As Markham was entering the village on the side of the park, he naturally paused to admire the beauty of the Abbey; and while he was thus engaged, Mr. Martindale rode up to him, and without any preface of common-place salutation, called out-- “That is a fine house, Mr. Barrister. I dare say you would rather pay a visit to an honourable in the Abbey, than to a plain mister in a cottage.” Horatio apologised that he had not observed Mr. Martindale; but as he began to discern his peculiar humour, he replied: “I was certainly admiring the taste of the architect, and his judgment in selecting so fine and commanding a situation: the very ground, by its disposition, seemed to ask for a mansion of no ordinary magnificence.” “Oh, ho--you understand how to pay compliments. I suppose you did not know that your humble servant, plain John Martindale, was the designer and builder of this mansion. Did you never hear the proverb, that fools build houses, and wise men live in them?” “Is the occupier of that mansion a wise man, sir?” replied Horatio. “I cannot say that he is. And so from that you would infer that it was not a fool who built the house. Well, well, you shall see him soon, and judge for yourself. I told my honourable relative that I should insist upon bringing you to the Abbey.” Horatio Markham bowed, and they entered the cottage. This building was, in its construction and appearance, almost indescribable. There was no semblance of arrangement or regularity about it. It was very large, and at the same time thoroughly inconvenient. Its furniture was in some points very elegant, and in others mean. While it was in course of building, Mr. Martindale had changed his mind about the plan of it fifty times, or more; and in the furnishing, there had been evidently as much caprice. There was a room called the library; but which that room was, a stranger would have been puzzled to guess; for not a single apartment through the whole house was free from books, and in no one room were the books arranged in any order. There were books upon the tables, and books upon the chairs, and books on the floors. The very staircases were not free from them; and whenever a visitor came to the cottage to spend a day or two, it was an essential part of the preparation to remove the books from the bed on which they were lying. Now Mr. Martindale was very particular about his books, and would not suffer any of his domestics to meddle with them. In his younger days he had been a reader of books; and when he came to his property, he began to purchase, and cease to read. It was indeed conjectured by some that his large property, which came to him from a distant relative, and in some measure unexpectedly, had, in a degree, disordered his mind. There might, perhaps, be some foundation for this suspicion; but it is a fact, that even before his acquisition of great wealth, he had been remarked for many singularities.