historical residence of an
old historical family. I had a letter of introduction to the
present proprietor, Mr. Fawkes, who, I hope, will not deem it a
disparagement to be called one of the Knights of the Shorthorns--a
more extensive, useful, and cosmopolitan order than were the Knights
of Rhodes or of Malta. Unfortunately for me, he was not at home;
but his steward, a very intelligent, gentlemanly and genial man,
took me over the establishment, and showed me all the stock that was
stabled, mostly bulls of different ages. They were all of the best
families of Shorthorn blood, and a better connoisseur of animal life
than myself could not have enjoyed the sight of such well-made
creatures more thoroughly than I did. The prince of the blood, in
my estimation, was "Lord Cobham," a cream-colored bull, with which
compared that famous animal in Greek mythology which played himself
off as such an Adonis among the bovines, must have been a shabby,
scraggy quadruped. Poor Europa! it would have been bad enough if
she had been run away with by a "Lord Cobham." But the like of him
did not live in her day.

After going through the housings for cattle, the steward took me to
the Hall, a grand old mansion full of English history, especially of
the Commonwealth period. Indeed, one large apartment was a museum
of relics of that stirring and stormy time. There, against the
antique, carved wainscoting, hung the great broad-brim of Oliver
Cromwell, with a circumference nearly as large as an opened
umbrella, heavy, coarse and grim. There hung a sword he wielded in
the fiery rifts of battle. There was Fairfax's sword hanging by its
side; and his famous war-drum lay beneath. Its leather lungs, that
once shouted the charge, were now still and frowsy, with no martial
speech left in them.

Mr. Fawkes owns about 15,000 acres of land, including most of the
valley of Otley, and extending back almost to Harrogate. He farms
about 450 acres, but grows no wheat. Indeed, I did not see a field
of it in a circle of five miles' diameter.

I reached Harrogate in the dusk of the evening, and found the town
alive with people mostly in the streets. It is a snug and cozy
little Saratoga among the hills of Yorkshire, away from the smoke,
soot and savor of the great manufacturing centres. It is a favorite
resort for a mild class of invalids, and of persons who need the
medicine of pure air and gentle exercise, blended with the quiet
tonics of c