The deer also were getting up from their
shadowy lair under the trees, and the young fawns sprung away and took
to flight as I passed a herd, under a clump of beeches, in order to
obtain a view of the ancient mansion. In approaching it, a sound,
familiar indeed but far from musical, struck the ear, and added
another proof and a fresh charm to the fidelity of the picture drawn
by the poet. The swallows were merrily "twittering" about the
gable-ends, and it did the heart good to stand watching the probable
successors of those active little visiters, whose predecessors had
possibly attracted the notice of the bard. It is well known that these
birds, like the orchard oriole, return year after year to the same
house, and haunt where they had previously reared their young.[2]

A strong and perhaps natural desire to inspect the interior of all
that remained of the ancient mansion of the Huntingdons and Hattons
was defeated, inasmuch as it was found barricaded. Imagination had
been busy for many a year, in respect to its great hall and gallery,
its rich windows "and passages that lead to nothing;" but as access to
the interior was denied, the sketch-book was put in requisition, and
an accurate view soon secured.

Observing at some distance, through a vista among the trees, a lofty
pillar with a statue on its summit, and proceeding thither, it was
found to be another of those splendid ornaments with which the taste
and liberality of the proprietor had adorned his park, being erected
to the memory of Sir Edward Coke, whose statue it was which surmounted
the capital. Whilst engaged in sketching this truly classic object, a
gentleman approached, who introduced himself as Mr. Osborne, the
superintendent of the demesne. He expressed pleasure at seeing the
sketches, and politely offered every facility for making such, but
hinted that Mr. Penn had scruples, and very proper ones, about
strangers approaching too near the house on the Sabbath day, to make
sketches of objects in its vicinity.

[Footnote 2: A pair of Baltimore birds (the orchard oriole) returned
summer after summer, and built their hanging nest, not only in the
same apple-tree, but on the same bough, which overhung a terrace, in a
garden belonging to the writer at Geneva, New York, until one season a
terrific storm, not of hail but ice, tore the nest from the tree, and
killed the young, and the parent birds never afterward returned.]

Mr. Osborne's offer was courteousl