THE PEOPLE AT LIVERPOOL.—POVERTY.—MERCHANTS.—SHOPKEEPERS.—
WOMEN.—SOLDIERS.—CHILDREN.—DONKEYS AND DRAY HORSES.
[Sidenote: _LIVERPOOL PEOPLE._]
I have mentioned the most general features of the town which, at first
sight, on landing in Europe from New York, strike me as peculiar.
Having given you its still life, you will wish me to people it.
After we had wandered for about an hour through the streets the
first afternoon we were ashore, I remarked that we had not yet seen
a single well-dressed man, not one person that in America would have
been described as “of respectable appearance.” We were astonished to
observe with what an unmingled stream of poverty the streets were
swollen, and J. remarked that if what we had seen was a fair indication
of the general condition of the masses here, he should hardly feel
justified in dissuading them from using violent and anarchical means
to bring down to themselves a share of the opportunities and comforts
of those “higher classes” that seem to be so utterly separated from
them. There are a great many Irish in Liverpool, but the most that
we had thus far seen evidently were English, yet not English as we
have known them. Instead of the stout, full-faced John Bulls, we had
seen but few that were not thin, meagre, and pale. There was somewhat
rarely an appearance of actual misery, but a stupid, hopeless,
state-prison-for-life sort of expression. There were not unfrequently
some exceptions to this, but these were men almost invariably in some
uniform or livery, as railroad hands, servants, and soldiers.
The next morning, in the court-yard of the Exchange (the regular
’Change assemblage seemed to meet out of doors), we saw a large
collection of the merchants. There was nothing to distinguish them
from a company of a similar kind with us, beyond a general Englishness
of features and an entire absence of all _oddities_—with astonishing
beards and singularities of costume. One young man only wore small
clothes and leggins, which would perhaps have disagreeably subjected
him to be noticed with us. They were stouter than our merchants, and
more chubby-faced, yet not looking in vigorous health. They were, on
the whole, judging by a glance at their outsides, to be more respected
than any lot of men of the same number that I ever saw together in
Wall street. Many of them, and most of the well-dressed men that we
have seen in the streets, have had a green leaf and simple _posy_ in a
button-hole of their coats.
The shopkeepers of the better class, or retail merchants, are exactly
the same men, to all appearance, that stand behind the counters with
us. _Merchant_, means only a wholesale dealer in England; retailers are
_shopkeepers_. The word _store_ is never applied to a building; but the
building in which goods are stored is a _warehouse_.
Women are more employed in trade than with us; I have no doubt
with every way great advantage. The women in the streets are more
noticeably different from ours than the men. In general, they are very
cheaply and coarsely clad. Many of the lower class have their outer
garments ordinarily drawn up behind, in the scrubbing-floor fashion.
Caps are universally worn, and being generally nice and white, they
have a pleasant effect upon the face. The very poorest women look
very miserably. We see bruised eyes not unfrequently, and there is
evidently a good deal of hard drinking among them. They are larger
and stouter, and have coarser features. There are neither as many
pretty nor as many ugly faces as with us; indeed, there are very few
remarkably ill-favoured in that respect, and almost none strikingly
handsome. The best faces we have seen were among the fish-stalls in
market. With scarcely an exception, the fish-women were very large and
tall, and though many of them were in the neighbourhood of fifty, they
had invariably full, bright, unwrinkled faces, beautiful red cheeks,
and a cheerful expression. English women, generally, appear more bold
and self-reliant, their _action_ is more energetic, and their carriage
less graceful and drooping than ours. Those well dressed that we have
seen, while _shopping_, for instance, are no exceptions. Those we have
met to converse with are as modest and complaisant as could be desired,
yet speak with a marked promptness and confidence which is animating
and attractive. We met a small company last night at the residence of a
gentleman to whom we had a letter, and spent the evening precisely as
we should at a small tea-party at home; we might easily have imagined
ourselves in New England. The gentlemen were no way different, that we
noticed, from cultivated men with us, and the ladies only seemed rather
more frank, hearty, and sincere-natured than we should expect ours to
be to strangers.[2] There was nothing in their dresses that I can think
of as peculiar, yet a general air, not American—a heavier look and more
_crinkles_, and darker and more mixed-up colours. We see many rather
nice-looking females, probably coming in from the country, driving
themselves about town as if they understood it, in jaunty-looking
chaises and spring-carts. As J. and I were standing this noon by
the window of a curiosity-shop, a lady addressed us: “This is very
curious; have you noticed it?” (pointing at something within the
window). “I wish you would help me to read what is written upon it.”
She spoke exactly as if she _belonged to our party_. She was not young
or gayly-dressed, but had all the appearance and used the language of
a well-bred and educated woman. We conversed with her for a minute or
two about the article, which was some specimen of Australian natural
history.
[2] These ladies were Irish. The remark hardly applies to English
ladies, certainly not unless you meet them domestically. The English in
their _homes_, and the English “_in company_,” are singularly opposite
characters.
There are a good many soldiers moving about in fine undress uniforms;
one regiment is in blue, which I did not suppose the British ever
used. The men look well—more intelligent than you would suppose. Many
are quite old, grey-headed, and all are very neat and orderly in the
streets.
[Sidenote: _CHILDREN’S DRESS.—DONKEYS._]
The children look really _punchy_. It strikes me the young ones are
dressed much older, while the young men are clothed much more boyishly
than in America. Quite large children, of both sexes, are dressed
exactly alike, and whether girls or boys (they look between both), you
cannot guess—girls with fur hats, such as full-grown men wear, and boys
in short dresses and pantalettes.
* * * * *
There are lots of the queerest little donkeys in the streets; some of
them would not weigh more than Nep (my Newfoundland dog), and most of
them are not as large as our two-year-old steers. They are made to
draw most enormous loads. I saw one tugging a load of coal, on the top
of which two stout Irishmen sat, and stopped them to ask the weight.
It was 1200 (besides themselves), and the top of the donkey’s back
was just even with my waist. The driver said he bought her five years
ago for two pounds ($10), and she was then called an old one. Here
is one now coming up the hill with a great load of furniture, a man
on behind it, and a boy on the shafts—a poor little rat of a thing,
with the meekest expression you can conceive of. It is just as much
as he can stagger along with, and the boy jumps off to relieve—no!
the young satan has gone to his head and is cudgelling him. The poor
little donkey winks and turns his head, and drops his ears, and nearly
falls down. The boy stops (probably a policeman heaves in sight) and
takes his seat on the shaft again, and the donkey reels on. The man
aft has continued his smoking all the while, without taking any notice
of the delay. As I write, there goes by another—a very handsome, large
fat one, drawing a market cart, with a pretty country girl among the
hampers driving.