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. The house is two
stories high, with a sort of beetle-browed roof in front. It is not very
striking, and does not look older than many wooden houses which I have
seen in America. There is a curious stately staircase, with a twisted
balustrade much like that of the old Province House in Boston. The
drawing-room is a handsome modern apartment, being beautifully painted
and gilded and paper-hung, with a white marble fireplace and rich
furniture, so that the impression is that of newness, not of age. It is
the same with the dining-room, and all the rest of the interior so far as
I saw it.

Mr. B. did not inherit this old hall, nor, indeed, is he the owner, but
only the tenant of it. He is a merchant of Liverpool, a bachelor, with
two sisters residing with him. In the entrance-hall, there was a stuffed
fox with glass eyes, which I never should have doubted to be an actual
live fox except for his keeping so quiet; also some grouse and other
game. Mr. B. seems to be a sportsman, and is setting out this week on an
excursion to Scotland, moor-fowl shooting.

While the family and two or three guests went to dinner, we walked out to
see the place. The gardener, an Irishman, showed us through the garden,
which is large and well cared for. They certainly get everything from
Nature which she can possibly be persuaded to give them, here in England.
There were peaches and pears growing against the high brick southern
walls,--the trunk and branches of the trees being spread out perfectly
flat against the wall, very much like the skin of a dead animal nailed up