such thick walls, nor the saving in coal bills entailed thereby. Somersby Grange is a house to entice the modern speculative builder into, and having done so to point out to him the solid substance thereof as an example of the liberal use of material over and above that nicely calculated as the minimum required to outlast a ground lease. Then possibly the speculative builder would justly reply that to build houses like that to sell would mean the bankruptcy court. These old houses were built for homes, not for one generation, but for many. I am afraid that the changed conditions of life, owing mainly to the cheap communication and rapid transit provided by railways, have caused home building to become almost a lost art. Why, instead of a family living for generations in one place, it is a matter of surprise if they stay more therein than a few years; three appears to be a very general and favourite term!
The interior of Somersby Grange, I have to confess, disappointed us after the promise of its romantic exterior. We failed to discover any old-time tradition connected therewith, no picturesque elopement, no hiding-place for fugitives, no horrible murder—no ghost. Indeed the old home seems to have led quite a respectable and uneventful existence—it is like a novel without a plot!
