In making an ascent of Helvellyn, some tourists are bold enough to
traverse the giddy and dangerous heights of Striding Edge: "but this
road," says the Bard of the Lakes, "ought not to be taken by any one
with weak nerves, as the top in many places scarcely affords room to
plant the foot, and is beset with awful precipices on either side." The
path on one part of the pass is certainly not more than two yards broad,
and a tremendous precipice descending on each side makes it truly
appalling and perilous.
Mr. Baines, who, with a companion, ascended Helvellyn by this pass some
years ago, thus describes it:--"The ridge we were upon--Striding
Edge--was the shorter but more rugged path; and, in spite of the
warnings of our boatman, we chose it, being incited by curiosity, and
perhaps quite as much by the motive which actuates most men in fighting
duels--a fear lest our courage should be called in question if we
declined the danger. We therefore addressed ourselves to the passage of
Striding Edge; but if we had seen the most dangerous part before we came
to it, we should have been content to take the safer though more
cowardly branch of the alternative offered to us. As we ascended, the
hill became more steep and rugged, till at length the ridge presented
nothing but rocks, the narrow edges of which lay upwards in the
direction of the sky. Their sides became steeper and steeper, and it was
with difficulty that we crept along paths not wider than a goat-track,
to avoid clambering among the crags which formed the very ridge of the
hill. At length it became impossible to find footing on the side, and we
betook ourselves of necessity to the ridge itself. We now came in view
of the most formidable part of Striding Edge, and found that it rather
deserved to be compared to a narrow wall, several hundred feet in
height, connecting the hill which we had been ascending with the head of
the mountain, than to the steep roof of a house. It appeared to us to be
absolutely precipitous on each side, and the top of the rocky wall was
not more than from one to two yards wide, whilst in some places we could
not see, before we came to it, as much ground as would serve to plant a
foot upon--the rocks presenting their sharp and rugged edges upwards,
like slates or tiles standing on end. If we had had a guide, all this
would have been much less terrific, because he would have led the way,
and shown us where to place every footstep. The possibility that we
might, after all, have taken a wrong direction, or that in some part of
the pass we should find ourselves in a situation where we could neither
advance nor retreat, gave us considerable alarm. Neither of us, however,
expressed our fears at the time; and I felt myself bound to keep up both
my own spirits and George's, as the blame would have been chiefly mine
if any accident had happened. I therefore talked loudly and confidently
as we scrambled along, keeping all my eyes about me, and giving him such
instructions as his want of experience in climbing rendered necessary.
He said little or nothing, and never ventured to cast a look either at
the tarn which lay several hundred feet below us on one side, or to the
equally awful depth on the other; but, fixing his eyes on the ridge
itself as if he were fascinated, he crept on after me as cautiously and
yet as fast as he could. In this way we crossed the long and dangerous
pass of Striding Edge, till we came to the last ascent of the mountain."
A melancholy interest attaches to this spot, from the fate of a young
man who perished in its locality some years ago. It was here that
Charles Gough, of Manchester, a frequent visitor to the Lakes, met with
an accident which caused his death. This unfortunate "young lover of
nature," confiding in his knowledge of the country, attempted to cross
Helvellyn from Patterdale to Wythburn by the pass of Striding Edge just
described. He set out late one afternoon early in the spring of 1805,
without any guide, and attended by no companion but his faithful dog.
Darkness, it is supposed, came on before his expectation, and a fall of
snow having partially concealed the path, rendered it still more
dangerous. He wandered from the track, and his body was found in one of
those deep recesses where human foot rarely treads. It could never be
ascertained whether he was killed by falling from the rocks, or he
perished from hunger. Let us hope that death came with friendly care to
shorten sufferings that might have been yet more awful.
Three months elapsed before his remains were discovered; when the
faithful dog, which was his constant attendant during frequent solitary
rambles amidst the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland, was discovered
still watching over the lifeless remains of his master. This striking
and affecting instance of canine faithfulness has been commemorated by
Wordsworth in his beautiful poem entitled _Fidelity_.
A barking sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions too are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry.
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow, or on height:
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear;
What is the creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.
There, sometimes doth the leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crag repeats the raven's croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud--
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams, and the sounding blast
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts awhile
The shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human figure on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fall'n, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall'd the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember'd too the very day,
On which the traveller pass'd this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This dog had been, through three months' space,
A dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain, that since that day,
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:
How nourish'd here through such long time,
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great,
Above all human estimate.
The melancholy circumstances connected with the death of Charles Gough
have also been beautifully depicted by the powerful pen of Sir Walter
Scott, who has paid a pleasing tribute to the "pilgrim of nature" in
some highly pathetic stanzas, which, by the by, are rendered
additionally interesting from the following anecdote connected with
them:--"Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking
together" (says Ryan, in his _Poetry and the Poets_), "and speaking of
this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivalship, to make
it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following
exquisite lines, which he sent the next day to Campbell, who returned
them with this reply:--'I confess myself vanquished: if I were to live a
thousand years, I could never write anything equal to this, on the same
subject;' and he never attempted it."
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still--save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And, starting around me, the echoes replied.
On the right, Striding Edge round the Red Tarn was bending,
And Catchedecam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in front was impending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer died.
Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay:
Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of his master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
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?--
And ah! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him;
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him;
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,
Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With escutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall;
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
In the proudly arched 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, wildered, he drops from some rock high in stature,
And draws his last breath by the side of his dam:
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam.
Charles Gough is said to have been a young gentleman of talent, and of
an amiable disposition. His remains peacefully repose in the chapel-yard
at Patterdale.