the name of Red Tarn,1 bounded on its north-west side by a ridge of rock called Swirrel Edge, and on its south-east side by a corresponding ridge called Striden Edge. Swirrel Edge is one of the two high paths from Patterdale over the mountain Catchedecam to Helvellyn top: and, though dangerous in appearance, is sufficiently safe for him who possesses a steady foot, a firm head, and a stout heart. Yet when clouds are rolling over the Edge, the place must be fearfully awful: for (they say) the steep and rugged path is in one part so narrow, that you look down a precipice of some hundreds of feet on each side of you, and could drop a stone down from each hand at once. The mists often hover so thickly around the peak of Helvellyn, that the tourist sees nothing of the mountain until he stands upon it; while, at some other times, when the feathery mass is broken into sheeted folds, the sharp ridge has the aspect of a piercing edge, soaring upward towards a dim and distant needle in the mist. Striden Edge is yet narrower than Swirrel Edge, and is perilous in the extreme, the ridge of rock being, in one part, only about six feet wide, having a tremendous precipice on each of its sides; the path, however, is not so jagged as that along Swirrel Edge. Here it was that the fatal accident occurred to the unfortunate Charles Gough, who started one morning early in 1805, with the intention of crossing Helvellyn. Being an enthusiastic admirer of nature in her grandest moods, he was in the habit of wan 1 "A tarn is a lake, generally (perhaps always) a small one, lying above the level of the inhabited valleys, and the large lakes; and has this peculiarity, (first noticed by Wordsworth) that it has no main feeder. Now this latter accident of the thing at once explains the origin of the word, viz. that it is the Danish word taanen, or tjarn,-a trickling of tears,a deposit of waters from the weeping of rain down the smooth faces of the rocks."-Thomas de Quincey. dering at all seasons over the trackless moors and mountains of the lake district, with no other companion than his dog; and on this fatal morning he took his way across Striden Edge, attended only by this faithful animal. What was the cause of Mr. Gough's dismal adventure, could never be clearly deciphered, even by the almost Indian sagacity of the most practised mountaineers. The probability is that one of those mountain mists,1 wont so suddenly to shroud surrounding objects, cast an impenetrable veil of obscurity over the whole prospect, and concealed the track from sight. He never reached the mountain foot again; no tidings of him as a living man ever came to expectant friends; and it was not till after the expiration of twelve weeks that a shepherd, in quest of a stray sheep, being startled by the sound-unusual among those 1 "Impenetrable volumes of mountain-mist often come floating over the gloomy fells that compose a common centre for Easedale, Langdale, Eskdale, Borrowdale, Wastdale, Gatesgarthdale, (pronounced Keskadale,) and Ennerdale. Ten or fifteen minutes afford ample time for this aerial navigation; within that short interval, sunlight, moonlight, or starlight, alike disappear; all paths are lost; vast precipices are concealed, or filled up by treacherous draperies of vapour; the points of the compass are irrecoverably confounded; and one vast cloud,-too often the cloud of death even to the experienced shepherd,―sits like a vast pavilion upon the mountain summits. Natives, as well as strangers, have fallen victims, even in summer, to the misleading effects of deep mists. Sometimes, the wayfarer has continued to wander unconsciously in a small circle of two or three miles; never coming within hail of a human dwelling, until exhaustion has forced him into a sleep which has proved his last. Sometimes, a fall from the summit of fearful precipices has dismissed him from the anguish of perplexity-the conflict of hope and fear -by instantaneous dissolution. Sometimes a sprain or injury, disabling a foot or a leg, has destined him to die by the shocking death of hunger. In fact, (though not hinted at by either Sir W. Scott, or Wordsworth) there was too much reason to fear, that this lingering death by famine was Charles Gough's melancholy fate."-Thomas de Quincey. lonely defiles-of a short, quick bark or cry of distress from a dog, followed the guiding of the voice, and was appalled at finding the body of the unfortunate tourist at the bottom of the fearful precipice below Striden Edge, with the loving dog, emaciated, yet alive, watching by its side, and defending it from the ravenous birds of prey which haunt the central solitudes of Helvellyn. "The dog had been, through three months' space, A dweller in that savage place; How nourish'd there through such long time, The memory of this melancholy and touching incident has been beautifully preserved in the following well-known elegy, from the pen of Sir Walter Scott: "I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And startling around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden Edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedecam its left verge was defending; One huge nameless rock in the front was impending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. "Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, "How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garments, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? 1 Wordsworth. But, O! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him, "When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall! "But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain-lamb; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam." 203 CHAPTER XIII. How inexpressibly calm-how peaceful-everything looked on the following morning, when I stepped a few paces beyond the threshold to gaze on the still waters of the lake beneath the sparkling sunshine of an August dawn! We learnt that no fewer than seven gentleman-tourists, whom the brimming hotel was incapable of containing, had somehow been accommodated for the night in the recesses of the cottage, as well as ourselves: though where Mrs. Dobson could have contrived to roost them all, is more than I can venture to imagine! Some of these pedestrians were actively on the alert in the morning; for we observed several departing before breakfast to pursue their rambles, notwithstanding their arrival at an hour past the usual period of domestic repose the preceding night. For myself, I glanced wistfully at the magic glories encompassing the head of Ullswater, with an undefined longing to remain awhile in the secluded dale, in unmolested enjoyment of the quiet happiness it seemed fitted to bestow. But there was little time to indulge in such reveries; for a long twenty-mile morning's drive to Keswick lay before us; and we were soon leisurely retracing our route beside the lake as far as Gowbarrow, having looked our last at Patterdale. No! not 66 our last," exactly! For we had yet to ascend the steep road which scales the preci |