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realise the awe engendered by the sound of one's foot- 

 steps, repeated through this populous city of the dead, 

 in the surrounding vaults ! 



Windermere, Ambleside, Grasmere, Coniston, Ulls- 

 water, Derwentwater, Keswick, had just then revealed 

 to my dazzled view their wonderous landscapes, some of 

 their entrancing scenery. The Trosacks, of Scotland, 

 I could imagine, might beat Lakeland, by the height, 

 the boldness of their peaks, the extent of their land- 

 locked firths, but in picturesque beauty, never ! Stirring 

 sights had crowded on me, at Grasmere, sweetly sung 

 by Felicia Hemans (1) and by Harriet Martineau ; I 

 had stood at the foot of Wordsworth's grave, culled a 

 sprig of ivy from his thickly-festooned house-gable, at 

 Eydal Mount, gazed at the tomb of Hartley Coleridge 

 in the little rustic churchyard, at Grasmere, close to its. 

 whimpering burn. 



On a wooded knoll, I had viewed Greta Hall, for 

 years Southey's pleasant retreat close to Crosthwa i the 

 Church, at Kesswick, where repose his remains, the 

 resort now of pilgrims from most distant lands. Greta 

 Hall, was pointed out to us, when our carriage rumbled 

 over Greta Bridge : a pretty, limpid stream, our good 

 friends across the sea, call it a river ! 



Memory had brought me in communion with those 

 sweet singers, now sleeping peacably amidst the 



(1) Mrs. Hemans thus writes of Grasmere Valley : 



" vale and lake, within yon mountain urn, 

 Smiling so tranquilly, and yet so deep ! 

 Oft' doth your dreamy loveliness return, 

 Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep 

 With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 

 'Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float 

 On the golden clouds from spirit lands remote \ 

 Isles the blest ; and in our memory heep 

 The place with holiest harmonies ! 



