42 THE WASHINGTONS’

Althorp House lay away to our right — the great
white house with its priceless books — the finest
private library in Europe it is said —and its price-
less pictures — portraits by every famous painter
for four hundred years — besides Italian and
Flemish paintings, some of which, thanks to their
owner’s generosity, may be seen every winter in the
Loan Exhibitions at South Kensington or Burling-
ton House. But we had no time to explore the
treasures of Althorp House on that early spring
afternoon ; so we turned up past the dairy — filled

throughout with pots and pans of Dresden china —
"and reached the limits of the garden.
The gate in the deer-fence was locked: but we

ENGLISH HOME.

look and one ear cocked up and the other down,
and a couple of Teckels—long-backed, bandy-
legged, satin-coated, black-and-tan German turn-
spits, with delicate heads like miniature blood-
hounds, and sad pathetic eyes — poured out upon
us an avalanche of heads, tails, legs and barks.
But their bark is worse than their bite; and they

are soon begging to share the delicious tea and bread
and butter with which we are regaled.

The head
keeper Mr. C , is past ninety ; and his father,
who was head keeper before him, died when he
was past ninety; and his son who will be head
keeper when the dear old man is gone to his rest,
has every right to live to the same ripe old age;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STREET IN LITTLE BRINGTON.

made for another which brought us out close to the
head keeper’s house. It is a beautiful old sand-
stone building of the sixteenth century ; and as we
knocked at the massive oak door, studded with
nails and clamped with iron, an inscription on the
stone lintel, rudely carved with a knife, caught my
eye:

THOMAS PADGET
KEEPER
1672.

A chorus of dogs answered our knock; and as the
door opened, a splendid Skye terrier with knowing

for his mother also came of a long-lived family.
Her brother, who died quite recently, served in the
American War of Independence.

But what a picture the old man is, in his well-
made shooting coat with innumerable pockets, and
his tight snuff-colored breeches, and top boots —
and what a perfect gentleman he is, with courtly,
highbred manners that this schoolboard-taught
generation-may strive and struggle after, but never
attain, in spite of all their boasted civilization.
He has lived among the great of the world; but
he knows his place, and keeps it too. And though
his grandchildren are barristers and clergymen he