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The ascent of Skiddaw is easy, even for ladies, who have
only to sit their ponies to find themselves at the top,
after a ride of six miles. There must be a guide,- be the
day ever so clear, and the path ever so plain. Once for all
let us say, in all earnestness, and with the most deliberate
decision, that no kind of tourist should ever cross the
higher passes, or ascend the mountains, without a guide.
Surely, lives enough have been lost, and there has been
suffering and danger enough, short of a fatal issue, to
teach this lesson. But the confident and joyous pedestrian
is not the most teachable of human beings. In his heart he
despises the caution of native residents, and in his sleeve
he laughs at it. The mountain is right before him; the track
is visible enough; he has a map and guide book, and boasts
of his pocket-compass. With the track on his map, and track
on the mountain, both before his eyes, how should he get
wrong? So he throws on his knapsack, seizes his stick, and
goes off whistling or singing,- the host and hostess looking
after him and consulting as he strides away. For some time
he thinks he can defy all the misleading powers of heaven
and earth. But, once out of reach of human help, he finds
his case not quite so easy as he thought. Instead of one
path, as marked
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