rly ill-contrived, the landings
upon the upper floors occupying a space quite sufficient for
goodly-sized chambers. The ceilings and a chimney-panel or two are set
out bravely with the usual stucco imitation of wood-carving we almost
invariably find (and sigh over) in old American houses--a piteous
attempt on the part of our honest ancestors to reproduce in some sort
the rare wood-sculpture of their own old English manor-houses: it is
a satisfaction, too, to note what little progress we have contrived
to make in this unworthy branch of decorative art in the lapse of a
century.

In two of the rooms are queer corner fireplaces, where, doubtless,
many pairs of dainty high-heeled slippers and great military
jack-boots have been toasted at the huge hickory fires, long since
extinguished. In one of the upper chambers is an odd sort of closet,
the shelves of which are furnished with low railings, presumably a
protection for the handsome and valuable china that women have always
loved to store up--a check upon the ravages of careless housemaids. It
is quite worth while to climb the breakneck garret-stairs, which must
have bruised many a shin in their day, and the short flight leading
to the roof, in order to get the glorious view of the Park stretching
away down to the city of Philadelphia, and of the beautiful Schuylkill
River winding in and out among the trees and flashing so silvery white
in the afternoon sunshine.

In the cellarage, where we disturb many busy spiders and stealthy
centipedes, is a large, solidly-floored apartment, where possibly the
house-servants were used to congregate in the old slave days. There is
no chimney-place in this room, nor, indeed, is there any convenience
whatever for cooking purposes in the main building, which omission
inclines me to the opinion that one of the detached wings was used
for the kitchen offices, there being large fireplaces in both of them,
very suitable for the getting up of good dinners.[3] The grounds about
the house have been much altered of late years--the gardens long
since destroyed. A smug, close-shaven turf replaces the old-fashioned
flower-beds and shrubbery, amid which I love to fancy sweet Peggy
Arnold trailing her French brocades and flowered chintzes, her rosy
ear attuned to the high-flown compliments of the men of fashion whom
her beauty and her husband's lavish hospitality drew about her--her
husband the traitor who a few months afterward was flying, a detecte