I entered Lancashire at the remotest western point of that county, having been at West-Chester upon a particular occasion, and from thence ferried over from the Cestrian Chersonesus, as I have already called it, to Liverpoole. This narrow slip of land, rich, fertile and full of inhabitants, though formerly, as authors say, a mere waste and desolate forest, is called Wirall or by some Wirehall. Here is a ferry over the Mersee, which, at full sea, is more than two miles over. We land on the flat shore on the other side, and are contented to ride through the water for some length, not on horseback but on the shoulders of some honest Lancashire clown, who comes knee deep to the best side, to truss you up, and then runs away with you, as nimbly as you desire to ride, unless his trot were easier; for I was shaken by him that I had the luck to be carried by more than I cared for, and much worse than a hard trotting horse would have shaken me.
