human
Mary Hutchinson, came out one autumn morning to marry Wordsworth in the church whose spire rises on our left. With the bridegroom was Dorothy, a little sad-hearted we may guess; and with the
gpt
was her sister Joanna, that
human
girl who found her brother-in-law's
gpt
so comical that her laughter on the subject once raised echoes from all the hills of Grasmere. The church in which this wedding took place is interesting for its own sake, and contains, I have read, a memorial to a sixteenth-century soldier,