it were,
resting upon the horizon, or perhaps, looking lengthways, cannot
distinguish any ending to the expanse. Sometimes it is blue, reflecting
the noonday sky; sometimes white from the clouds; again green and dark
as the wind rises and the waves roll.

Storms, indeed, come up with extraordinary swiftness, for which reason
the ships, whenever possible, follow the trade route, as it is called,
behind the islands, which shelter them like a protecting reef. They drop
equally quickly, and thus it is not uncommon for the morning to be calm,
the midday raging in waves dashing resistlessly upon the beach, and the
evening still again. The Irish, who are accustomed to the salt ocean,
say, in the suddenness of its storms and the shifting winds, it is more
dangerous than the sea itself. But then there are almost always islands,
behind which a vessel can be sheltered.

Beneath the surface of the Lake there must be concealed very many
ancient towns and cities, of which the names are lost. Sometimes the
anchors bring up even now fragments of rusty iron and old metal, or
black beams of timber. It is said, and with probability, that when the
remnant of the ancients found the water gradually encroaching (for it
rose very slowly), as they were driven back year by year, they
considered that in time they would be all swept away and drowned. But
after extending to its present limits the Lake rose no farther, not even
in the wettest seasons, but always remains the same. From the position
of certain quays we know that it has thus remained for the last hundred
years at least.

Never, as I observed before, was there so beautiful an expanse of water.
How much must we sorrow that it has so often proved only the easiest
mode of bringing the miseries of war to the doors of the unoffending!
Yet men are never weary of sailing to and fro upon it, and most of the
cities of the present time are upon its shore. And in the evening we
walk by the beach, and from the rising grounds look over the waters, as
if to gaze upon their loveliness were reward to us for the labour of the

Next: Sir Felix

Previous: The Invaders

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