Presently the road left the down, returned by a precipitous descent into the valley of the Stall, and ran thenceforward among enclosed fields and under the continuous shade of trees.  I was told we had now entered on the Carthew property.  By and by, a battlemented wall appeared on the left hand, and a little after I had my first glimpse of the mansion.  It stood in a hollow of a bosky park, crowded to a degree that surprised and even displeased me, with huge timber and dense shrubberies of laurel and rhododendron.  Even from this low station and the thronging neighbourhood of the trees, the pile rose conspicuous like a cathedral.  Behind, as we continued to skirt the park wall, I began to make out a straggling town of offices which became conjoined to the rear with those of the home farm.  On the left was an ornamental water sailed in by many swans.  On the right extended a flower garden, laid in the old manner, and at this season of the year, as brilliant as stained glass.  The front of the house presented a facade of more than sixty windows, surmounted by a formal pediment and raised upon a terrace.  A wide avenue, part in gravel, part in turf, and bordered by triple alleys, ran to the great double gateways.  It was impossible to look without surprise on a place that had been prepared through so many generations, had cost so many tons of minted gold, and was maintained in order by so great a company of emulous servants.  And yet of these there was no sign but the perfection of their work.  The whole domain was drawn to the line and weeded like the front plot of some suburban amateur; and I looked in vain for any belated gardener, and listened in vain for any sounds of labour.  Some lowing of cattle and much calling of birds alone disturbed the stillness, and even the little hamlet, which clustered at the gates, appeared to hold its breath in awe of its great neighbour, like a troop of children who should have strayed into a king’s anteroom.

The Carthew Arms, the small but very comfortable inn, was a mere appendage and outpost of the family whose name it bore.  Engraved portraits of by-gone Carthews adorned the walls; Fielding Carthew, Recorder of the city of London; Major-General John Carthew in uniform, commanding some military operations; the Right Honourable Bailley Carthew, Member of Parliament for Stallbridge, standing by a table and brandishing a document; Singleton Carthew, Esquire, represented in the foreground of a herd of cattle—­doubtless at the desire of his tenantry, who had made him a compliment of this work of art; and the Venerable Archdeacon Carthew, D.D., LL.D., A.M., laying his hand on the head of a little child in a manner highly frigid and ridiculous.  So far as my memory serves me, there were no other pictures in this exclusive hostelry; and I was not surprised to learn that the landlord was an ex-butler, the landlady an ex-lady’s-maid, from the great house; and that the bar-parlour was a sort of perquisite of former servants.