to the hall-door, in which were fixed, under a file of lamps among scrolls and twisted leaves, two immense “extinguishers,” like the conical caps of fairies, into which, in old times, the footmen used to thrust their flambeaux when their chairs or coaches had set down their great people, in the hall or at the steps, as the case might be.  That hall is panelled up to the ceiling, and has a large fire-place.  Two or three stately old rooms open from it at each side.  The windows of these are tall, with many small panes.  Passing through the arch at the back of the hall, you come upon the wide and heavy well-staircase.  There is a back staircase also.  The mansion is large, and has not as much light, by any means, in proportion to its extent, as modern houses enjoy.  When I saw it, it had long been untenanted, and had the gloomy reputation beside of a haunted house.  Cobwebs floated from the ceilings or spanned the corners of the cornices, and dust lay thick over everything.  The windows were stained with the dust and rain of fifty years, and darkness had thus grown darker.

When I made it my first visit, it was in company with my father, when I was still a boy, in the year 1808.  I was about twelve years old, and my imagination impressible, as it always is at that age.  I looked about me with great awe.  I was here in the very centre and scene of those occurrences which I had heard recounted at the fireside at home, with so delightful a horror.

My father was an old bachelor of nearly sixty when he married.  He had, when a child, seen Judge Harbottle on the bench in his robes and wig a dozen times at least before his death, which took place in 1748, and his appearance made a powerful and unpleasant impression, not only on his imagination, but upon his nerves.

The Judge was at that time a man of some sixty-seven years.  He had a great mulberry-coloured face, a big, carbuncled nose, fierce eyes, and a grim and brutal mouth.  My father, who was young at the time, thought it the most formidable face he had ever seen; for there were evidences of intellectual power in the formation and lines of the forehead.  His voice was loud and harsh, and gave effect to the sarcasm which was his habitual weapon on the bench.

This old gentleman had the reputation of being about the wickedest man in England.  Even on the bench he now and then showed his scorn of opinion.  He had carried cases his own way, it was said, in spite of counsel, authorities, and even of juries, by a sort of cajolery, violence, and bamboozling, that somehow confused and overpowered resistance.  He had never actually committed himself; he was too cunning to do that.  He had the character of being, however, a dangerous and unscrupulous judge; but his character did not trouble him.  The associates he chose for his hours of relaxation cared as little as he did about it.

CHAPTER II

Mr. Peters