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faithful female terrier, his constant attendant during his rambles 
through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland.” Then 
follows the poem of “Mr. Walter Scott,” and the concluding 
stanza of Wordsworth’s “ Fidelity.” 
It is evident that the compiler of Allison’s ‘‘Northern Tourists’ 
Guide to the Lakes,” which was published first at Penrith in 1827, 
and passed through many editions, got his inspiration from Robin- 
son, but a foot-note of considerable importance was added, 
probably from local knowledge. “The whitened bones of the 
hapless dead, the only remains of this unfortunate tourist, were 
interred at Tirril, and were so light that it would not have been 
difficult to have borne them to the grave under a person’s arm.” 
This Allison got from Wilkinson of Yanwath. Perhaps he was 
indebted to Wilkinson for the following facts also: “ Fourteen 
weeks after the time he left Patterdale, his remains were discovered 
by George Harrison, a servant at Hallsteads, who was attracted to 
the spot, by seeing a dog and hat and some clothes. It is sup- 
posed he was precipitated from Red Cove Head Rock, his penknife 
having been found there, with his name engraved upon it. His 
fishing-rod was discovered thirty yards from the summit. Two 
guineas and a half in gold and fifteen shillings in silver were found 
in his clothes and given to the overseer at Patterdale.” 
It was clear from this account that Christopher North had in 
one particular romanced in his terrible story of the “Red Tarn 
Club Raven Orgy.” ‘There must have been great difficulty,” 
wrote Christopher in 1825, “to the most accomplished of 
the carrion in stripping the Quaker of his drab. ‘The broad-brim 
had probably escaped with the first intention, and after going 
before the wind half across the unfrozen Tarn, capsized, filled, 
and sunk.” And yet one almost forgives a man the ghastliness of 
his humour; and humour there certainly is, not only in the 
account he gives of the difficulties the ravens had to get through 
the well-swathed wrappings of decent drab, and at the poor 
Quaker’s body, but in that grim comical ending of the feast when 
one old bird, who spoke the Westmorland dialect, exclaimed after 
half an hour’s silence: “‘I’se weel nee brussen! there be’s Muster 
