d in the doorway, ready to
serve the thirsty. The red-coated driver pulled in on the tavern side, and
men in neckerchiefs, hobnailed shoes, blue woolen stockings and
knee-breeches made fussy haste to water the horses. Old Brick-Dusty
climbed down to see a man in the tavern, and the Michigan contingent and
Colonel Littlejourneys slid down the other side and went into Wythburn
Church. There isn't another church in England so peculiar and so
interesting. A pew is marked sacred to Wordsworth, and one also to Harriet
Martineau, who I did not know before ever went to church. The silver
service was the gift of Southey, and is inscribed with his name and crest.
Southey was a vestryman of Wythburn Church for many years, and sometimes
read the service there. I stood in the pulpit where Southey stood, and so
did White Pigeon, and I reminded her that she would never be allowed
there on Sunday, for Deity is most easily approached and influenced by
men, as all theologians know and have ever stoutly held. One of the busy
hostlers came in, pulling his forelock, and apologizing, in a voice full
of cobwebs, said that the coach was ready to start. We did the proper
thing, and also as much for the red-coated driver, who, in spite of great
dignity, we saw was open to reward for well-doing. It was a great mistake,
though, to "cross his palm," for he began a lecture on the Cumberland
Kings, that lasted until we got to Thirlmere, where he stopped at the
Pumping-Station, and told us how the city of Manchester got its
water-supply from here. To him all things were equally interesting. He was
still deep in the fight between Manchester aldermen and the 'Ouse of
Commons when we reached Castle Rigg. The Vale of Keswick opened before us.
We implored the well-informed driver to stop, and then we got down and
begged him to go on without us.

Seated there on the bankside we viewed the beautiful scene of lake, valley
and village stretching out so peacefully before us, all framed in the dark
towering hills. Even Grace forgot to say, "How lovely!" but sat there,
chin in hand, rapt and speechless.

Down in that valley, just a little to one side of the village, Southey
lived for over forty years, and all the visitors he really liked he took
to Castle Rigg, to show them as he said, "the kingdoms of the earth." It
was a view of which he never tired. Coleridge came up this way first, and
took lodgings with a Mr. Johnson, who owned Greta Hall. It is not on
reco