d them all with that
stupendous genius which has filled succeeding generations with wonder
and love.

Then it was that men began to think of their home as a casket in which
to enshrine the gentler tastes and luxuries which peace at home and
continental influences from without were fostering in England. The
casket must be fitted for its treasure; and so it came to pass that
throughout the length and breadth of the land those fair Elizabethan
mansions sprang up.

I see one such now in my mind's eye--one that I love well, for since my
earliest childhood it has filled me with awe and admiration and delight.
It was built by James I. as a hunting-box for his son, Prince Henry, but
ere the house was finished the young prince was dead, and all the
promise of his short life gone with him. Had he lived, our English
history for the next hundred years might have been a different story.
Bramshill then passed into other hands--first to Lord Zouch, then to the
Copes, who still own it--but in the finely-carved stone balustrade above
the great western door the three plumes of the prince of Wales's
feathers may still be seen, the sole memento of its royal origin. Only
half the original house remains: the rest was destroyed by fire a couple
of hundred years ago. Yet what still stands is verily a palace.

You enter through the heavily-nailed and barred doors, and find yourself
in a vast hall panelled up to the ceiling with old oak. The immense
fireplace with its brass dogs and andirons tells of the yule log that
still at Christmas burns upon the hearth, and trophies of arms of all
ages--from the Toledo blade that can be bent by the point into a
semicircle, so perfect is the temper of its steel, to the Sikh sword
that was brought home after the Indian mutiny--form fitting ornaments
for the walls.

Then come many rooms, with deep-embrasured windows looking out on the
terrace, each beautiful or curious in its own way--a noble dining-room
hung with old grisaille tapestry, from which you may learn the life of
Decius Mus if you have patience to disentangle the strange medley of
impossible figures in gardens with impossible flowers, where impossible
beasts roam in herds and impossible birds sing among the branches.

But the glory of the house is its first floor. The wide oak staircase
leads you up first to the chapel-room, with its oriel windows
overhanging the western door, its Italian cabinets, its rare china, its
chairs and couches cover