After the purchase of Bruntisfield by George Warrender, it remained for nearly a hundred years in possession of the younger branch of the family, which came to an end in 1820 by the death of Hugh Warrender, an old bachelor, who was Crown Agent for Scotland.[2] He was succeeded by his cousin, my grand-uncle, the Right Hon. Sir George Warrender, M.P., who on taking possession discovered the existence of a secret room. The house was then thickly covered with ivy. Lee, the Royal Academician, and an architect that Sir George had brought down from London with him, were the first to suspect its existence, from finding more windows outside than they could account for. The old woman who had charge of the house denied for a long time any knowledge of such a room; but, frightened by Sir George's threats, she at length showed them the narrow entrance, that was concealed behind a piece of tapestry. This was torn down, and the door forced open, and a room was found, just as it had been left by some former occupant,--the ashes still in the grate. Whether, as one story said, it had been used as a hiding-place in troubled times,--or whether, according to another legend, it had been the room of a dearly loved child of the house, after whose death it had been hurriedly shut up, never to be entered again by the broken-hearted parents,--there are now no means of knowing; but the blood-stains on the floor point to some darker tragedy, and a tradition still lingers that, not long after the discovery of the room, a skeleton was found buried below the windows. It is still known as the Ghost-room, though nothing has been seen, at any rate for many years. [2] The following lines were found among some old family papers, and are headed,-- VERSES--A FRAGMENT. Descriptive of Bruntisfield House, now in the possession of Mr. Warrender, written in June 1790 at the desire of a young lady to whom the author was much attached. Near where Edina's smoky turrets rise, And Arthur rears his bold and lofty head, Where the green meadow broad expanded lies, And yellow furze the sporting links bespread,-- By tallest Elms and spreading Beech concealed From vulgar eyes--from busy care retired, To tender Melancholy alone revealed, Or Love, by Truth and Gentleness inspired,-- An ancient Pile of gothic structure stands, Whose massy walls still brave the lapse of years, Once the retreat of rude confederate Bands, Or safe Asylum to a virgin's fears. No longer now the seat of War's alarms, Far gentler sounds are echoed here around, Sacred to Genius--here th' Enthusiast warms, Or pensive walks as o'er enchanted ground. No longer on the jarring hinges sweeps Th' unwieldy Portal as in times of yore. Secure within the peaceful owner sleeps, Nor dreams of wounds, or pants for human gore.