of vaguely as 'on the
Continent.' There was, in fact, a lack of ready-money, perhaps from the
accumulation of settlements, that reduced the nominal income of the head
to a tithe of what it should have been.

Yet they were too proud to have in the modern builder, the modern
upholsterer, and, most dreadful of all, the modern 'gardener,' to put in
French sashes, gilding and mirrors, and to root up the fine old yew
hedges and level the grand old trees. Such is the usual preparation
before an advertisement appears that a mansion of 'historic
association,' and 'replete with every modern convenience,' is to let,
with some thousand of acres of shooting, &c.

They still kept up an establishment of servants--after a fashion--who
did much as they pleased. Dickon was a great favourite. As for myself, a
mere dreamy lad, I could go into the woods and wander as I liked, which
was sufficient. But I recollect the immense kitchen very well, and the
polished relics of the ancient turnspit machinery. There was a door from
it opening on a square stone-flagged court with a vertical sun-dial on
the wall; and beyond that ranges of disused coach-houses--all cloudy, as
it were, with cobwebs hanging on old-fashioned post-chaises. Dickon was
in love with one of the maids, a remarkably handsome girl.

She showed me the famous mantelpiece, a vast carved work, under which
you could stand upright. The legend was that once a year on a certain
night a sable horse and cloaked horseman rode across that great
apartment, flames snorting from the horse's nostrils, and into the
fireplace, disappearing with a clap of thunder. She brought me, too, an
owl from the coach-houses, holding the bird by the legs firmly, her hand
defended by her apron from the claws.

The butler was a little merry fellow, extremely fond of a gun, and
expert in using it. He seemed to have nothing to do but tell tales and
sing, except at the rare intervals when some of the family returned
unexpectedly. The keeper was always up there in the kitchen; he was as
pleasant and jovial as a man could well be, though full of oaths on
occasion. He was a man of one tale--of a somewhat enigmatical character.
He would ask a stranger if they had ever heard of such-and-such a
village where water set fire to a barn, ducks were drowned, and pigs cut
their own throats, all in a single day.

It seemed that some lime had been stored in the barn, when the brook
rose and flooded the place; this slaked t