I like to see coats-of-arms and escutcheons hanging up in churches and in the halls of old country houses, for the following simple reasons.  There is meaning in them—­deep, mystic meaning, such as no ordinary picture can boast.  Every quartering on that ancient shield emblazoned in red, black, and gold has a legend attached to it Hundreds of years ago, in those splendid mediaeval times—­nay, farther back than that, in the dim, mysterious, dark ages—­each of those quarterings was a device worn by some brave knight or squire on his heavy shield.  It was his cognizance in the field of battle and at the tournament.  It was borne at Agincourt perhaps; at Crecy, or Poitiers, or in the lists for some “faire ladye”; and it is a token of ancient chivalry, an emblem of the days that have been and never more will be.  It was doubtless the sight of those eighteen great hatchments which still hang in the little church at Stoke Poges that inspired Gray to attune his harp to such lofty strains.

     “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
       And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
     Await alike the inevitable hour
       The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

Among other old masters was a portrait of the “John Coxwel” who built the house, by Cornelius Jansen, dated 1613.  The house did not appear remarkable either for size or grandeur; yet there is always something particularly pleasing to me to alight unexpectedly on buildings of this kind, and to find that although they are obscure and unknown, they are on a small scale as interesting to the antiquarian as Knole, Hatfield, and other more famous mediaeval houses.  Some lattice windows, evidently at some time out of doors, but now on the inner walls, showed that in more recent times the house had been enlarged, and the old courtyard walled in and made part of the hall.  Over one of these windows is the inscription, “Post tenebras lux.”  The part I liked best, however, was the old-fashioned passage, with its lattice windows and musty dungeon savour, leading to the ancient kitchen and to a little oak-panelled sitting-room:  but, knocking my head severely against the oak beam in the doorway, I nearly brought the whole ceiling down, a catastrophe which they tell me has happened before now in this rather rickety old manor house.  Opening a door on the other side of the house, I passed out into the garden.  How characteristic of the place!—­a broad terrace running along the whole length of the house, and beyond that a few flower beds with the old sundial in their midst Beyond these a lawn, and then grass sweeping down to the edge of the river, some hundred yards away.  Beyond the river again more grass, but of a wilder description, where the rabbits are scudding about or listening with pricked ears; and in the background a magnificent hanging wood, crowning the side of the valley, with a large rookery in it.  I was much struck with the different tints of the foliage; for although autumn