64 LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 



on his way from Philadelphia, to pass the summer with us. Upon 

 the receipt of it, I gave up all thoughts of Italy and her lovely sky ; 

 and set about putting a finishing hand to my out-buildings, the 

 repairs of which had been begun in 1834, and carried on at intervals. 

 They are an immense pile, composing an oblong square of forty-five 

 yards in length, and thirty-six in breadth, independent of the dog- 

 kennel, fowl-house, sheds, and potato-vaults. They had been erected 

 by my forefathers at different periods, when taxation was compara- 

 tively in its infancy, and good old English hospitality better under- 

 stood than it is at the present day. These buildings were gradually 

 going to ruin, through length of time and inattention to them during 

 my absence ; but they are now in thorough repair. Every depart- 

 ment, from the sty to the stable, has been paved, and the pavement 

 joined with Roman cement. In front of them there is a spacious 

 area all of stone, and behind them a stone walk equally done with 

 cement. The entire drainage consists of one master drain and two 

 smaller ones tributary to it, and their mouths are secured by an iron 

 grate, movable at pleasure. I have been particular in this descrip- 

 tion, from no other motive but that the reader might know by what 

 process I have been able to banish the Hanoverian rat, for ever I 

 trust, from these premises, where their boldness had surpassed that 

 of the famished wolf, and their depredations in the long run had ex- 

 ceeded those of Cacus, who was known to have stolen all the milch 

 cows of Hercules. The rats have made themselves so remarkably 

 scarce, that if I were to offer 20 sterling money for the capture of 

 a single individual in or about any part of the premises, not one 

 could be procured. History informs us that Hercules sent the 

 Harpies neck and crop into Stymphalus ; and that Ferdinand and 

 Isabella of Spain drove all the Moors back into Africa; and in our 

 times we see thousands of poor Englishmen forced into exile by the 

 cruel workings of Dutch William's national debt. When I am gone 

 to dust, if my ghost should hover o'er the mansion, it will rejoice to 

 hear the remark, that Charles Waterton, in the year of grace 1839, 

 effectually cleared the premises at Walton Hall of every Hanoverian 

 rat, young and old. 



" The time had now arrived when my two sisters-in-law, my little 

 boy, and myself, were to wend our way to the delicious realms of 



