A village, too, has grown up about it, so that it seems out of
place among modern stuccoed dwellings, such as are erected for tradesmen
and other moderate people who have their residences in the neighborhood
of a great city. Among these there are a few thatched cottages, the
homeliest domiciles that ever mortals lived in, belonging to the old
estate. Directly across the street is a Wayside Inn, "licensed to sell
wine, spirits, ale, and tobacco." The street itself has been laid out
since the land grew valuable by the increase of Liverpool and Birkenhead;
for the old Hall would never have been built on the verge of a public
way.
March 27th.--I attended court to day, at St. George's Hall, with my wife,
Mr. Bright, and Mr. Channing, sitting in the High Sheriff's seat. It was
the civil side, and Mr. Justice Cresswell presided. The lawyers, as far
as aspect goes, seemed to me inferior to an American bar, judging from
their countenances, whether as intellectual men or gentlemen. Their wigs
and gowns do not impose on the spectator, though they strike him as an
imposition. Their date is past. Mr. Warren, of the "Ten Thousand a
Year," was in court,--a pale, thin, intelligent face, evidently a nervous
man, more unquiet than anybody else in court,--always restless in his
seat, whispering to his neighbors, settling his wig, perhaps with an idea
that people single him out.
St. George's Hall--the interior hall itself, I mean--is a spacious,
lofty, and most rich and noble apartment, and very satisfactory.
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