Its age and picturesqueness do not arrest the eye; for it isn't the sort of old house which by quaint lines and old-world atmosphere tempt the average artist or lure the casual poet to its praise.

It is just a little old wooden building of another day, where people of modest means were wont to live.
The caretaker there probably does not know anything about the august memory that with him inhabits the dilapidated rooms.

He doubtless fails to appreciate the honour of placing his hand upon the selfsame polished mahogany stair rail which our immortal "infidel's" hand once pressed, or the rare distinction of reading his evening paper at the selfsame window where, with his head upon his hand, that Other was wont to read too, once upon a time.
Ugly, dingy rooms they are in that house, but glorified by association.

There is, incidentally, a mantelpiece which anyone might envy, though now buried in barbarian paint.

There are gable windows peering out from the shingled roof.