ndred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the
present time. It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the country
towns and inns swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with
its bells and plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved the
journey from the White Hart, Salisbury, to the Swan with Two Necks,
London, in two days; the strings of packhorses that had not yet left the
road; my lord's gilt postchaise-and-six, with the outriders galloping
on ahead; the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; the
farmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the cathedral town
on Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion--all these crowding sights
and brisk people greeted the young traveller on his summer journey.
Hodge, the farmer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milkmaid,
bobbed a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village-green,
and the white-headed children lifted their chubby faces and cheered.
The church-spires glistened with gold, the cottage-gables glared in
sunshine, the great elms murmured in summer, or cast purple shadows over
the grass. Young Warrington never had such a glorious day, or witnessed
a scene so delightful. To be nineteen years of age, with high health,
high spirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey, and
rolling through the country in a postchaise at nine miles an hour--O
happy youth! almost it makes one young to think of him! But Harry was
too eager to give more than a passing glance at the Abbey at Bath,
or gaze with more than a moment's wonder at the mighty Minster at
Salisbury. Until he beheld Home it seemed to him he had no eyes for any
other place.

At last the young gentleman's postchaise drew up at the rustic inn on
Castlewood Green, of which his grandsire had many a time talked to him,
and which bears as its ensign, swinging from an elm near the inn porch,
the Three Castles of the Esmond family. They had a sign, too, over the
gateway of Castlewood House, bearing the same cognisance. This was the
hatchment of Francis, Lord Castlewood, who now lay in the chapel hard
by, his son reigning in his stead.

Harry Warrington had often heard of Francis, Lord Castlewood. It was
for Frank's sake, and for his great love towards the boy, that Colonel
Esmond determined to forgo his claim to the English estates and rank of
his family, and retired to Virginia. The young man had led a wild youth;
he had fought with distinction