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 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 is. 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.
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