Its aspect disappointed me; but so does everything.
It is but a villa, after all; no castle, nor even a large manor-house,
and very unsatisfactory when you consider it in that light. Indeed, it
impressed me, not as a real house, intended for the home of human
beings,--a house to die in or to be born in,--but as a plaything,--
something in the same category as Horace Walpole's Strawberry Hill. The
present owner seems to have found it insufficient for the actual purposes
of life; for he is adding a wing, which promises to be as extensive as
the original structure.
We rang at the front door (the family being now absent), and were
speedily admitted by a middle-aged or somewhat elderly man,--the butler,
I suppose, or some upper servant,--who at once acceded to our request to
be permitted to see the house. We stepped from the porch immediately
into the entrance-hall; and having the great Hall of Battle Abbey in my
memory, and the ideal of a baronial hall in my mind, I was quite taken
aback at the smallness and narrowness and lowness of this; which,
however, is a very fine one, on its own little scale. In truth, it is
not much more than a vestibule. The ceiling is carved; and every inch of
the walls is covered with claymores, targets, and other weapons and
armor, or old-time curiosities, tastefully arranged, many of which, no
doubt, have a history attached to them,--or had, in Sir Walter's own
mind. Our attendant was a very intelligent person, and pointed out much
that was interesting; but in such a multitudinous variety it was almost
impossible to fix the eye upon any one thing.
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