on to the front-green or gravel-walk
of any private nobleman's or gentleman's house, to enjoy, from a
commanding station, an extensive or picturesque view of the circumjacent
country. It is too much in the style of the Free and Easy. The family
within, sitting perhaps at dinner with the windows open, or sewing and
reading in a cool dishabille, cannot like to be stared in upon by so
many curious and inquisitive pupils all a-hunt for prospects; nor were
these rose-bushes planted there for public use, nor that cherry-tree in
vain netted against the blackbirds. Not but that a party may now and
then excusably enough pretend to lose their way in a strange country;
and looking around them in well-assumed bewilderment, bow hesitatingly
and respectfully to maid or matron at door or window, and, with a
thousand apologies, lingeringly offer to retire by the avenue gate, on
the other side of the spacious lawn, that terrace-like hangs over vale,
lake, and river. But to avoid all possible imputation of impertinence,
follow you our example, and make all such incursions by break of day. We
hold that, for a couple of hours before and after sunrise, all the earth
is common property. Nobody surely would think for a moment of looking
black on any number of freebooting lakers coming full sail up the
avenue, right against the front, at four o'clock in the morning? At that
hour, even the poet would grant them the privilege of the arbour where
he sits when inspired, and writing for immortality. He feels conscious
that he ought to have been in bed; and hastens, on such occasions, to
apologise for his intrusion on strangers availing themselves of the
rights and privileges of the Dawn.

Leaving Ivy-cottage, then, and its yet unbreathing chimneys, turn in at
the first gate to your right (if it be not built up, in which case leap
the wall), and find your way the best you can through among old
pollarded and ivied ash-trees, intermingled with yews, and over knolly
ground, brier-woven, and here and there whitened with the jagged thorn,
till you reach, through a slate-stile, a wide gravel walk, shaded by
pine-trees, and open on the one side to an orchard. Proceed--and little
more than a hundred steps will land you on the front of Rydal-mount, the
house of the great Poet of the Lakes. Mr Wordsworth is not at home, but
away to cloudland in his little boat so like the crescent moon. But do
not by too much eloquence awaken the family, or scare the silence,