ONE OF NELSON’S HEROES.
We have not done yet with Hause Bank, for you should be told that the old-fashioned house in the fold, surrounded by equally old-fashioned farm-buildings, was formerly the residence of Lieutenant Oldfield, R.N., and is still possessed by his widow.
This Mr Oldfield rose from before the mast, and was made Lieutenant by Nelson himself, as a reward for very important service rendered on a critical occasion—that of piloting the fleet through an intricate and dangerous navigation at the entrance of the Baltic, previous to
——“the glorious day’s renown
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown.”
The Danes had lifted all the buoys, and taken other measures to place difficulties in the way of the British fleet gaining the anchorage off Copenhagen, and no other man but Oldfield was to be found in the whole fleet, who would undertake a pilot’s responsibility under such circumstances.
A QUOTATION.
Leaving Hause Bank, you next pass “Piper-hole,” and soon after reach Park-gate, the farthest houses in the village in this direction. Then take the narrow road to your right, past the pretty farm of Outrake, and following it for a steep half mile, it brings you out upon the table-land high above the village, where stands the ancient hamlet of Highthwaite, called here “Heethat,” and from which you have a grand view of the Lake and the vales of Conistone and Yewdale. Descending by another steep lane, you arrive at another cluster of very comfortable cottages called Cat-bank, formerly Catherine Bank, upon the brow beyond which stands a recently-built row of ten cottages, with large well-tilled gardens in front.
Taking the foot-path behind these, whence the natural panorama of the dale and village appears to vary at every few steps, you pass one or two small groups of houses, and arrive at the steep road you descended in returning from Seathwaite. The old-fashioned farm-houses and cottages adjoining, which are shaded by a straggling regiment of magnificent Scotch firs, are called Dixon-ground; and from the flat in front of the higher farm, the whole of the upper portion of Conistone lies spread out beneath you, and beautiful it looks; “here a scattering, and there a clustering, as in the starry heavens.” But as you walk down this lane, I'll tell you how Father West describes the Conistone of nearly a century back; “the village of Conistone,” says he, “consists of scattered houses; many of them have a most romantic appearance, owing to the ground they stand on being extremely steep. Some are snow-white, others grey; some stand forth on bold eminences at the head of green enclosures, backed with steep woods; some are pitched on sweet declivities, and seem hanging in the air; others, again, are on a level with the lake; they are all neatly covered with blue slate, the produce of the mountains, and beautified with ornamental yews, hollies, and tall pines or firs. This is a charming scene, when the morning sun tinges all with a variety of tints. In the point of beauty and centre of perspective, a white house, under a hanging wood, gives life to this picture. Here a range of dark rugged rocks rises abruptly, and deeply contrasts with the transparent surface of the lake, and the stripe of verdure that skirts their feet.