an ancient structure standing alone, about three-quarters of a mile distant, midway between the mountain and the lake.  Within this place of worship the remains of Robert Southey, the poet and philosopher, lie buried.  A marble monument to his memory has recently been erected, representing him in a recumbent position, and bearing an inscription from the pen of Wordsworth, his more than literary friend for many years, and his successor to the poet-laureate-ship.  A new and beautiful church, erected at the eastern part of the town by the late John Marshall, Esq., adds much to the quiet repose of the scene.  Mr. Marshall became Lord of the Manor by purchasing the forfeited estates of Ratcliffe, Earl of Derwentwater, from the Commissioners of Greenwich Hospital, to whom they were granted by the Crown.  The town contains a well-stocked public library, purchased from funds left for that purpose by Mr. Marshall; two museums, containing numerous specimens illustrating natural history and mineralogy; and a model of the Lake District, made by Mr. Flintoff, and the labour of many years.  The residence of the poet Southey (Greta Hall) is, however, perhaps the most interesting object in the neighbourhood to visitors.  The house is situated on an eminence near the town.  Charles Lamb, describing it many years since, says:—­“Upon a small hill by the side of Skiddaw, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a nest of mountains” dwells Robert Southey.  The poet himself, who delighted in his beautiful and calm mountain-home, and in the charming scenery by which he was surrounded, remarks:—­“Here I possess the gathered treasures of time, the harvest of so many generations, laid up in my garners, and when I go to the window there is the lake, and the circle of mountains, and the illimitable sky.”  On another occasion, when dallying with the muse, he says, in his finely-descriptive verse:—­

   “’Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding,
   And from surrounding things the hues wherewith the day has adorned them
   Fade like the hopes of youth till the beauty of youth is departed: 
   Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window beholding
   Mountain, and lake, and vale, the valley disrobed of its verdure;
   Derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection,
   Where his expanded breast, then smooth and still as a mirror,
   Under the woods reposed; the hills that calm and majestic
   Lifted their heads into the silent sky, from far Glaramara,
   Bleacrag and Maidenmawr to Grisedale and westernmost Wythop;
   Dark and distant they rose.  The clouds had gather’d above them,
   High in the middle air huge purple pillowy masses,
   While in the west beyond was the last pale tint of the twilight. 
   Green as the stream in the glen, whose pure and chrysolite waters
   Flow o’er a schistous bed, and serene as the age of the righteous. 
   Earth was hush’d and still; all motion and sound were suspended;
   Neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming of insect. 
   Only the voice of the Greta, heard only when all is stillness.”