course of lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished her last
course the day before our arrival. She was much pleased with Ellen
Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband's
escape from slavery, as related by the latter--during the recital of
which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and
which she tried in vain to hide from us.

When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I would that every woman in the
British Empire, could hear that tale as I have, so that they might know
how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty." It seems
strange to the people of this county, that one so white and so lady-like
as Mrs. Craft, should have been a slave and forced to leave the land of
her nativity and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The morning after
our arrival, I took a stroll by a circuitous pathway to the top of
Loughrigg Fell. At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who very
kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon which to ascend the mountain.
Never having been upon the back of one of these long eared animals, I
felt some hesitation about trusting myself upon so diminutive looking a
creature. But being assured that if I would only resign myself to his
care and let him have his own way, I would be perfectly safe, I mounted,
and off we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty rods, when, in
passing over a narrow part of the path and overlooking a deep chasm, one
of the hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary shudder,
I shut my eyes to meet my expected doom; but fortunately the little
fellow gained his foothold, and in all probability saved us both from a
premature death. After we had passed over this dangerous place, I
dismounted, and as soon as my feet had once more gained _terra firma_, I
resolved that I would never again yield my own judgment to that of any
one, not even to a donkey.

It seems as if Nature has amused herself in throwing these mountains
together. From the top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power in
gazing upon the objects below. On our left, lay Rydal Mount, the
beautiful seat of the late poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away
in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native trees, was the cottage
where once resided Mrs. Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking
more like a river than a lake, and which, if placed by the side of our
own Ontario, Erie or Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here i