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1834. His monument, however, erected by Dr. Gilman, is upon the inside wall of the new church, a fine edifice standing at some little distance from the site of the old, and from whose back windows is perhaps the most magnificent prospect of London that can be found, with St. Paul's in the centre. The inscription I give in full as the testimony of one who knew him, and who is an unchallenged witness:

"Sacred to the memory of

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
Poet, Philosopher, Theologian.

This truly great and good man resided for
the last nineteen years of his life
in this hamlet :

He quitted 'the body of this death'
July 25th, 1834,

in the sixty-second year of his age.

Of his profound learning and discursive genius
his literary works are an imperishable record.
To his private worth,

his social and Christian virtues,

JAMES AND ANN GILMAN,
the friends with whom he lived

during the above period, dedicate this tablet.
Under the pressure of a long

and most painful disease,

his disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic.
He was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend:
the gentlest and kindest teacher:

the most engaging home-companion."

We add the well-known epitaph written by Coleridge himself a month or two before his death:

"Stop, Christian passer-by! Stop, child of God!
And read with gentle heart. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he :
Oh lift in thought a prayer for S. T. C.,

That he, who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise to be forgiven for fame

He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same."

We now come back to Greta Hall. Walking down a side road, past what was once the real front or lawn of Southey's house, and crossing the bridge over the Greta, I came to Crosthwaite Church.

It is more of an edifice than the church of Grasmere, and yet it has something of the same rude simplicity. These words of Wordsworth, which might also describe many an English rural church, would give a true idea of it:

t

"Not framed to nice proportions was the pile,
But large and massy, for duration built;
With pillars crowded and the roof upheld
By naked rafters intricately crossed,

Like leafless under-boughs in some thick grove,

All withered by the depth of shade above.
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls,
Each in its ornamental scroll inclosed;
Each also crowned with winged heads
Of rudely painted cherubim. The floor
Of nave and aisle in unpretending guise
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged
In seemly rows; the chancel only showed
Some inoffensive marks of earthly state
And vain distinction. A capacious pew

a pair

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined;
And marble monuments were here displayed

Upon the walls; and on the floor beneath
Sepulchral stones appeared with emblems graven,
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small
And shining effigies of brass inlaid."

Set this on a solitary spot, with the circle of mountains around, and you have the place where the scholar and poet Southey has his last rest.

Within the church there is a monument to him, with a white marble reclining figure, finely done, though there is an uneasy posture of the head. Wordsworth, who knew him best, wrote the lines inscribed upon the monument:

"Ye vales and hills whose beauties hither drew

The Poet's steps, and fixed them here, on you

His eyes have closed! And ye loved books, no more

Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore;

To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown,

Adding immortal labors of his own;
Whether he traced historic truth with zeal,
For the State's guidance, the Church's weal,
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art,
Informed his pen, or Wisdom of the heart,
Or Judgment, sanctioned in the patriot's mind,
By reverence for the rights of all mankind;
Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.

His Joys, his Griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw's top; but he to Heaven was vowed
Through a long life and pure; and Christian Faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of Change and Death."

In the churchyard, with a slab of black slatestone at its head, like that at Wordsworth's grave, is the grave of Southey, with this inscription: "Here lies the body of Robert Southey, LL. D., Poet Laureate. Born August 12, 1774; Died March 21, 1843. For forty years a resident in this parish. Also of Edith, his wife. Born May 20, 1774; Died Nov. 16, 1837."

It was no fancy at all, but as I stood there a slight cloud of mist was just detaching itself from the top of Skiddaw, as in the figure of Wordsworth.

CHAPTER XIII.

TWEEDMOUTH TO HAWORTH.

We have now come across England to Berwick on the river Tweed, and shall go down to London on the eastern side, though an Englishman would call coming up from London to Scotland "going down."

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Berwick-upon-Tweed is a venerable sea-stained town, with a long and massive stone pier looking out on the German Ocean. It is surrounded by a wall that has stood the brunt of many a hard contest between two stubborn and still unmixed nations in the Border wars. This is the famous Teviot-dale and Chevy-Chace region.

We here enter Northumberland, (Northumbrian land,) the scene of innumerable legends, in every vale that runs inland, and upon every sandy hillock that stands on the sea-shore; the home of the Percy, whose name starts armed men from the earth.

The railway from Berwick to Alnwick, thirty miles, is in sight of the sea nearly all the way. It passes by Belford, and by Bamborough Castle, near which places, off the coast, are the Farn Islands, where Grace Darling did those achieve

ments that make bearded men silent when they think of them.

This was the same Bamborough of the old "Battle of Otterbourne " ballad:

"Yf thou hast hanged all Bambarowe shyre,

Thou hast done me grete envye;

For the trespasse thou hast me done,

The tane of us schall dye."

Alnwick, a little to the west of the North British Railway, and reached by a short junction line of three miles, is a clean and stately town of seven or eight thousand inhabitants. It has the peculiar air of a “family town," not precisely the dependency, but the historical background, the natural "belonging" of an illustrious race. It is overshadowed by one mighty name from which it derives its own light and importance. The flashily painted omnibus from the Railway station rattles through the narrow and sullen old "Bondgate," said to have been built by " Hotspur " himself.

Alnwick Castle did not disappoint me, though I had always thought of it as the "Ilium" of England's historic story. It is a vast accumulation of masonry grouped around tall central towers. It has sixteen of these towers, and its whole mass spreads over five acres. Round and angular bastions of different heights give it a noble irregularity of outline, but it is bare of that beautiful" shawling" of ivy and green that covers the old bones of other English castles. It seems to say: "I am strong and young still. I want no covering for my

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