Redburn: His First Voyage — Chapters XXX - XXXII

CHAPTER XXX.

REDBURN GROWS INTOLERABLY FLAT AND STUPID OVER SOME OUTLANDISH OLD GUIDE-BOOKS

Among the odd volumes in my father’s library, was a collection of old European and English guide-books, which he had bought on his travels, a great many years ago.

In my childhood, I went through many courses of studying them, and never tired of gazing at the numerous quaint embellishments and plates, and staring at the strange title-pages, some of which I thought resembled the mustached faces of foreigners.

Among others was a Parisian-looking, faded, pink-covered pamphlet, the rouge here and there effaced upon its now thin and attenuated cheeks, entitled, _“Voyage Descriptif et Philosophique de L’Ancien et du Nouveau Paris: Miroir Fidèle”_ also a time-darkened, mossy old book, in marbleized binding, much resembling verd-antique, entitled, _“Itinéraire Instructif de Rome, ou Description Générale des Monumens Antiques et Modernes et des Ouvrages les plus Remarquables de Peinteur, de Sculpture, et de Architecture de cette Célébre Ville;”_ on the russet title-page is a vignette representing a barren rock, partly shaded by a scrub-oak (a forlorn bit of landscape), and under the lee of the rock and the shade of the tree, maternally reclines the houseless foster-mother of Romulus and Remus, giving suck to the illustrious twins; a pair of naked little cherubs sprawling on the ground, with locked arms, eagerly engaged at their absorbing occupation; a large cactus-leaf or diaper hangs from a bough, and the wolf looks a good deal like one of the no-horn breed of barn-yard cows;

the work is published _“Avec privilege du Souverain Pontife.

”_ There was also a velvet-bound old volume, in brass clasps, entitled, _“The Conductor through Holland”_ with a plate of the Stadt House; also a venerable _“Picture of London”_ abounding in representations of St. Paul’s, the Monument, Temple-Bar, Hyde-Park-Corner, the Horse Guards, the Admiralty, Charing-Cross, and Vauxhall Bridge.

Also, a bulky book, in a dusty-looking yellow cover, reminding one of the paneled doors of a mail-coach, and bearing an elaborate title-page, full of printer’s flourishes, in emulation of the cracks of a four-in-hand whip, entitled, in part, _“The Great Roads, both direct and cross, throughout England and Wales, from an actual Admeasurement by order of His Majesty’s Postmaster-General: This work describes the Cities, Market and Borough and Corporate Towns, and those at which the Assizes are held, and gives the time of the Mails’ arrival and departure from each: Describes the Inns in the Metropolis from which the stages go, and the Inns in the country which supply post-horses and carriages: Describes the Noblemen and Gentlemen’s Seats situated near the Road, with Maps of the Environs of London, Bath, Brighton, and Margate.

”_ It is dedicated _“To the Right Honorable the Earls of Chesterfield and Leicester, by their Lordships’ Most Obliged, Obedient, and Obsequious Servant, John Gary,_ 1798. ” Also a green pamphlet, with a motto from Virgil, and an intricate coat of arms on the cover, looking like a diagram of the Labyrinth of Crete, entitled, “A _Description of York, its Antiquities and Public Buildings, particularly the Cathedral; compiled with great pains from the most authentic records.

”_ Also a small scholastic-looking volume, in a classic vellum binding, and with a frontispiece bringing together at one view the towers and turrets of King’s College and the magnificent Cathedral of Ely, though geographically sixteen miles apart, entitled, _“The Cambridge Guide: its Colleges, Halls, Libraries, and Museums, with the Ceremonies of the Town and University, and some account of Ely Cathedral.

”_ Also a pamphlet, with a japanned sort of cover, stamped with a disorderly higgledy-piggledy group of pagoda-looking structures, claiming to be an accurate representation of the _“North or Grand Front of Blenheim,”_ and entitled, “A _Description of Blenheim, the Seat of His Grace the Duke of Marlborough; containing a full account of the Paintings, Tapestry, and Furniture: a Picturesque Tour of the Gardens and Parks, and a General Description of the famous China Gallery,_ &.

; _with an Essay on Landscape Gardening: and embellished with a View of the Palace, and a New and Elegant Plan of the Great Park.

”_ And lastly, and to the purpose, there was a volume called “THE PICTURE OF LIVERPOOL.

” It was a curious and remarkable book; and from the many fond associations connected with it, I should like to immortalize it, if I could.

But let me get it down from its shrine, and paint it, if I may, from the life.

As I now linger over the volume, to and fro turning the pages so dear to my boyhood,—the very pages which, years and years ago, my father turned over amid the very scenes that are here described; what a soft, pleasing sadness steals over me, and how I melt into the past and forgotten!

Dear book!

I will sell my Shakespeare, and even sacrifice my old quarto Hogarth, before I will part with you.

Yes, I will go to the hammer myself, ere I send you to be knocked down in the auctioneer’s shambles.

I will, my beloved,—old family relic that you are;—till you drop leaf from leaf, and letter from letter, you shall have a snug shelf somewhere, though I have no bench for myself.

In size, it is what the booksellers call an _18mo;_ it is bound in green morocco, which from my earliest recollection has been spotted and tarnished with time; the corners are marked with triangular patches of red, like little cocked hats; and some unknown Goth has inflicted an incurable wound upon the back.

There is no lettering outside; so that he who lounges past my humble shelves, seldom dreams of opening the anonymous little book in green.

There it stands; day after day, week after week, year after year; and no one but myself regards it.

But I make up for all neglects, with my own abounding love for it.

But let us open the volume.

What are these scrawls in the fly-leaves?

what incorrigible pupil of a writing-master has been here?

what crayon sketcher of wild animals and falling air-castles?

Ah, no!

—these are all part and parcel of the precious book, which go to make up the sum of its treasure to me.

Some of the scrawls are my own; and as poets do with their juvenile sonnets, I might write under this horse, _“Drawn at the age of three years,”_ and under this autograph, _“Executed at the age of eight.

”_ Others are the handiwork of my brothers, and sisters, and cousins; and the hands that sketched some of them are now moldered away.

But what does this anchor here?

this ship?

and this sea-ditty of Dibdin’s?

The book must have fallen into the hands of some tarry captain of a forecastle.

No: that anchor, ship, and Dibdin’s ditty are mine; this hand drew them; and on this very voyage to Liverpool.

But not so fast; I did not mean to tell that yet.

Full in the midst of these pencil scrawlings, completely surrounded indeed, stands in indelible, though faded ink, and in my father’s hand-writing, the following:— WALTER REDBURN.

Riddough’s Royal Hotel, Liverpool, March 20th, 1808. Turning over that leaf, I come upon some half-effaced miscellaneous memoranda in pencil, characteristic of a methodical mind, and therefore indubitably my father’s, which he must have made at various times during his stay in Liverpool.

These are full of a strange, subdued, old, midsummer interest to me: and though, from the numerous effacements, it is much like cross-reading to make them out; yet, I must here copy a few at random:— £ s. d

_Guide-Book_ 3 6 _Dinner at the Star and Garter_ 10 _Trip to Preston (distance 31 m. )_ 2 6 3 _Gratuities_ 4 _Hack_ 4 6 _Thompson’s Seasons_ 5 _Library_ 1 _Boat on the river_ 6 _Port wine and cigar_ 4 And on the opposite page, I can just decipher the following: _Dine with Mr. Roscoe on Monday.

_ _Call upon Mr. Morille same day.

_ _Leave card at Colonel Digby’s on Tuesday.

_ _Theatre Friday night—Richard III.

and new farce.

_ _Present letter at Miss L——’s on Tuesday.

_ _Call on Sampson & Wilt, Friday.

_ _Get my draft on London cashed.

_ _Write home by the Princess.

_ _Letter bag at Sampson and Wilt’s. _ Turning over the next leaf, I unfold a map, which in the midst of the British Arms, in one corner displays in sturdy text, that this is _“A Plan of the Town of Liverpool.

”_ But there seems little plan in the confined and crooked looking marks for the streets, and the docks irregularly scattered along the bank of the Mersey, which flows along, a peaceful stream of shaded line engraving.

On the northeast corner of the map, lies a level Sahara of yellowish white: a desert, which still bears marks of my zeal in endeavoring to populate it with all manner of uncouth monsters in crayons.

The space designated by that spot is now, doubtless, completely built up in Liverpool.

Traced with a pen, I discover a number of dotted lines, radiating in all directions from the foot of Lord-street, where stands marked _“Riddough’s Hotel,”_ the house my father stopped at.

These marks delineate his various excursions in the town; and I follow the lines on, through street and lane; and across broad squares; and penetrate with them into the narrowest courts.

By these marks, I perceive that my father forgot not his religion in a foreign land; but attended St. John’s Church near the Hay-market, and other places of public worship: I see that he visited the News Room in Duke-street, the Lyceum in Bold-street, and the Theater Royal; and that he called to pay his respects to the eminent Mr. Roscoe, the historian, poet, and banker.

Reverentially folding this map, I pass a plate of the Town Hall, and come upon the Title Page, which, in the middle, is ornamented with a piece of landscape, representing a loosely clad lady in sandals, pensively seated upon a bleak rock on the sea shore, supporting her head with one hand, and with the other, exhibiting to the stranger an oval sort of salver, bearing the figure of a strange bird, with this motto elastically stretched for a border—_“Deus nobis haec otia fecit.

”_ The bird forms part of the city arms, and is an imaginary representation of a now extinct fowl, called the _“Liver,”_ said to have inhabited a _“pool,”_ which antiquarians assert once covered a good part of the ground where Liverpool now stands; and from that bird, and this pool, Liverpool derives its name.

At a distance from the pensive lady in sandals, is a ship under full sail; and on the beach is the figure of a small man, vainly essaying to roll over a huge bale of goods.

Equally divided at the top and bottom of this design, is the following title complete; but I fear the printer will not be able to give a facsimile:— _The Picture of Liverpool: or, Stranger’s Guide and Gentleman’s Pocket Companion _ FOR THE TOWN.

Embellished With Engravings By the Most Accomplished and Eminent Artists.

Liverpool: Printed in Swift’s Court, And sold by Woodward and Alderson, 56 Castle St. 1803. A brief and reverential preface, as if the writer were all the time bowing, informs the reader of the flattering reception accorded to previous editions of the work; and quotes _“testimonies of respect which had lately appeared in various quarters_ —_the British Critic, Review, and the seventh volume of the Beauties of England and Wales”—_and concludes by expressing the hope, that this new, revised, and illustrated edition might _“render it less unworthy of the public notice, and less unworthy also of the subject it is intended to illustrate.

”_ A very nice, dapper, and respectful little preface, the time and place of writing which is solemnly recorded at the end-Hope _Place, 1st Sept.

_ 1803. But how much fuller my satisfaction, as I fondly linger over this circumstantial paragraph, if the writer had recorded the precise hour of the day, and by what timepiece; and if he had but mentioned his age, occupation, and name.

But all is now lost; I know not who he was; and this estimable author must needs share the oblivious fate of all literary incognitos.

He must have possessed the grandest and most elevated ideas of true fame, since he scorned to be perpetuated by a solitary initial.

Could I find him out now, sleeping neglected in some churchyard, I would buy him a headstone, and record upon it naught but his title-page, deeming that his noblest epitaph.

After the preface, the book opens with an extract from a prologue written by the excellent Dr. Aiken, the brother of Mrs. Barbauld, upon the opening of the Theater Royal, Liverpool, in 1772:— _“Where Mersey’s stream, long winding o’er the plain, Pours his full tribute to the circling main, A band of fishers chose their humble seat;

Contented labor blessed the fair retreat, Inured to hardship, patient, bold, and rude, They braved the billows for precarious food: Their straggling huts were ranged along the shore, Their nets and little boats their only store.

”_ Indeed, throughout, the work abounds with quaint poetical quotations, and old-fashioned classical allusions to the Aeneid and Falconer’s Shipwreck.

And the anonymous author must have been not only a scholar and a gentleman, but a man of gentle disinterestedness, combined with true city patriotism; for in his _“Survey of__ the Town”_ are nine thickly printed pages of a neglected poem by a neglected Liverpool poet.

By way of apologizing for what might seem an obtrusion upon the public of so long an episode, he courteously and feelingly introduces it by saying, that _“the poem has now for several years been scarce, and is at present but little known; and hence a very small portion of it will no doubt be highly acceptable to the cultivated reader; especially as this noble epic is written with great felicity of expression and the sweetest delicacy of feeling.

”_ Once, but once only, an uncharitable thought crossed my mind, that the author of the Guide-Book might have been the author of the epic.

But that was years ago; and I have never since permitted so uncharitable a reflection to insinuate itself into my mind.

This epic, from the specimen before me, is composed in the old stately style, and rolls along commanding as a coach and four.

It sings of Liverpool and the Mersey; its docks, and ships, and warehouses, and bales, and anchors; and after descanting upon the abject times, when _“his noble waves, inglorious, Mersey rolled,”_ the poet breaks forth like all Parnassus with:— _“Now o’er the wondering world her name resounds, From northern climes to India’s distant bounds— Where’er his shores the broad Atlantic waves;

Where’er the Baltic rolls his wintry waves;

Where’er the honored flood extends his tide, That clasps Sicilia like a favored bride.

Greenland for her its bulky whale resigns, And temperate Gallia rears her generous vines: ’Midst warm Iberia citron orchards blow, And the ripe fruitage bends the laboring bough;

In every clime her prosperous fleets are known, She makes the wealth of every clime her own.

”_ It also contains a delicately-curtained allusion to Mr. Roscoe:— _“And here_ R*s*o*, _with genius all his own, New tracks explores, and all before unknown?

”_ Indeed, both the anonymous author of the Guide-Book, and the gifted bard of the Mersey, seem to have nourished the warmest appreciation of the fact, that to their beloved town Roscoe imparted a reputation which gracefully embellished its notoriety as a mere place of commerce.

He is called the modern Guicciardini of the modern Florence, and his histories, translations, and Italian Lives, are spoken of with classical admiration.

The first chapter begins in a methodical, business-like way, by informing the impatient reader of the precise latitude and longitude of Liverpool; so that, at the outset, there may be no misunderstanding on that head.

It then goes on to give an account of the history and antiquities of the town, beginning with a record in the _Doomsday-Book_ of William the Conqueror.

Here, it must be sincerely confessed, however, that notwithstanding his numerous other merits, my favorite author betrays a want of the uttermost antiquarian and penetrating spirit, which would have scorned to stop in its researches at the reign of the Norman monarch, but would have pushed on resolutely through the dark ages, up to Moses, the man of Uz, and Adam; and finally established the fact beyond a doubt, that the soil of Liverpool was created with the creation.

But, perhaps, one of the most curious passages in the chapter of antiquarian research, is the pious author’s moralizing reflections upon an interesting fact he records: to wit, that in a. d.

1571, the inhabitants sent a memorial to Queen Elizabeth, praying relief under a subsidy, wherein they style themselves _“her majesty’s poor decayed town of Liverpool.

”_ As I now fix my gaze upon this faded and dilapidated old guide-book, bearing every token of the ravages of near half a century, and read how this piece of antiquity enlarges like a modern upon previous antiquities, I am forcibly reminded that the world is indeed growing old.

And when I turn to the second chapter, _“On the increase of the town, and number of inhabitants,”_ and then skim over page after page throughout the volume, all filled with allusions to the immense grandeur of a place, which, since then, has more than quadrupled in population, opulence, and splendor, and whose present inhabitants must look back upon the period here spoken of with a swelling feeling of immeasurable superiority and pride, I am filled with a comical sadness at the vanity of all human exaltation.

For the cope-stone of to-day is the corner-stone of tomorrow; and as St. Peter’s church was built in great part of the ruins of old Rome, so in all our erections, however imposing, we but form quarries and supply ignoble materials for the grander domes of posterity.

And even as this old guide-book boasts of the, to us, insignificant Liverpool of fifty years ago, the New York guidebooks are now vaunting of the magnitude of a town, whose future inhabitants, multitudinous as the pebbles on the beach, and girdled in with high walls and towers, flanking endless avenues of opulence and taste, will regard all our Broadways and Bowerys as but the paltry nucleus to their Nineveh.

From far up the Hudson, beyond Harlem River, where the young saplings are now growing, that will overarch their lordly mansions with broad boughs, centuries old; they may send forth explorers to penetrate into the then obscure and smoky alleys of the Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth-street; and going still farther south, may exhume the present Doric Custom-house, and quote it as a proof that their high and mighty metropolis enjoyed a Hellenic antiquity.

As I am extremely loth to omit giving a specimen of the dignified style of this _“Picture of Liverpool,”_ so different from the brief, pert, and unclerkly hand-books to Niagara and Buffalo of the present day, I shall now insert the chapter of antiquarian researches; especially as it is entertaining in itself, and affords much valuable, and perhaps rare information, which the reader may need, concerning the famous town, to which I made _my first voyage.

_ And I think that with regard to a matter, concerning which I myself am wholly ignorant, it is far better to quote my old friend verbatim, than to mince his substantial baron-of-beef of information into a flimsy ragout of my own; and so, pass it off as original.

Yes, I will render unto my honored guide-book its due.

But how can the printer’s art so dim and mellow down the pages into a soft sunset yellow; and to the reader’s eye, shed over the type all the pleasant associations which the original carries to me!

No!

by my father’s sacred memory, and all sacred privacies of fond family reminiscences, I will not!

I will _not_ quote thee, old Morocco, before the cold face of the marble-hearted world; for your antiquities would only be skipped and dishonored by shallow-minded readers; and for me, I should be charged with swelling out my volume by plagiarizing from a guide-book-the most vulgar and ignominious of thefts!

CHAPTER XXXI.

WITH HIS PROSY OLD GUIDE-BOOK, HE TAKES A PROSY STROLL THROUGH THE TOWN When I left home, I took the green morocco guide-book along, supposing that from the great number of ships going to Liverpool, I would most probably ship on board of one of them, as the event itself proved.

Great was my boyish delight at the prospect of visiting a place, the infallible clew to all whose intricacies I held in my hand.

On the passage out I studied its pages a good deal.

In the first place, I grounded myself thoroughly in the history and antiquities of the town, as set forth in the chapter I intended to quote.

Then I mastered the columns of statistics, touching the advance of population; and pored over them, as I used to do over my multiplication-table.

For I was determined to make the whole subject my own; and not be content with a mere smattering of the thing, as is too much the custom with most students of guide-books.

Then I perused one by one the elaborate descriptions of public edifices, and scrupulously compared the text with the corresponding engraving, to see whether they corroborated each other.

For be it known that, including the map, there were no less than seventeen plates in the work.

And by often examining them, I had so impressed every column and cornice in my mind, that I had no doubt of recognizing the originals in a moment.

In short, when I considered that my own father had used this very guide-book, and that thereby it had been thoroughly tested, and its fidelity proved beyond a peradventure; I could not but think that I was building myself up in an unerring knowledge of Liverpool; especially as I had familiarized myself with the map, and could turn sharp corners on it, with marvelous confidence and celerity.

In imagination, as I lay in my berth on ship-board, I used to take pleasant afternoon rambles through the town; down St. James-street and up Great George’s, stopping at various places of interest and attraction.

I began to think I had been born in Liverpool, so familiar seemed all the features of the map.

And though some of the streets there depicted were thickly involved, endlessly angular and crooked, like the map of Boston, in Massachusetts, yet, I made no doubt, that I could march through them in the darkest night, and even run for the most distant dock upon a pressing emergency.

Dear delusion!

It never occurred to my boyish thoughts, that though a guide-book, fifty years old, might have done good service in its day, yet it would prove but a miserable cicerone to a modern.

I little imagined that the Liverpool my father saw, was another Liverpool from that to which I, his son Wellingborough was sailing.

No; these things never obtruded; so accustomed had I been to associate my old morocco guide-book with the town it described, that the bare thought of there being any discrepancy, never entered my mind.

While we lay in the Mersey, before entering the dock, I got out my guide-book to see how the map would compare with the identical place itself.

But they bore not the slightest resemblance.

However, thinks I, this is owing to my taking a horizontal view, instead of a bird’s-eye survey.

So, never mind old guide-book, _you,_ at least, are all right.

But my faith received a severe shock that same evening, when the crew went ashore to supper, as I have previously related.

The men stopped at a curious old tavern, near the Prince’s Dock’s walls; and having my guide-book in my pocket, I drew it forth to compare notes, when I found, that precisely upon the spot where I and my shipmates were standing, and a cherry-cheeked bar-maid was filling their glasses, my infallible old Morocco, in that very place, located a fort; adding, that it was well worth the intelligent stranger’s while to visit it for the purpose of beholding the guard relieved in the evening.

This was a staggerer; for how could a tavern be mistaken for a castle?

and this was about the hour mentioned for the guard to turn out; yet not a red coat was to be seen.

But for all this, I could not, for one small discrepancy, condemn the old family servant who had so faithfully served my own father before me; and when I learned that this tavern went by the name of _“The Old Fort Tavern;”_ and when I was told that many of the old stones were yet in the walls, I almost completely exonerated my guide-book from the half-insinuated charge of misleading me.

The next day was Sunday, and I had it all to myself; and now, thought I, my guide-book and I shall have a famous ramble up street and down lane, even unto the furthest limits of this Liverpool.

I rose bright and early; from head to foot performed my ablutions “with Eastern scrupulosity,” and I arrayed myself in my red shirt and shooting-jacket, and the sportsman’s pantaloons; and crowned my entire man with the tarpaulin; so that from this curious combination of clothing, and particularly from my red shirt, I must have looked like a very strange compound indeed: three parts sportsman, and two soldier, to one of the sailor.

My shipmates, of course, made merry at my appearance; but I heeded them not; and after breakfast, jumped ashore, full of brilliant anticipations.

My gait was erect, and I was rather tall for my age; and that may have been the reason why, as I was rapidly walking along the dock, a drunken sailor passing, exclaimed, _“Eyes right!

quick step there!

”_ Another fellow stopped me to know whether I was going fox-hunting; and one of the dock-police, stationed at the gates, after peeping out upon me from his sentry box, a snug little den, furnished with benches and newspapers, and hung round with storm jackets and oiled capes, issued forth in a great hurry, crossed my path as I was emerging into the street, and commanded me to _halt!

_ I obeyed; when scanning my appearance pertinaciously, he desired to know where I got that tarpaulin hat, not being able to account for the phenomenon of its roofing the head of a broken-down fox-hunter.

But I pointed to my ship, which lay at no great distance; when remarking from my voice that I was a Yankee, this faithful functionary permitted me to pass.

It must be known that the police stationed at the gates of the docks are extremely observant of strangers going out; as many thefts are perpetrated on board the ships; and if they chance to see any thing suspicious, they probe into it without mercy.

Thus, the old men who buy _“shakings,”_ and rubbish from vessels, must turn their bags wrong side out before the police, ere they are allowed to go outside the walls.

And often they will search a suspicious looking fellow’s clothes, even if he be a very thin man, with attenuated and almost imperceptible pockets.

But where was I going?

I will tell.

My intention was in the first place, to visit Riddough’s Hotel, where my father had stopped, more than thirty years before: and then, with the map in my hand, follow him through all the town, according to the dotted lines in the diagram.

For thus would I be performing a filial pilgrimage to spots which would be hallowed in my eyes.

At last, when I found myself going down Old Hall-street toward Lord-street, where the hotel was situated, according to my authority;

and when, taking out my map, I found that Old Hall-street was marked there, through its whole extent with my father’s pen; a thousand fond, affectionate emotions rushed around my heart.

Yes, in this very street, thought I, nay, on this very flagging my father walked.

Then I almost wept, when I looked down on my sorry apparel, and marked how the people regarded me; the men staring at so grotesque a young stranger, and the old ladies, in beaver hats and ruffles, crossing the walk a little to shun me.

How differently my father must have appeared; perhaps in a blue coat, buff vest, and Hessian boots.

And little did he think, that a son of his would ever visit Liverpool as a poor friendless sailor-boy.

But I was not born then: no, when he walked this flagging, I was not so much as thought of; I was not included in the census of the universe.

My own father did not know me then; and had never seen, or heard, or so much as dreamed of me.

And that thought had a touch of sadness to me; for if it had certainly been, that my own parent, at one time, never cast a thought upon me, how might it be with me hereafter?

Poor, poor Wellingborough!

thought I, miserable boy!

you are indeed friendless and forlorn.

Here you wander a stranger in a strange town, and the very thought of your father’s having been here before you, but carries with it the reflection that, he then knew you not, nor cared for you one whit.

But dispelling these dismal reflections as well as I could, I pushed on my way, till I got to Chapel-street, which I crossed; and then, going under a cloister-like arch of stone, whose gloom and narrowness delighted me, and filled my Yankee soul with romantic thoughts of old Abbeys and Minsters, I emerged into the fine quadrangle of the Merchants’ Exchange.

There, leaning against the colonnade, I took out my map, and traced my father right across Chapel-street, and actually through the very arch at my back, into the paved square where I stood.

So vivid was now the impression of his having been here, and so narrow the passage from which he had emerged, that I felt like running on, and overtaking him around the Town Hall adjoining, at the head of Castle-street.

But I soon checked myself, when remembering that he had gone whither no son’s search could find him in this world.

And then I thought of all that must have happened to him since he paced through that arch.

What trials and troubles he had encountered; how he had been shaken by many storms of adversity, and at last died a bankrupt.

I

looked at my own sorry garb, and had much ado to keep from tears.

But I rallied, and gazed round at the sculptured stonework, and turned to my guide-book, and looked at the print of the spot.

It was correct to a pillar; but wanted the central ornament of the quadrangle.

This, however, was but a slight subsequent erection, which ought not to militate against the general character of my friend for comprehensiveness.

The ornament in question is a group of statuary in bronze, elevated upon a marble pedestal and basement, representing Lord Nelson expiring in the arms of Victory.

One foot rests on a rolling foe, and the other on a cannon.

Victory is dropping a wreath on the dying admiral’s brow;

while Death, under the similitude of a hideous skeleton, is insinuating his bony hand under the hero’s robe, and groping after his heart.

A

very striking design, and true to the imagination; I never could look at Death without a shudder.

At uniform intervals round the base of the pedestal, four naked figures in chains, somewhat larger than life, are seated in various attitudes of humiliation and despair.

One has his leg recklessly thrown over his knee, and his head bowed over, as if he had given up all hope of ever feeling better.

Another has his head buried in despondency, and no doubt looks mournfully out of his eyes, but as his face was averted at the time, I could not catch the expression.

These woe-begone figures of captives are emblematic of Nelson’s principal victories; but I never could look at their swarthy limbs and manacles, without being involuntarily reminded of four African slaves in the market-place.

And my thoughts would revert to Virginia and Carolina; and also to the historical fact, that the African slave-trade once constituted the principal commerce of Liverpool; and that the prosperity of the town was once supposed to have been indissolubly linked to its prosecution.

And I remembered that my father had often spoken to gentlemen visiting our house in New York, of the unhappiness that the discussion of the abolition of this trade had occasioned in Liverpool; that the struggle between sordid interest and humanity had made sad havoc at the fire-sides of the merchants; estranged sons from sires; and even separated husband from wife.

And my thoughts reverted to my father’s friend, the good and great Roscoe, the intrepid enemy of the trade; who in every way exerted his fine talents toward its suppression; writing a poem _(“the Wrongs of Africa”),_ several pamphlets; and in his place in Parliament, he delivered a speech against it, which, as coming from a member for Liverpool, was supposed to have turned many votes, and had no small share in the triumph of sound policy and humanity that ensued.

How this group of statuary affected me, may be inferred from the fact, that I never went through Chapel-street without going through the little arch to look at it again.

And there, night or day, I was sure to find Lord Nelson still falling back; Victory’s wreath still hovering over his swordpoint; and Death grim and grasping as ever; while the four bronze captives still lamented their captivity.

Now, as I lingered about the railing of the statuary, on the Sunday I have mentioned, I noticed several persons going in and out of an apartment, opening from the basement under the colonnade; and, advancing, I perceived that this was a news-room, full of files of papers.

My love of literature prompted me to open the door and step in;

but a glance at my soiled shooting-jacket prompted a dignified looking personage to step up and shut the door in my face.

I deliberated a minute what I should do to him; and at last resolutely determined to let him alone, and pass on; which I did; going down Castle-street (so called from a castle which once stood there, said my guide-book), and turning down into Lord.

Arrived at the foot of the latter street, I in vain looked round for the hotel.

How serious a disappointment was this may well be imagined, when it is considered that I was all eagerness to behold the very house at which my father stopped; where he slept and dined, smoked his cigar, opened his letters, and read the papers.

I inquired of some gentlemen and ladies where the missing hotel was; but they only stared and passed on; until I met a mechanic, apparently, who very civilly stopped to hear my questions and give me an answer.

“Riddough’s Hotel?

” said he, “upon my word, I think I have heard of such a place; let me see—yes, yes—that was the hotel where my father broke his arm, helping to pull down the walls.

My lad, you surely can’t be inquiring for Riddough’s Hotel!

What do you want to find there?

” “Oh!

nothing,” I replied, “I am much obliged for your information”—and away I walked.

Then, indeed, a new light broke in upon me concerning my guide-book;

and all my previous dim suspicions were almost confirmed.

It was nearly half a century behind the age!

and no more fit to guide me about the town, than the map of Pompeii.

It was a sad, a solemn, and a most melancholy thought.

The book on which I had so much relied; the book in the old morocco cover; the book with the cocked-hat corners; the book full of fine old family associations; the book with seventeen plates, executed in the highest style of art; this precious book was next to useless.

Yes, the thing that had guided the father, could not guide the son.

And I sat down on a shop step, and gave loose to meditation.

Here, now, oh, Wellingborough, thought I, learn a lesson, and never forget it.

This world, my boy, is a moving world; its Riddough’s Hotels are forever being pulled down; it never stands still; and its sands are forever shifting.

This very harbor of Liverpool is gradually filling up, they say; and who knows what your son (if you ever have one) may behold, when he comes to visit Liverpool, as long after you as you come after his grandfather.

And, Wellingborough, as your father’s guidebook is no guide for you, neither would yours (could you afford to buy a modern one to-day) be a true guide to those who come after you.

Guide-books, Wellingborough, are the least reliable books in all literature; and nearly all literature, in one sense, is made up of guide-books.

Old ones tell us the ways our fathers went, through the thoroughfares and courts of old; but how few of those former places can their posterity trace, amid avenues of modem erections; to how few is the old guide-book now a clew!

Every age makes its own guidebooks, and the old ones are used for waste paper.

But there is one Holy Guide-Book, Wellingborough, that will never lead you astray, if you but follow it aright; and some noble monuments that remain, though the pyramids crumble.

But though I rose from the door-step a sadder and a wiser boy, and though my guide-book had been stripped of its reputation for infallibility, I did not treat with contumely or disdain, those sacred pages which had once been a beacon to my sire.

No. —Poor old guide-book, thought I, tenderly stroking its back, and smoothing the dog-ears with reverence; I will not use you with despite, old Morocco!

and you will yet prove a trusty conductor through many old streets in the old parts of this town; even if you are at fault, now and then, concerning a Riddough’s Hotel, or some other forgotten thing of the past.

As I fondly glanced over the leaves, like one who loves more than he chides, my eye lighted upon a passage concerning _“The Old Dock,”_ which much aroused my curiosity.

I determined to see the place without delay: and walking on, in what I presumed to be the right direction, at last found myself before a spacious and splendid pile of sculptured brown stone; and entering the porch, perceived from incontrovertible tokens that it must be the Custom-house.

After admiring it awhile, I took out my guide-book again; and what was my amazement at discovering that, according to its authority, I was entirely mistaken with regard to this Custom-house; for precisely where I stood, _“The Old Dock”_ must be standing, and reading on concerning it, I met with this very apposite passage:—_“The first idea that strikes the stranger in coming to this dock, is the singularity of so great a number of ships afloat in the very heart of the town, without discovering any connection with the sea.

”_ Here, now, was a poser!

Old Morocco confessed that there was a good deal of “singularity” about the thing; nor did he pretend to deny that it was, without question, amazing, that this fabulous dock should seem to have no _connection with the sea!

_ However, the same author went on to say, that the _“astonished stranger must suspend his wonder for awhile, and turn to the left.

”_ But, right or left, no place answering to the description was to be seen.

This was too confounding altogether, and not to be easily accounted for, even by making ordinary allowances for the growth and general improvement of the town in the course of years.

So, guide-book in hand, I accosted a policeman standing by, and begged him to tell me whether he was acquainted with any place in that neighborhood called the _“Old Dock.

”_ The man looked at me wonderingly at first, and then seeing I was apparently sane, and quite civil into the bargain, he whipped his well-polished boot with his rattan, pulled up his silver-laced coat-collar, and initiated me into a knowledge of the following facts.

It seems that in this place originally stood the _“pool,”_ from which the town borrows a part of its name, and which originally wound round the greater part of the old settlements; that this pool was made into the “Old Dock,” for the benefit of the shipping; but that, years ago, it had been filled up, and furnished the site for the Custom-house before me.

I now eyed the spot with a feeling somewhat akin to the Eastern traveler standing on the brink of the Dead Sea.

For here the doom of Gomorrah seemed reversed, and a lake had been converted into substantial stone and mortar.

Well, well, Wellingborough, thought I, you had better put the book into your pocket, and carry it home to the Society of Antiquaries; it is several thousand leagues and odd furlongs behind the march of improvement.

Smell its old morocco binding, Wellingborough; does it not smell somewhat mummy-ish?

Does it not remind you of Cheops and the Catacombs?

I tell you it was written before the lost books of Livy, and is cousin-german to that irrecoverably departed volume, entitled, _“The Wars of the Lord”_ quoted by Moses in the Pentateuch.

Put it up, Wellingborough, put it up, my dear friend; and hereafter follow your nose throughout Liverpool; it will stick to you through thick and thin: and be your ship’s mainmast and St. George’s spire your landmarks.

No!

—And again I rubbed its back softly, and gently adjusted a loose leaf: No, no, I’ll not give you up yet.

Forth, old Morocco!

and lead me in sight of the venerable Abbey of Birkenhead; and let these eager eyes behold the mansion once occupied by the old earls of Derby!

For the book discoursed of both places, and told how the Abbey was on the Cheshire shore, full in view from a point on the Lancashire side, covered over with ivy, and brilliant with moss!

And how the house of the noble Derby’s was now a common jail of the town; and how that circumstance was full of suggestions, and pregnant with wisdom!

But, alas!

I never saw the Abbey; at least none was in sight from the water: and as for the house of the earls, I never saw that.

Ah me, and ten times alas!

am I to visit old England in vain?

in the land of Thomas-a-Becket and stout John of Gaunt, not to catch the least glimpse of priory or castle?

Is there nothing in all the British empire but these smoky ranges of old shops and warehouses?

is Liverpool but a brick-kiln?

Why, no buildings here look so ancient as the old gable-pointed mansion of my maternal grandfather at home, whose bricks were brought from Holland long before the revolutionary war!

Tis a deceit—a gull—a sham—a hoax!

This boasted England is no older than the State of New York: if it is, show me the proofs—point out the vouchers.

Where’s the tower of Julius Caesar?

Where’s the Roman wall?

Show me Stonehenge!

But, Wellingborough, I remonstrated with myself, you are only in Liverpool; the old monuments lie to the north, south, east, and west of you; you are but a sailor-boy, and you can not expect to be a great tourist, and visit the antiquities, in that preposterous shooting-jacket of yours.

Indeed, you can not, my boy.

True, true—that’s it.

I am not the traveler my father was.

I am only a common-carrier across the Atlantic.

After a weary day’s walk, I at last arrived at the sign of the Baltimore Clipper to supper; and Handsome Mary poured me out a brimmer of tea, in which, for the time, I drowned all my melancholy.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE DOCKS

For more than six weeks, the ship Highlander lay in Prince’s Dock; and during that time, besides making observations upon things immediately around me, I made sundry excursions to the neighboring docks, for I never tired of admiring them.

Previous to this, having only seen the miserable wooden wharves, and slip-shod, shambling piers of New York, the sight of these mighty docks filled my young mind with wonder and delight.

In New York, to be sure, I could not but be struck with the long line of shipping, and tangled thicket of masts along the East River; yet, my admiration had been much abated by those irregular, unsightly wharves, which, I am sure, are a reproach and disgrace to the city that tolerates them.

Whereas, in Liverpool, I beheld long China walls of masonry; vast piers of stone; and a succession of granite-rimmed docks, completely inclosed, and many of them communicating, which almost recalled to mind the great American chain of lakes: Ontario, Erie, St. Clair, Huron, Michigan, and Superior.

The extent and solidity of these structures, seemed equal to what I had read of the old Pyramids of Egypt.

Liverpool may justly claim to have originated the model of the “Wet Dock,”[1] so called, of the present day; and every thing that is connected with its design, construction, regulation, and improvement.

Even London was induced to copy after Liverpool, and Havre followed her example.

In magnitude, cost, and durability, the docks of Liverpool, even at the present day surpass all others in the world.

[1] This term—_Wet Dock_—did not originate, (as has been erroneously opined by the otherwise learned Bardoldi); from the fact, that persons falling into one, never escaped without a soaking; but it is simply used, in order to distinguish these docks from the _Dry-Dock_, where the bottoms of ships are repaired.

The first dock built by the town was the _“Old Dock,”_ alluded to in my Sunday stroll with my guide-book.

This was erected in 1710, since which period has gradually arisen that long line of dock-masonry, now flanking the Liverpool side of the Mersey.

For miles you may walk along that river-side, passing dock after dock, like a chain of immense fortresses:—Prince’s, George’s, Salt-House, Clarence, Brunswick, Trafalgar, King’s, Queen’s, and many more.

In a spirit of patriotic gratitude to those naval heroes, who by their valor did so much to protect the commerce of Britain, in which Liverpool held so large a stake; the town, long since, bestowed upon its more modern streets, certain illustrious names, that Broadway might be proud of:—Duncan, Nelson, Rodney, St. Vincent, Nile.

But it is a pity, I think, that they had not bestowed these noble names upon their noble docks; so that they might have been as a rank and file of most fit monuments to perpetuate the names of the heroes, in connection with the commerce they defended.

And how much better would such stirring monuments be; full of life and commotion; than hermit obelisks of Luxor, and idle towers of stone;

which, useless to the world in themselves, vainly hope to eternize a name, by having it carved, solitary and alone, in their granite.

Such monuments are cenotaphs indeed; founded far away from the true body of the fame of the hero; who, if he be truly a hero, must still be linked with the living interests of his race; for the true fame is something free, easy, social, and companionable.

They are but tomb-stones, that commemorate his death, but celebrate not his life.

It is well enough that over the inglorious and thrice miserable grave of a Dives, some vast marble column should be reared, recording the fact of his having lived and died; for such records are indispensable to preserve his shrunken memory among men; though that memory must soon crumble away with the marble, and mix with the stagnant oblivion of the mob.

But to build such a pompous vanity over the remains of a hero, is a slur upon his fame, and an insult to his ghost.

And more enduring monuments are built in the closet with the letters of the alphabet, than even Cheops himself could have founded, with all Egypt and Nubia for his quarry.

Among the few docks mentioned above, occur the names of the _King’s_ and _Queens.

_ At the time, they often reminded me of the two principal streets in the village I came from in America, which streets once rejoiced in the same royal appellations.

But they had been christened previous to the Declaration of Independence; and some years after, in a fever of freedom, they were abolished, at an enthusiastic town-meeting, where King George and his lady were solemnly declared unworthy of being immortalized by the village of L—.

A country antiquary once told me, that a committee of two barbers were deputed to write and inform the distracted old gentleman of the fact.

As the description of any one of these Liverpool docks will pretty much answer for all, I will here endeavor to give some account of Prince’s Dock, where the Highlander rested after her passage across the Atlantic.

This dock, of comparatively recent construction, is perhaps the largest of all, and is well known to American sailors, from the fact, that it is mostly frequented by the American shipping.

Here lie the noble New York packets, which at home are found at the foot of Wall-street; and here lie the Mobile and Savannah cotton ships and traders.

This dock was built like the others, mostly upon the bed of the river, the earth and rock having been laboriously scooped out, and solidified again as materials for the quays and piers.

From the river, Prince’s Dock is protected by a long pier of masonry, surmounted by a massive wall; and on the side next the town, it is bounded by similar walls, one of which runs along a thoroughfare.

The whole space thus inclosed forms an oblong, and may, at a guess, be presumed to comprise about fifteen or twenty acres; but as I had not the rod of a surveyor when I took it in, I will not be certain.

The area of the dock itself, exclusive of the inclosed quays surrounding it, may be estimated at, say, ten acres.

Access to the interior from the streets is had through several gateways; so that, upon their being closed, the whole dock is shut up like a house.

From the river, the entrance is through a water-gate, and ingress to ships is only to be had, when the level of the dock coincides with that of the river; that is, about the time of high tide, as the level of the dock is always at that mark.

So that when it is low tide in the river, the keels of the ships inclosed by the quays are elevated more than twenty feet above those of the vessels in the stream.

This, of course, produces a striking effect to a stranger, to see hundreds of immense ships floating high aloft in the heart of a mass of masonry.

Prince’s Dock is generally so filled with shipping, that the entrance of a new-comer is apt to occasion a universal stir among all the older occupants.

The dock-masters, whose authority is declared by tin signs worn conspicuously over their hats, mount the poops and forecastles of the various vessels, and hail the surrounding strangers in all directions:— _“Highlander ahoy!

Cast off your bowline, and sheer alongside the Neptune!

”—“Neptune ahoy!

get out a stern-line, and sheer alongside the Trident!

”—“Trident ahoy!