It was, indeed, a peaceful place. It had no grand entrance, but in a
narrow back street you came suddenly upon its ancient gateway,
through which you passed into a mediaeval world. The clock tower
and clock, with an upright sundial affixed below it, marked the first
court, whence, through a passage which, as is usual in colleges, had the
hall on one hand and the buttery on the other, you entered the second
court, round three sides of which ran cloisters of very ugly, very plain,
but very ancient architecture. In a corner of these cloisters was the
door of the Lodge--the master's private dwelling.
Private it could hardly be called; for, like all these lodges of colleges,
it had an atmosphere most anti-home like, which at first struck you as
extremely painful. Its ancientness, both of rooms and furniture, added
to this feeling. When you passed through the small entrance hall, up
the stone staircase, and into a long, narrow, mysterious gallery, looking
as it must have looked for two centuries at least, you felt an involuntary
shiver, as of warm, human, daily life brought suddenly into contact
with the pale ghosts of the past. You could not escape the haunting
thought that these oaken tables were dined at, these high-backed chairs
sat upon, these black-framed, dirt-obscured portraits gazed at and
admired by people, once flesh and blood like yourself, who had become
skeletons--nay, mere dust, centuries before you were born.
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