The route, however, has one disadvantage. It is hot. It is no uncommon thing to hear enthusiastic frequenters of the Lakes complaining of the popular misapprehension that the sun never shines there, and urging that people are so unreasonable as to notice the wet but to disregard the warmth. Among these traducers of the Cumberland climate the frequenters of the Black Sail route are not found. Argue not with such; but some fair morning, when the reviler is most rampant, lead him gently into Mosedale and watch with calm delight while he pants painfully up the pass, trying his utmost to look cool, with the sun, which he has maligned, beating down squarely upon his back and exacting a merciless revenge. Many a time will he turn about and feign rapture at the taper cone of Yewbarrow and the bold outline of Scafell; often will his bootlace strangely come untied before his reverted glance catches the welcome gleam of Burnmoor Tarn; but long before that time his heart within him will have melted even as wax, and he will have registered a vow that, when next the Cumberland sunshine is discussed, the seat of the scornful shall know him no more. Mr. James Payn, having occasion to allude to 'dry weather' in the Lakes, adds demurely, 'which is said to have occurred about the year 1824'; but, from his own description of Black Sail, it is clear that he deeply rued the sarcasm: 'You will begin to find your pass quite sufficiently steep. Indeed, this is the severest pull of any of the cols in the District, and has proved the friend of many a gallant with his ladylove. To offer a young woman your hand when you are going up Black Sail is in my mind one of the greatest proofs of attachment that can be given, and, if she accepts it, it is tantamount to the everlasting "Yes!"' We may be sure that, before he reached the top, the witty novelist experienced remarkably 'dry weather,' and also some of those symptoms which elsewhere he has himself described with such scientific accuracy: 'Inordinate perspiration and a desperate desire for liquids; if the ascent be persisted in, the speech becomes affected to the extent of a total suspension of conversation. The temper then breaks down; an unseemly craving to leave our companion behind, and a fiendish resolution not to wait for him if his bootlace comes undone, distinguish the next stage of the climbing fever; all admiration of the picturesque has long since vanished, exuded, I fancy, through the pores of the skin: nothing remains but Selfishness, Fatigue, and the hideous reflection that the higher we go the longer will be our journey down again. The notion of malignant spirits occupying elevated regions--Fiends of the Fell--doubtless arose from the immoral experiences of the Early Climbers.'