nal care of him who lived in it and loved
it, that it seemed the very place for a poet's residence; and as if,
while he lived so long in it, his poetry had manifested itself in
flowers, shrubbery, and ivy. I never smelt such a delightful fragrance
of flowers as there was all through the garden. In front of the house,
there is a circular terrace, of two ascents, in raising which Wordsworth
had himself performed much of the labor; and here there are seats, from
which we obtained a fine view down the valley of the Rothay, with
Windermere in the distance,--a view of several miles, and which we did
not suppose could be seen, after winding among the hills so far from the
lake. It is very beautiful and picture-like. While we sat here, mamma
happened to refer to the ballad of little Barbara Lewthwaite, and Julian
began to repeat the poem concerning her; and the gardener said that
little Barbara had died not a great while ago, an elderly woman, leaving
grown-up children behind her. Her marriage-name was Thompson, and the
gardener believed there was nothing remarkable in her character.

There is a summer-house at one extremity of the grounds, in deepest
shadow, but with glimpses of mountain-views through trees which shut it
in, and which have spread intercepting boughs since Wordsworth died. It
is lined with pine-cones, in a pretty way enough, but of doubtful taste.
I rather wonder that people of real taste should help Nature out, and
beautify her, or perhaps rather _prettify_ her so much as they
do,--opening vistas, showing one thing, hiding another, making a scene
picturesque whether or no. I cannot rid myself of the feeling that there
is something false, a kind of humbug, in all this. At any rate, the
traces of it do not contribute to my enjoyment, and, indeed, it ought to
be done so exquisitely as to leave no trace. But I ought not to
criticise in any way a spot which gave me so much pleasure, and where it
is good to think of Wordsworth in quiet, past days, walking in his
home-shadow of trees which he knew, and training flowers, and trimming
shrubs, and chanting in an undertone his own verses, up and down the
winding walks.

The gardener gave Julian a cone from the summer-house, which had fallen
on the seat, and mamma got some mignonette, and leaves of laurel and
ivy, and we wended our way back to the hotel.

Wordsworth was not the owner of this house, it being the property of
Lady Fleming. Mrs. Wordsworth still lives there