B. came in his carriage to take us to his
residence, Poulton Hall. He had invited us to dine; but I misunderstood
him, and thought he only intended to give us a drive. Poulton Hall is
about three miles from Rock Ferry, the road passing through some pleasant
rural scenery, and one or two villages, with houses standing close
together, and old stone or brick cottages, with thatched roofs, and now
and then a better mansion, apart among trees. We passed an old church,
with a tower and spire, and, half-way up, a patch of ivy, dark green, and
some yellow wall-flowers, in full bloom, growing out of the crevices of
the stone. Mr. B. told us that the tower was formerly quite clothed with
ivy from bottom to top, but that it had fallen away for lack of the
nourishment that it used to find in the lime between the stones. This
old church answered to my Transatlantic fancies of England better than
anything I have yet seen. Not far from it was the Rectory, behind a deep
grove of ancient trees; and there lives the Rector, enjoying a thousand
pounds a year and his nothing-to-do, while a curate performs the real
duty on a stipend of eighty pounds.
We passed through a considerable extent of private road, and finally
drove over a lawn, studded with trees and closely shaven, till we reached
the door of Poulton Hall. Part of the mansion is three or four hundred
years old; another portion is about a hundred and fifty, and still
another has been built during the present generation.
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