SHELDON MANOR.
The churches of Stanton St. Quinton and Kingston St. Michael have suffered internally as much as that of Yatton Keynell, and, alas! the fourteenth-century manor-house of the St. Quintons is now no more. An aged person working in the churchyard, though very proud that he had helped to pull it down, insisted on pointing out the "ould dov-cart" This may be pure "Wilshire," but until we saw the dovecot we did not grasp the meaning. Nearer Chippenham is Bullich House, which fortunately has been left in peace. Beside the entrance gate two queer little "gazebos" were covered with Virginia creeper in its bright autumn tints. The remains of the clear moat washed the garden wall, over which peeped the gables of the house with the waning red sunlight reflected in the casements—this was a picture to linger in one's memory; and there is no telling how far one's fancy might not have been led by speculating upon the meaning of two grim heads which form pinnacles above the porch, had the stillness not been broken by the harsh sounds of the gramophone issuing from a neighbouring cottage! If Bullich possesses a ghost, as it ought to, judging by appearances, surely an up-to-date music-hall ditty should "lay" him in the moat in desperation.
SHELDON MANOR.
About a mile away on the western side of the main road from Chippenham to Yatton Keynell is Sheldon Manor, a charming old residence with a great Gothic porch like a church, and a Gothic window over it belonging to what is called the "Priest's chamber." Upon the gable end, over it, is one of those queer little box sundials one occasionally sees in Wiltshire. As you enter the porch the massive staircase faces you, with its picturesque newels and pendants, and the little carved oak gate, which was there to keep the dogs downstairs. In the wall to the right, just beyond the entrance door, is a curious stone trough of fair capacity. It is screened by a door, and exteriorly looks like a cupboard; but what was the use of this trough we are at a loss to conjecture, unless in old days the horses were admitted.
SOUTH WRAXALL MANOR-HOUSE.
But two of the finest old houses in the county are certainly South Wraxall and Great Chaldfield, situated within a couple of miles from one another to the west of Melksham. The former has recently been converted from a farmhouse again into a mansion, and the latter is now undergoing careful restoration. Though the exterior of Great Chaldfield is unimpaired, and as perfect a specimen of an early fifteenth-century house as one could wish to see, sad havoc has been played inside. The great hall many years ago was so divided up that it was difficult to guess at its original proportions. The finest Gothic windows with groined roofs, ornamental bosses, and fireplaces, and carved oak beams, have long since been blocked up and their places filled with mean ones of the Georgian period or later. To fully comprehend the wholesale obliteration of the original work, one has only to see the thousand bits of sculptured masonry laid out upon the lawn of the back garden. To place the pieces of the puzzle correctly together must be a task to try the knowledge and patience of the most expert in such matters, but piece by piece each is going into its proper place. The huge stone heads with scooped-out eyes, through which the ancient lord of the manor could watch what was going on below in the hall without being observed, once again will be reinstated. There are three of them, and the hollowed eyes have sharp edges, as if they were cut out only yesterday. Then there is an ungainly grinning figure of the fifteenth century, locally known as "Blue Beard," who within living memory has sat on the lawn in front of the mansion; but his proper place is up aloft on top of one of the gable ends, and there, of course, he will go, and, like Sister Ann, be able to survey the road to Broughton Gifford to see whether anybody is coming. Among the rooms now under course of repair is "Blue Beard's chamber," and naturally enough the neighbouring children of the past generation (we do not speak of the present, for doubtless up-to-date education has made them far too knowing to treat such things seriously—the more's the pity) used to hold the house in holy dread. But there certainly is a creepy look about it, especially towards dusk, when the light of the western sky shines through the shell of a beautiful oriel window, and makes the monsters on the gable ends stand out while the front courtyard is wrapt in shade. The reed-grown moat gives the house a neglected and sombre look. The group of buildings, with curious little church with its crocketed bell turret on one side and a great barn on the other, is altogether remarkable. How it got the name of "Blue Beard's Castle" we could not learn. Recently a "priest's hole" has been discovered up against the ceiling in a corner of his chamber; but whether he concealed himself here or some of his wives we cannot say.