Scroope Manor.

Some years ago, it matters not how many, the old Earl of Scroope lived at Scroope Manor in Dorsetshire.  The house was an Elizabethan structure of some pretensions, but of no fame.  It was not known to sight-seers, as are so many of the residences of our nobility and country gentlemen.  No days in the week were appointed for visiting its glories, nor was the housekeeper supposed to have a good thing in perquisites from showing it.  It was a large brick building facing on to the village street,—­facing the village, if the hall-door of a house be the main characteristic of its face; but with a front on to its own grounds from which opened the windows of the chief apartments.  The village of Scroope consisted of a straggling street a mile in length, with the church and parsonage at one end, and the Manor-house almost at the other.  But the church stood within the park; and on that side of the street, for more than half its length, the high, gloomy wall of the Earl’s domain stretched along in face of the publicans, bakers, grocers, two butchers, and retired private residents whose almost contiguous houses made Scroope itself seem to be more than a village to strangers.  Close to the Manor and again near to the church, some favoured few had been allowed to build houses and to cultivate small gardens taken, as it were, in notches out of the Manor grounds; but these tenements must have been built at a time in which landowners were very much less jealous than they are now of such encroachments from their humbler neighbours.

The park itself was large, and the appendages to it such as were fit for an Earl’s establishment;—­but there was little about it that was attractive.  The land lay flat, and the timber, which was very plentiful, had not been made to group itself in picturesque forms.  There was the Manor wood, containing some five hundred acres, lying beyond the church and far back from the road, intersected with so-called drives, which were unfit for any wheels but those of timber waggons;—­and round the whole park there was a broad belt of trees.  Here and there about the large enclosed spaces there stood solitary oaks, in which the old Earl took pride; but at Scroope Manor there was none of that finished landscape beauty of which the owners of “places” in England are so justly proud.

The house was large, and the rooms were grand and spacious.  There was an enormous hall into one corner of which the front door opened.  There was a vast library filled with old books which no one ever touched,—­huge volumes of antiquated and now all but useless theology, and folio editions of the least known classics,—­such as men now never read.  Not a book had been added to it since the commencement of the century, and it may almost be said that no book had been drawn from its shelves for real use during the same period.  There was a suite of rooms,—­a salon with two withdrawing rooms which now were never opened.  The big dining-room