The road curves in to the back of the house—­which, by the way, is the front—­and the driveway is lined with great trees that form a complete archway.  There is no lodge-keeper, no flowerbeds laid out with square and compass, no trees trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast-iron dogs, nor terra-cotta deer, and, strangest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower.  There is nothing, in fact, to give forth a sign that the great Apostle of Beauty lives in this very old-fashioned spot.  Big boulders are to be seen here and there where Nature left them, tangles of vines running over old stumps, part of the meadow cut close with a scythe, and part growing up as if the owner knew the price of hay.  Then there are flowerbeds, where grow clusters of poppies and hollyhocks (purple, and scarlet, and white), prosaic gooseberry-bushes, plain Yankee pieplant (from which the English make tarts), rue and sweet marjoram, with patches of fennel, sage, thyme and catnip, all lined off with boxwood, making me think of my grandmother’s garden at Roxbury.

On the hillside above the garden we saw the entrance to the cave that Mr. Ruskin once filled with ice, just to show the world how to keep its head cool at small expense.  He even wrote a letter to the papers giving the bright idea to humanity—­that the way to utilize caves was to fill them with ice.  Then he forgot all about the matter.  But the following June, when the cook, wishing to make some ice-cream as a glad surprise for the Sunday dinner, opened the natural ice-chest, she found only a pool of muddy water, and exclaimed, “Botheration!” Then they had custard instead of ice-cream.

We walked up the steps, and my friend let the brass knocker drop just once, for only Americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and the door was opened by a white-whiskered butler, who took our cards and ushered us into the library.  My heart beat a trifle fast as I took inventory of the room; for I never before had called on a man who was believed to have refused the poet-laureateship.  A dimly lighted room was this library—­walls painted brown, running up to mellow yellow at the ceiling, high bookshelves, with a stepladder, and only five pictures on the walls, and of these three were etchings, and two water-colors of a very simple sort; leather-covered chairs; a long table in the center, on which were strewn sundry magazines and papers, also several photographs; and at one end of the room a big fireplace, where a yew log smoldered.  Here my inventory was cut short by a cheery voice behind: 

“Ah! now, gentlemen, I am glad to see you.”

There was no time nor necessity for a formal introduction.  The great man took my hand as if he had always known me, as perhaps he thought he had.  Then he greeted my friend in the same way, stirred up the fire, for it was a North of England summer day, and took a seat by the table.  We were all silent for a space—­a silence without embarrassment.

“You are looking at the etching over the fireplace—­it was sent to me by a young lady in America,” said Mr. Ruskin, “and I placed it there to get acquainted with it.  I like it more and more.  Do you know the scene?” I knew the scene and explained somewhat about it.