times and now called Tulketh Hall, was first erected. Some
antiquaries say that a body of monks from the monastery of Savigny,
in Normandy, originally built it in 1124; others state that the
place was made before that time; but this is certain, that a number
of monks from the monastery named occupied it early in the twelfth
century, and that they afterwards left it and went to Furness Abbey.
On the south-west of Tulketh Hall the remains of a fosse (ditch or
moat) were, up to recent times, visible; some old ruins adjoining
could also be seen; and it has been supposed by some persons that
there was once a Roman stronghold or castle here. Tulketh Hall has
been occupied by several ancient families, and was once the seat of
the Heskeths, of Rossall, near Fleetwood. The Rev. T. Johnson has
lived in it for perhaps a couple of years, and seems to suffer none
from either its isolation or antiquity. He thrives very well, like
the generality of parsons, and will be a long liver if careful. He
has what a phrenological physiologist would call a vitally sanguine
constitution--has a good deal of temper, excitability, and
determination in his character. You may persuade him, but he will be
awkward to drive. He has a somewhat tall, gentlemanly, elastic
figure; looks as if he had worn stays at some time; is polished,
well-dressed, and careful; respects scented soap; hates the smell of
raw onions; is scrupulous in his toilet; is sharp, swellish, and
good-mannered; rather likes platform speaking; is inclined to get
into a narrow groove of thought politically and theologically, when
crossed by opponents; is eloquent when earnest; talks rubbish like
everybody else at times; has a strong clear voice; is a good
preacher; is moderate in his action; has never, even in his fiercest
moments, injured the pulpit; has a refined, rather affected, and at
times doubtful pronunciation; gets upwards of 300 pounds a year from
the Church; has been financially lucky in other ways; has a homely
class of parishioners, who would like to see him at other times than
on Sundays; is well respected on the whole, and may thank his stars
that fate reserved him for a parson.

His curate--the Rev. C. F. Holt--seems to be only just out of pin
feather, is rather afraid of hopping off the twig; and needs sundry
lessons in clerical flying before he will make much headway. He is
good-looking, but not eloquent; precise in his shaving, but short of
fire and originality; smart