rotten and useless, and thus found their way into the manor house. Every
atom of genuine old work of this kind is deeply interesting,
representing as it does the rude chiselling which hands that have long
been dust in the village churchyard wrought with infinite pains. That
oak roof, carved in rich tracery, resting for ages on arcades of
dog-tooth Norman and graceful Early English work, had echoed back the
songs of praise and prayer that rose Sunday after Sunday from the lips
of successive generations of simple country folk at matins and at
evensong, before the strains of the Angelus had been hushed for ever by
the Reformation. And who can tell how long before the Conquest, and by
what manner of men, were planted the trees destined to provide these
massive beams of oak?

In the centre of the hall was a round table, with very ancient-looking,
high-backed chairs scattered about, of all shapes and sizes. Portraits
of various degrees of indifferent oil painting adorned the walls of the
hall and staircase. Somebody appeared to have been shooting with a
catapult at some of the pictures. One old gentleman had a shot through
his nose; and an old fellow with a hat on, over the window, had received
a pellet in the right eye![1]

[Footnote 1: The writer, in a fit of infantile insanity, being then aged
about nine, was discovered in the very act of committing this assault on
his ancestors some twenty years ago, in Hertfordshire.]

A copy of the Magna Charta, a suit of mediaeval armour, several rusty
helmets (Cromwellian and otherwise), antlers of several kinds of deer,
and a variety of old swords, pistols, and guns were the objects that
chiefly attracted my attention. The walls were likewise adorned with a
large number of heraldic shields.