They were all of the best families of Shorthorn blood, and a better connoisseur of animal life than myself could not have enjoyed the sight of such well-made creatures more thoroughly than I did.

The prince of the blood, in my estimation, was "Lord Cobham," a cream-colored bull, with which compared that famous animal in Greek mythology which played himself off as such an Adonis among the bovines, must have been a shabby, scraggy quadruped.

Poor Europa! it would have been bad enough if she had been run away with by a "Lord Cobham." But the like of him did not live in her day.
After going through the housings for cattle, the steward took me to the Hall, a grand old mansion full of English history, especially of the Commonwealth period.

Indeed, one large apartment was a museum of relics of that stirring and stormy time.

There, against the antique, carved wainscoting, hung the great broad-brim of Oliver Cromwell, with a circumference nearly as large as an opened umbrella, heavy, coarse and grim.