Our courier got down and shoved the great gate open, and we entered,
between sombre files of magnificent forest trees, one of those very broad
straight avenues whose width measures the front of the house. This was all
built of white stone, resembling that of Caen, which parts of Derbyshire
produce in such abundance.
So this was Bartram, and here was Uncle Silas. I was almost breathless as
I approached. The bright moon shining full on the white front of the old
house revealed not only its highly decorated style, its fluted pillars and
doorway, rich and florid carving, and balustraded summit, but also its
stained and moss-grown front. Two giant trees, overthrown at last by the
recent storm, lay with their upturned roots, and their yellow foliage still
flickering on the sprays that were to bloom no more, where they had fallen,
at the right side of the court-yard, which, like the avenue, was studded
with tufted weeds and grass.
All this gave to the aspect of Bartram a forlorn character of desertion and
decay, contrasting almost awfully with the grandeur of its proportions and
richness of its architecture.
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