On Seventh-day, after breakfast at Lodore, we set off for a treat indeed—­a canter up Borrowdale.  The morning splendid.  Keswick Lake sparkling behind us.  The crags of Borrowdale in the blue misty sunshine of morning overhung by not less beautiful shades.  We were quite glad to get to this sort of mountain scenery again, which we had so enjoyed at Grasmere, and leave smooth, bare, pyramidal Skiddaw and its “ancient” fellows behind.  We at last ascended the steep zigzag which begins Sty Head Pass, confirming our resolution now and then by admiring the plodding industry of our mountain horses.  It was indeed pleasant when the last gate was opened and we were safe within the wall of rough stones which headed the steep ascent, and we could wind more at leisure beside the foaming “beck” which runs out of Sty Head Tarn.  This desolate mountain lake was soon reached, and the noble dark Scawfell Pikes—­the highest mountain in England, (3166 feet)—­were its majestic background.  But that we had been gradually inured to such scenes, this would indeed have been the most impressive we have beheld.  On we rode till deep shady Wastdale opened below us, and we found ourselves at the head of the Pass.

I have enjoyed this journey very much more than I expected, and the weather, on the whole, has been favorable.  I think of you all with double affection, which accept very warmly from

  Thy affectionate daughter,

E.S. 
To her Sister.

  PATTERDALE, 11th of 9th Month, 1851.

  MY BELOVED L.:—­

* * * This delightful morning, Ulleswater, which we admired as much, if not more than any lake which we have seen, was of the brightest blue, and the valley behind as rich in loveliness, when we set off for Helvellyn.  The top is just five miles from the Inn.  At last the pony was tied to a stake, and we wound up the Swirrel Edge.  The rocks are almost perpendicular, and strangely shivered, and we looked down on the Red Tarn sparkling in the sun with, as it were, thousands of stars.  At last we reached the top, a bare smooth summit, whence the wide misty landscape stretched all around us.  Six lakes should have been visible; but we were obliged to be content with the whole stretch of Ulleswater, eight miles behind us, Bassenthwaite to the north, and perhaps a bit of Keswick; but I would not have missed the scene for any reasonable consideration.  Scott, of course, stood on the top of the hill looking down on the Tarn, with Striding Edge on his right.  Alas! no “eagles” are ever “yelling” on the mountain, nor “brown mountain heather” is in sight—­only common mountain grass.

On the top of Helvellyn she wrote the following lines in a sketch-book:—­

  How softly the winds of the mountains are saying,
    “No chamber of death is Helvellyn’s dark brow;”
  On the “rough rocky edge” are the fleecy flocks straying,
    And “Red Tarn” gleams bright with a thousand stars now.