ere hundreds of times, so did we
ascend and sit down and look at the hills and at the flags on the
lake's shore.

Reaching the house that had been pointed out to us as Wordsworth's
residence, we began to peer about at its front and gables, and over the
garden-wall on both sides of the road, quickening our enthusiasm as much
as we could, and meditating to pilfer some flower or ivy-leaf from the
house or its vicinity, to be kept as sacred memorials. At this juncture
a man approached, who announced himself as the gardener of the place,
and said, too, that this was not Wordsworth's house at all, but the
residence of Mr. Ball, a Quaker gentleman; but that his ground adjoined
Wordsworth's, and that he had liberty to take visitors through the
latter. How absurd it would have been if we had carried away ivy-leaves
and tender recollections from this domicile of a respectable Quaker! The
gardener was an intelligent young man, of pleasant, sociable, and
respectful address; and as we went along, he talked about the poet, whom
he had known, and who, he said, was very familiar with the country
people. He led us through Mr. Ball's grounds, up a steep hillside, by
winding, gravelled walks, with summer-houses at points favorable for
them. It was a very shady and pleasant spot, containing about an acre of
ground, and all turned to good account by the manner of laying it out;
so that it seemed more than it really was. In one place, on a small,
smooth slab of slate let into a rock, there is an inscription by
Wordsworth, which I think I have read in his works, claiming kindly
regards from those who visit the spot, after his departure, because many
trees had been spared at his intercession. His own grounds, or rather
his ornamental garden, is separated from Mr. Ball's only by a wire
fence, or some such barrier, and the gates have no fastening, so that
the whole appears like one possession, and doubtless was so as regarded
the poet's walks and enjoyments. We approached by paths so winding, that
I hardly know how the house stands in relation to the road; but, after
much circuity, we really did see Wordsworth's residence,--an old house,
with an uneven ridge-pole, built of stone, no doubt, but plastered over
with some neutral tint,--a house that would not have been remarkably
pretty in itself, but so delightfully situated, so secluded, so hedged
about with shrubbery and adorned with flowers, so ivy-grown on one side,
so beautified with the perso