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Updated: May 20, 2025
Soon we reached the church, and I have seen nothing yet in England that so completely answered my idea of what such a thing was, as this old village church of Bebbington. It is quite a large edifice, built in the form of a cross, a low peaked porch in the side, over which, rudely cut in stone, is the date 1300 and something.
All these were wooden images; and the whole castellated, small, village-dwelling, with the inscriptions and the queer statuary, was probably the whim of some half-crazy person, who has now, no doubt, been long asleep in Bebbington churchyard. The bell of the old church was ringing as we went along, and many respectable-looking people and cleanly dressed children were moving towards the sound.
It was of stone, filled into a wooden frame, the black-oak of which was visible like an external skeleton; it had a thatched roof, and was whitewashed. We passed through a village, higher Bebbington, I believe, with narrow streets and mean houses all of brick or stone, and not standing wide apart from each other as in American country villages, but conjoined.
In the midst of it stood a venerable church of the common red freestone, with a most reverend air, considerably smaller than that of Bebbington, but more beautiful, and looking quite as old. There was ivy on its spire and elsewhere. It looked very quiet and peaceful, and as if it had received the people into its low arched door every Sabbath for many centuries.
In fact, it was a pile of roughly hewn stone steps, five or six feet high, with a block of stone at the summit, in which was a hollow about as big as a wash-bowl. It was full of rainwater. The church seems to be St. Andrew's Church, Lower Bebbington, built in 1100. September 1st. To-day we leave the Rock Ferry Hotel, where we have spent nearly four weeks.
Golden tassels of the laburnum are abundant. I may have mentioned elsewhere the traditional prophecy, that, when the ivy should reach the top of Bebbington spire, the tower was doomed to fall. It lies still, therefore, a chance of standing for centuries. Mr.
It was of stone, filled into a wooden frame, the black-oak of which was visible like an external skeleton; it had a thatched roof, and was whitewashed. We passed through a village, higher Bebbington, I believe, with narrow streets and mean houses all of brick or stone, and not standing wide apart from each other as in American country villages, but conjoined.
Barber, and, behold, when we came out to Rockferry he called again, and invited us to dine at Poulton Hall, his country-seat at Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he resides with his two maiden sisters. It is an enchanting spot, with a lawn shaded by ancient oaks and other forest trees; but green fields beyond and around that had never been trimmed and repressed into thick velvet.
Golden tassels of the laburnum are abundant. I may have mentioned elsewhere the traditional prophecy, that, when the ivy should reach the top of Bebbington spire, the tower was doomed to fall. It lies still, therefore, a chance of standing for centuries. Mr.
In fact, it was a pile of roughly hewn stone steps, five or six feet high, with a block of stone at the summit, in which was a hollow about as big as a wash-bowl. It was full of rainwater. The church seems to be St. Andrew's Church, Lower Bebbington, built in 1100. September 1st. To-day we leave the Rock Ferry Hotel, where we have spent nearly four weeks.
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