the bark still clings to the under side.  The dancing-hall is the great room of the building.  All that the taste, art and wealth of that day could do, was done to make it a splendid apartment, and it would pass muster still as a comfortable and respectable salon.  As we pass out, you may decipher the short prayer cut in the wasting stone over a side portal, “God Save the Vernons.”  I hope this prayer has been favorably answered; for history records much virtue in the family, mingled with some romantic escapades, which have contributed, I believe, to the entertainment of many novel readers.

Just what Haddon Hall is to the baronial life and society of England five hundred years ago, is Chatsworth to the full stature of modern civilization and aristocratic wealth, taste and position.  Of this it is probably the best measure and representative in the kingdom; and as such it possesses a special value and interest to the world at large.  Were it not for here and there such an establishment, we should lack way-marks in the progress of the arts, sciences and tastes of advancing civilization.

Eaton hall [Footnote:  From “English Note Books.”  By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers of Hawthorne’s works, Houghton, Mifflin Co.  Copyright, 1870 and 1898.]

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

The Church of St. John is outside of the city walls of Chester.  Entering the East gate, we walked awhile under the Rows, bought our tickets for Eaton Hall and its gardens, and likewise some playthings for the children; for this old city of Chester seems to me to possess an unusual number of toy-shops.  Finally we took a cab, and drove to the Hall, about four miles distant, nearly the whole of the way lying through the wooded Park.  There are many sorts of trees, making up a wilderness, which looked not unlike the woods of our own Concord, only less wild.  The English oak is not a handsome tree, being short and sturdy, with a round, thick mass of foliage, lying all within its own bounds.  It was a showery day.  Had there been any sunshine, there might doubtless have been many beautiful effects of light and shadow in these woods.  We saw one or two herds of deer, quietly feeding, a hundred yards or so distant.  They appeared to be somewhat wilder than cattle, but, I think, not much wilder than sheep.  Their ancestors have probably been in a half-domesticated state, receiving food at the hands of man, in winter, for centuries.  There is a kind of poetry in this, quite as much as if they were really wild deer, such as their forefathers were, when Hugh Lupus used to hunt them.

Our miserable cab drew up at the steps of Eaton Hall, and, ascending under the portico, the door swung silently open, and we were received very civilly by two old men—­one, a tall footman in livery; the other, of higher grade, in plain clothes.  The entrance-hall is very spacious, and the floor is tessellated or somehow inlaid with marble.  There was statuary in marble on the floor, and in niches stood several figures in antique armor, of various dates; some with lances, and others with battle-axes and swords.  There was a two-handed sword, as much as six feet long; but not nearly so ponderous as I have supposed this kind of weapon to be, from reading of it.  I could easily have brandished it.