In the summer of 1836 I had occasion to make a journey into Wiltshire, in England. As the business that called me there, although of sufficient importance to me, would have no interest whatever for the reader, I will readily be excused, I dare say, from saying of what nature that business was. It will more concern him, from its connection with the sequel, to know that my residence, while in England, was in a certain beautiful little village at the southern extremity of the shire above named, and that mine host, during my stay there, was the worthy landlord of the White Hart Inn, as intelligent and well-informed a man as it has often been my good fortune to meet with. The nature of the business which made me a guest of Michael Jones, left me a great deal more spare time than I knew well what to do with. It hung heavy upon my hands; and my good host, perceiving this, suggested a little excursion, which, he said, he thought would dispose of one day, at any rate, agreeably enough.
"I would recommend you, sir," he said, "to pay a visit to Oxton Hall, the seat of the Earl of Wistonbury.[a][5] It is one of the finest residences in England; and, as the family are not there just now, you may see the whole house, both inside and outside. If you think of it, I will give you a line to the butler, a very old friend of mine, and he will be glad to show you all that's worth seeing about the place."
[5]Under this name we choose, for obvious reasons, to conceal the real one.—Ed.
"How far distant is it?" I inquired.
"Oh, not more than three miles and a half—little more than an hour's easy walk," replied mine host.
"Excellent!" said I; "thank you for the hint, landlord. Let me have the introduction to the butler you spoke about, and I'll set off directly."
In less than five minutes, a card, addressed to Mr. John Grafton, butler, Oxton Hall, was put into my hands, and in two minutes more I was on my way to the ancient seat of the Earls of Wistonbury. The directions given me as to my route, carefully noted on my part, brought me, in little more than an hour, to a spacious and noble gateway, secured by a magnificent gate of cast-iron. This I at once recognised, from the description given me by Mr. Jones, to be the principal entrance to Oxton Hall. Satisfied that it was so, I unhesitatingly entered—and the house of one of the proudest of England's aristocracy stood before me, in all its lordly magnificence. A spacious lawn, of the brightest and most beautiful verdure, dotted over with noble oaks, and tenanted by some scores of fallow-deer, stretched far and wide on every side. In the centre of this splendid park—such a park as England alone can exhibit—arose the mansion-house, an ancient and stately pile, of great extent and lofty structure.
Having found the person to whose civilities I was recommended by mine host of the White Hart—a mild and pleasant-looking old man, of about seventy years of age—I put my credentials into his hands. On reading it, the old man looked at me smilingly, and said that he would have much pleasure in obliging his good friend Mr. Jones, by showing me all that was worth seeing both in and about the house; and many things both curious and rare, and, I may add, both costly and splendid, did I see ere another hour had passed away; but fearing the reader's patience would scarcely stand the trial of a description of them, I refrain from the experiment, and proceed to say,
that, just as our survey of the house was concluded, my cicerone, as if suddenly recollecting himself, said—