of a street with its rural sociability, the women at their doors, the
slow wagon lumbering along, gives a centre to the landscape. It was
cheerful to look at, and convenient in a hundred ways. Within ourselves
we had walks in plenty, the glen being always beautiful in all its
phases, whether the woods were green in the spring or ruddy in the
autumn. In the park which surrounded the house were the ruins of the
former mansion of Brentwood,--a much smaller and less important house
than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were
picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were
but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehow
reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the
remains of a tower,--an indistinguishable mass of mason-work,
over-grown with ivy; and the shells of walls attached to this were half
filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to
say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the
lower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, and
underneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up with
fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths
of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were
some very commonplace and disjointed fragments of building, one of them
suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck
which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of gray wall, all
incrusted with lichens, in which was a common door-way. Probably it had
been a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called
"the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered,--pantry and
kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the door-way
open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild
creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a
melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to
nothing,--closed once, perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded,