“The kitchens, a vast range of stone-flagged apartments, spoke of mighty hospitality in bygone times, containing fire-places fit to roast oxen at whole, huge spits and countless hooks, the last exhibiting but one dependent—­the skin of the rabbit shot for lunch.  The atmosphere was, if possible, a trifle more penetrating than that of the Great Hall, and the walls were discoloured with damp.

“Upstairs, besides the bedrooms, was a little chapel with some remains of Gothic carving, and a few interesting pictures of the fifteenth century; a cunningly contrived priest-hole, and a long gallery lined with dusty books, whither my lord used to repair on rainy days.  Many of the windows were darkened by creepers, and over one was a flap of half-detached plaster work which hung like a shroud.  But, oh, the stained glass!  The eighteenth-century renovators had at least respected these, and quarterings and coats of arms from the fifteenth century downwards were to be seen by scores.  What an opportunity for the genealogist with a history in view, but that opportunity I fear has passed for ever.  The ——­ Hall estate was evidently mortgaged up to the hilt, and nothing intervened to prevent the dispersal of these treasures, which occurred some few months after my visit.  Large though the building was, I learned that its size was once far greater, some two-thirds of the old building having been pulled down when the hall was constituted in its present form.  Hard by on an adjoining estate a millionaire manufacturer (who owned several motor-cars) had set up an establishment, but I gathered that his tastes were the reverse of antiquarian, and that no effort would be made to restore the old hall to its former glories and preserve such treasures as yet remained intact—­a golden opportunity to many people of taste with leanings towards a country life.  But time fled, and the ragged retainer was once more at the door, so I left ——­ Hall in a blinding storm of rain, and took my last look at its gaunt facade, carrying with me the seeds of a cold which prevented me from visiting the Eastern Counties for some time to come.”

Some historic houses of rare beauty have only just escaped destruction.  Such an one is the ancestral house of the Comptons, Compton Wynyates, a vision of colour and architectural beauty—­

        A Tudor-chimneyed bulk
        Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers.

Owing to his extravagance and the enormous expenses of a contested election in 1768, Spencer, the eighth Earl of Northampton, was reduced to cutting down the timber on the estate, selling his furniture at Castle Ashby and Compton, and spending the rest of his life in Switzerland.  He actually ordered Compton Wynyates to be pulled down, as he could not afford to repair it; happily the faithful steward of the estate, John Berrill, did not obey the order.  He did his best to keep out the weather and to preserve the house,