“Fallen from ’is fellow’s side, The steed beneath (h)is lying; (H)in ’arness ’ere ’e died, ’Is (h)only fault was dying.” The pathos with which these words were uttered was truly Pickwickian, and the step from the sublime to the ridiculous was so effectually taken by my feelings, that for a long way beyond, Helvellyn re-echoed to my laughter. Passing Thirlmere, the sweet vale of St. John opened a bewitching prospect, and I loved it for its name. Leaving it on my right, I then turned toward Keswick, and as the last light of day disappeared, there, before me, lay Derwentwater, the new moon shedding a tremulous light on its bosom. This, then, was Southey’s own Keswick, and Skiddaw rose over head! I slept soundly and sweetly at the “Royal Oak.” In the morning, I took a barge, and was rowed round the lake, which did not disappoint me. One of the men had been a servant of Southey’s, and he told me many anecdotes of his master. “Yonder, it seems to me, I can see him now,” said the fellow, “walking with a book in his hand.” He described him as good to the poor, and said, “he often gave five shillings, at a time, to my mother.” In wet weather he still took the air, and walked well on clogs. I was much charmed with the islets of the lake, and the singular traditions which invest them all with so much interest. The romantic stories of the unfortunate family of Derwentwater, whose earls were attainted for their share in the Pretender’s rebellion, are partly connected with one of these islands, and the lake itself seems made for a scene of romance. Windermere is not to be compared with it. I was rowed to Lodore, and saw “how the water comes down.” Sometimes ’tis a mere burlesque of the poem; but I saw it in full force, and entirely justifying all the participles which the genius of Southey has contrived to set going, like a cataract, out of the fountain of his brain. After this, I swam in the lake, tempted to do so by the double attraction of its pellucid waters, and its Castalian associations. I visited Southey’s grave, in Crosthwaite churchyard. ’Twas solemn to see the grass growing, and its tall spears shaking in the breeze, over the head of that fine genius, and the heart of that good and faithful man. In the church, where he so often prayed, a superb statue of the poet lies, at full length, on an altar-tomb. I placed in the marble hand the flowers I had brought from the grave of Wordsworth, a tribute to their friendship, and a token of my homage for both. Great and good men; they were the “lucida sidera” of English literature, in a dark and evil time and now that their sweet influence has triumphed over the clouds and vapours which obscured their first rising, how calmly they shine, in heaven, and brighten the scenes they have left behind!