are no inconvenience or eyesore. There
run scores of pigs, which feed on whey and
butter-milk. There the large teams turn
round without interfering with anybody;
and there the whole dairy of seventy cows
can move about without crowding.

Inside the house, the first thing that
catches the eye is the Welsh carpet—not in
the parlours, but the passage-rooms, pantries,
and kitchen. This Welsh carpet is a pattern
produced on the brick floor by staining the
brick squares in figures with dockleaf juice.
The prettiest pattern is perhaps produced by
nibbing half of each square diagonally with
dock-leaves. The diced appearance is really
very pretty. The best parlour is well-
furnished; but the uneven floor must wear
out the carpet very soon. The lattice-
windows do not open, either in or out; but
in a better way, which keeps out rain as well
as a sash-window. One compartment slides
in grooves; and large, and bright as air, all
those windows are, except in the cheese-
making rooms, where they are bedewed as if
it were brewing that was going on. The
widow's own little parlour looks to the farmyard,
across the green. It looks somewhere
else too. There are two old-fashioned
peepholes in the door, through which she can spy
at pleasure into the industrial department;
while she can, by turning the brass plates,
secure herself from being watched in return.
I don't know that I ever saw this device
before, except in prisons, lunatic asylums,
and hospitals; and it looks very odd, pleasant
only as a relic of ancient-days and
customs, when the master's eye was supposed
to be really constantly over his household.
The upper rooms are spacious and airy, and
as clean as the dairy itself—a thing which is
especially commendable in a house which is
wainscoted throughout its chambers, and all
hill and dale in regard to its floors. Within
the widow's room there is a most remarkable
place, called Paul's closet. It is a small
room, now appropriated to the shower-bath,
which stands in one corner, and lighted by a
high window. It is vaulted, and the only
door is a double one. Over the door it may
be seen, after some calculation, that there
must be a cavity. Such a recess there is;
and it is closed by a sliding panel. Paul,
whoever he might be (and that is what
nobody knows) was concealed in this room for
a long time (nobody knows when), and has
left curious traces of his imprisonment. In
the vaulted part of the roofing there are
drawings done with soot or blacking of some
sort, of churches (one of which looks like a
lighthouse), with the ecclesiastical doors and
their elaborate hinges and locks represented
faithfully, and on a grand scale, in proportion
to the rest of the edifice. In the opposite
angles are marks which seem to show that
Paul was a Catholic. In one is the IHS,
and in the other the MRI (only with N
instead of M), which tell of his catholicism.
Poor Paul was, or believed himself, in
danger of being caught, one day, and he crept
into his cupboard over the door. Being
found there dead, and mere skin and bone,
he was supposed to have fastened the panel
only too well, and thus to have died a
horrible death. Judging by the present state
of things, there could have been no want of
air. It is to be feared that he died of sheer
starvation, all alone and nobody knowing.
Who could Paul have been?

The gardens are delightful, and the vine-
covered house on that side. Where the upper
storey projects, hanging its vine tendrils
above the recess below, there is a clean white
bench where one might sit all day and
admire the garden. There is a smooth green
all hedged in with old-fashioned flowers. The
espaliers are knobbed all over with apples
and pears; and the great pear-tree beside
the green shows myriads of the fruit. The
high brick wall which surrounds this garden
is covered—actually covered—with wall-
fruit, golden apricots, and plums of all
colours. The more delicate vegetables are
here—asparagus beds, artichokes, peas, and
beans. Passing through a door in the wall,
one finds oneself in the terraced garden,
seen from afar; and of course commanding
the landscape before described—from the
bank above the Dee to the Welsh mountains.
Here are the potatoes, the cabbages, and
common fruits; and, again, apricots and
plums, as many as within. The pastures may
hence be measured by the eye. The land
held by Mrs. S. is two hundred and eighty-
three acres, very nearly the whole of which is
in pasture. Her seventy cows eat nothing but
grass and hay. Modern methods of management
have not reached this valley yet. It is
the notion here that it must be extravagant
work ploughing the ground for roots, because
it would be necessary to employ husbandmen;
so only eight acres of this farm are
under the plough, while ninety-eight are
mown for hay this year. Hedgerow timber
is in full luxuriance here; because, as the
people say, what would become of the cows
without the shade? Stall-feeding is of course
a thing yet unheard of; or, if heard of,
dreaded as the sure and certain end of all
fame founded on Cheshire cheese. In the
dairy I found the old-fashioned leads, with
the ancient spigot, or bung of wood and rag.
No zinc has as yet been propounded here.
The manure yet awaits its due exaltation.
It lies neglected in the open air; and in the
pastures gives a sad lumpy appearance to the
grass, when one comes near enough to see
the blemish. The manure in the stalls is
sometimes spread over the pasture. Guano
has been heard of and used; and the name
of bone-dust is not altogether strange. But,
as to bestowing serious thought on the great
subject of manure, the time for that has not
arrived. Whenever it does, I am rather
disposed to think that the Cheshire cheese