BOSTOCK HALL, seat of James France France, Esq., and Wharton, _would_ be seen E. from the railroad after leaving the station, but that the line enters a shallow cutting; the banks of which hide the view “just at the very time when they should not.” An opening gives a glimpse of the woods about the house, and that is all. The next peep is westward again, at Moulson: and after passing another cutting (this word _cutting_ is an inelegant term, which does not fall into our prose with ease; but we cannot avoid it, belonging, as it does, to railroad phraseology) we gain a view of Vale Royal Park and New Park on the W., the pleasant woodland glades of which are soon shut out by another cutting which takes us through Eaton, and by Eaton Hall, seat of Sir E. Antrobus. We now approach one of the most magnificent parts of the railway, and of the scenery skirting it; the Vale Royal Viaduct, over which the line passes for five hundred feet, and beneath which the river Weaver winds through the vale in graceful sweeps, girt with verdant meadows; on the E. it is crossed by the simple old bridge, now looking very humble, in the presence of its magnificent neighbour. The viaduct consists of five arches of immense span, it is built of a reddish stone, and is a noble erection. The traveller will do well to be alert and on the “look out” in this part, or the view will escape him. Westward lies Vale Royal Park, rich in the grandeur of its ancient woods, and nearly hidden among them is Delamere Abbey, the old and venerable seat of Lord Delamere. Little remains now of the ancient building, which was not, as described by Warton in his Elegy, seen “high o’er the trackless heath,” but was seated in a deep valley on the banks of the river Weaver. The present mansion consists of a centre and two wings of red stone. The great hall is a magnificent apartment. [Picture: Vale Royal Viaduct] The marvellous enlightenment of the 19th century, great as we deem it, has not yet penetrated those holes and corners of prejudice and credulity, which serve for the hiding places of superstition, for even in the eye of the Railroad itself are those living who speak with awe of the so-called prophecies, said to be made by the poor driveller Robert Nixon, the Cheshire sage. It so happens, very oddly, that predictions are sometimes remembered _when_ verified, and not before. So was the curious and very oracular one of the past year, so often quoted,— “A summer without a spring, And an autumn without a king,”