BIRKENHEAD.—FERRY-BOATS.—GRUFF ENGLISHMAN.—THE
ABBEY.—FLOUR.—MARKET.—THE PARK.—A DEMOCRATIC INSTITUTION.—SUBURBAN
VILLAS, &c.
The ferry-boat by which we crossed to Birkenhead was very small and
dingy. There was no protection from the weather on board of her,
except a narrow, dark cabin under deck. There were uncushioned seats
all around the outside, against the rail, and the rest of the deck was
mostly filled up with freight, spars, &c. She had a bowsprit, and a
beautiful light, rakish mast, and topmast fitted to carry a gaffsail.
She was steered with a wheel in the stern. The pilot or master (a
gentleman with a gold band on his hat and naval buttons), stood on
the paddle-boxes to direct, and a boy stood over the engine to pass
orders below. The engine was under deck, the tops of the cylinders only
appearing above it. It was, however, entirely exposed to observation,
and showed excellent workmanship, and was kept perfectly clean and
highly polished. It was of entirely different construction from any
American engine, having three oscillating cylinders. The “_hands_”
looked like regular tars, wearing tarpaulins, with the name of the boat
in gilt letters on the ribbon, blue baize shirts, and broad-bottomed
trowsers hung tight on the hips. The boat came _alongside_ the wharf,
ran out her hawsers, and took in her passengers by a narrow gang-plank;
and yet she makes her trip once in ten minutes. There would not be
room enough on her decks for one of our Rockaways to stand, and she
seemed to have no idea of ferrying any thing but foot-passengers. What
would the good people of Birkenhead think of a Fulton ferry-boat, with
its long, light, and airy rooms, their floors level with the street,
and broad carriage-roads from stem to stern, crossing and recrossing
without turning round, or ever a word of command, or a rope lifted from
morning till evening and from evening till morning? The length of the
ferry is about the same as the South Ferry of Brooklyn, and the fare
one penny.
[Sidenote: _BIRKENHEAD._]
BIRKENHEAD is the most important suburb of Liverpool, having the same
relation to it that Charlestown has to Boston, or Brooklyn to New
York. When the first line of Liverpool packets was established, there
were not half a dozen houses here; it now has a population of many
thousands, and is increasing with a rapidity hardly paralleled in the
New World. This is greatly owing to the very liberal and enterprising
policy of the land-owners, which affords an example that might be
profitably followed in the vicinity of many of our own large towns.
There are several public squares, and the streets and places are broad,
and well paved and lighted. A considerable part of the town has been
built with reference to general effect, from the plans and under the
direction of a talented architect, GILESPIE GRAHAM.
We received this information while crossing in the ferry-boat from a
fellow-passenger, who, though a stranger, entered into conversation,
and answered our inquiries with a frankness and courtesy that we have
thus far received from every one in England. By his direction, we
found near the landing a square of eight or ten acres, about half of
it enclosed by an iron fence, and laid out with tasteful masses of
shrubbery (not trees), and gravel walks. The houses about it stood
detached, and though of the same general style, were sufficiently
varied in details, not to appear monotonous. These were all of stone.
We left this, and were walking up a long, broad street, looking for a
place where we could get a bite of something to eat, when the gentleman
who had crossed at the ferry with us joined us again, and said that as
we were strangers we might like to look at the ruins of an ABBEY which
were in the vicinity, and he had come after us that if we pleased he
might conduct us to it.
Right in the midst of the town, at the corner of a new brick house,
we came upon an old pile of stone work. Old, indeed!—under the broken
arch of a Gothic window, the rain-water had been so long trickling as
to wear deep channels; cracking, crumbling, bending over with age, it
seemed in many places as if the threatening mass had only been till now
withheld from falling prostrate by the faithful ivy that clung to it,
and clasped it tight with every fibre.
You cannot imagine the contrast to the hot, hurrying, noisy world
without, that we found on entering the little enclosure of the old
churchyard and abbey walls. It was all overshadowed with dense foliage,
and only here and there through the leaves, or a shattered arch round
which the ivy curled with enchanting grace, would there be a glimpse
of the blue sky above. By listening, we could still hear the roar of
wheels, rumbling of rail-cars, clanging of steamboat bells, and the
shouts of jovial sea-captains, drinking gin and water in a neighbouring
tea-garden, over which the American flag was flying. But within the
walls there was no sound but the chirps of a wren, looking for her
nest in a dark cranny; the hum of bees about an old hawthorn bush; the
piping of a cricket under a gravestone, and our own footsteps echoed
from mysterious crypts.
Our guide having pointed out to us the form of the ancient structure,
and been requited for his trouble by seeing the pleasure he had given
us, took his leave. We remained a long time, and enjoyed it as you may
think.
[Sidenote: _BIRKENHEAD ABBEY.—SCHOOL-HOUSE._]
Did you ever hear of Birkenhead Abbey? I never had before. It has no
celebrity; but coming upon it so fresh from the land of youth, as
we did, so unexpecting of any thing of the kind—though I have since
seen far older ruins, and more renowned—I have never found any so
impressively aged.
A ruined end of the old prior’s house had been repaired and roofed over
many years ago, and was used as a school-house—many years ago, for
the ivy on it was very strong and knarled, and bushes and grass were
growing all over the roof. I send you a hasty sketch of it;—wouldn’t
you like the memory of such a school? (_See vignette, title page._)
At the market-place we went into a baker’s shop, and, while eating some
buns, learned that the poorest flour in market was American and the
best French. Upon examination of his stock, we thought he had hardly
a fair sample of American flour, but his French flour was certainly
remarkably fine, and would be so considered at Rochester. He said it
made much whiter bread than either American or English, and he used
but little of it unmixed, except for the most delicate pastry. French
and English flour is sold in sacks, American in barrels. He thought
American flour was not generally _kiln-dried_,[5] and was much injured
in consequence. When we left he obligingly directed us to several
objects of interest in the vicinity, and showed us through the market.
It is but little less in size, and really appears finer and more
convenient than the one I described in Liverpool.
[5] The great bulk of the flour we are now exporting to England is of
inferior quality, worth about $3.50 when common superfine is $4.50.
It is used extensively by the _millers_ in England to mix with a
superior quality of their own grinding of English wheat. By the way,
the custom of taking a toll in kind, as a compensation for grinding
at grist-mills, which our fathers brought from England, and which we
retain, is now obsolete there. The millers make their charges in money,
and are paid as in any other business.
The roof, which is mostly of glass, is high and airy, and is supported
by two rows of slender iron columns, giving to the interior the
appearance of three light and elegant arcades. The contrivances to
effect ventilation and cleanliness are very complete. It was built by
the town, upon land given to it for the purpose, and cost $175,000.
The baker had begged of us not to leave Birkenhead without seeing their
_new park_, and at his suggestion we left our knapsacks with him, and
proceeded to it. As we approached the entrance, we were met by women
and girls, who, holding out a cup of milk, asked us—“_Will you take a
cup of milk, sirs?—good, cool, sweet, cow’s milk, gentlemen, or right
warm from the ass!_” And at the gate was a herd of donkeys, some with
cans of milk strapped to them, others saddled and bridled, to be let
for ladies and children to ride.
The gateway, which is about a mile and a half from the ferry, and
quite back of the town, is a great, massive block of handsome Ionic
architecture, standing alone, and unsupported by any thing else in the
vicinity, and looking, as I think, heavy and awkward. There is a sort
of grandeur about it that the English are fond of, but which, when it
is entirely separate from all other architectural constructions, always
strikes me unpleasantly. It seems intended as an impressive preface
to a great display of art within; but here, as well as at Eaton Park,
and other places I have since seen, it is not followed up with great
things, the grounds immediately within the grand entrance being very
simple, and apparently rather overlooked by the gardener. There is a
large archway for carriages, and two smaller ones for those on foot,
and, on either side, and over these, are rooms, which probably serve
as inconvenient lodges for the labourers. No porter appears, and the
gates are freely open to the public.
[Sidenote: _PEOPLE’S GARDEN._]
Walking a short distance up an avenue, we passed through another light
iron gate into a thick, luxuriant, and diversified garden. Five minutes
of admiration, and a few more spent in studying the manner in which
art had been employed to obtain from nature so much beauty, and I was
ready to admit that in democratic America there was nothing to be
thought of as comparable with this People’s Garden. Indeed, gardening
had here reached a perfection that I had never before dreamed of. I
cannot undertake to describe the effect of so much taste and skill as
had evidently been employed; I will only tell you, that we passed by
winding paths, over acres and acres, with a constant varying surface,
where on all sides were growing every variety of shrubs and flowers,
with more than natural grace, all set in borders of greenest, closest
turf, and all kept with most consummate neatness. At a distance of a
quarter of a mile from the gate, we came to an open field of clean,
bright, green-sward, closely mown, on which a large tent was pitched,
and a party of boys in one part, and a party of gentlemen in another,
were playing cricket. Beyond this was a large meadow with rich groups
of trees, under which a flock of sheep were reposing, and girls and
women with children, were playing. While watching the cricketers, we
were threatened with a shower, and hastened back to look for shelter,
which we found in a pagoda, on an island approached by a Chinese
bridge. It was soon filled, as were the other ornamental buildings,
by a crowd of those who, like ourselves, had been overtaken in the
grounds by the rain; and I was glad to observe that the privileges of
the garden were enjoyed about equally by all classes. There were some
who were attended by servants, and sent at once for their carriages,
but a large proportion were of the common ranks, and a few women
with children, or suffering from ill health, were evidently the wives
of very humble labourers. There were a number of strangers, and some
we observed with note-books and portfolios, that seemed to have come
from a distance to study from the garden. The summer-houses, lodges,
bridges, &c., were all well constructed, and of undecaying materials.
One of the bridges which we crossed was of our countryman, REMINGTON’S
patent, an extremely light and graceful erection.
I obtained most of the following information from the head
working-gardener.
The site of the park and garden was, ten years ago, a flat, sterile,
clay farm. It was placed in the hands of Mr. PAXTON, in June, 1844, by
whom it was laid out in its present form by June of the following year.
Carriage roads, thirty-four feet wide, with borders of ten feet, and
walks varying in width, were first drawn and made. The excavation for a
pond was also made, and the earth obtained from these sources used for
making mounds and to vary the surface, which has been done with much
_naturalness_ and taste. The whole ground was thoroughly under-drained,
the minor drains of stone, the main, of tile. By these sufficient water
is obtained to fully supply the pond, or lake, as they call it, which
is from twenty to forty feet wide, and about three feet deep, and
meanders for a long distance through the garden. It is stocked with
aquatic plants, gold fish, and swans.
[Sidenote: _A MODEL FOR AMERICAN TOWNS._]
The roads are macadamized. On each side of the carriage-way, and of all
the walks, pipes for drainage are laid, which communicate with deep
main drains that run under the edge of all the mounds or flower beds.
The walks are laid first with six inches of fine broken stone, then
three inches cinders, and the surface with six inches of fine rolled
gravel. All the stones on the ground which were not used for these
purposes, were laid in masses of rock-work, and mosses and rock-plants
attached to them. The mounds were then planted with shrubs, and heaths
and ferns, and the beds with flowering plants. Between these, and the
walks and drives, is everywhere a belt of turf (which, by the way, is
kept close cut with short, broad scythes, and shears, and swept with
_hair-brooms_, as we saw). Then the rural lodges, temple, pavilion,
bridges, _orchestra for a band of instrumental music_, &c., were
built. And so, in one year, the skeleton of this delightful garden was
complete.
But this is but a small part. Besides the cricket and an archery
ground, large valleys were made verdant, extensive drives
arranged—plantations, clumps, and avenues of trees formed, and a large
park laid out. And all this magnificent pleasure-ground is entirely,
unreservedly, and for ever the people’s own. The poorest British
peasant is as free to enjoy it in all its parts as the British queen.
More than that, the baker of Birkenhead has the pride of an OWNER in it.
Is it not a grand good thing? But you are inquiring who _paid_ for it.
The honest owners—the most wise and worthy townspeople of Birkenhead—in
the same way that the New-Yorkers pay for “the Tombs,” and the
Hospital, and the _cleaning_ (as they amusingly say) of their streets.
Of the farm which was purchased, one hundred and twenty acres have
been disposed of in the way I have described. The remaining sixty
acres, encircling the park and garden, were reserved to be sold or
rented, after being well graded, streeted, and planted, for private
building lots. Several fine mansions are already built on these (having
private entrances to the park), and the rest now sell at $1.25 a square
yard. The whole concern cost the town between five and six hundred
thousand dollars. It gives employment at present, to ten gardeners and
labourers in summer, and to five in winter.[6]
[6] “When the important advantages to the poorer classes, of such an
extensive and delightful pleasure-ground, are taken into consideration,
no one will be inclined to say that such an expenditure does not merit
the most unbounded success, and the deepest public gratitude. Here
nature may be viewed in her loveliest garb, the most obdurate heart may
be softened, and the mind gently led to pursuits which refine, purify,
and alleviate the humblest of the toil-worn.”
The generous spirit and fearless enterprise, that has accomplished
this, has not been otherwise forgetful of the health and comfort of the
poor.[7] Among other things, I remember, a public washing and bathing
house for the town is provided. I should have mentioned also, in
connection with the market, that in the outskirts of the town there is
a range of stone slaughter-houses, with stables, yards, pens, supplies
of hot and cold water, and other arrangements and conveniences, that
enlightened regard for health and decency would suggest.
[7] “Few towns, in modern times, have been built with such regard to
sanitary regulations, as Birkenhead, and in no instance has so much
been done for the health, comfort, and enjoyment of a people, as by
those energetic individuals with whose names the rise and progress of
Birkenhead are so intimately connected.”—_Dr. J. H. Robertson._
The consequence of all these sorts of things is, that all about the
town, lands, which a few years ago were almost worthless wastes, have
become of priceless value; where no sound was heard but the bleating of
goats and braying of asses complaining of their pasturage, there is now
the hasty click and clatter of many hundred busy trowels and hammers.
You may drive through wide and thronged streets of stately edifices,
where were only a few scattered huts, surrounded by quagmires. Docks
of unequalled size and grandeur are building, and a forest of masts
grows along the shore; and there is no doubt that this young town is
to be not only remarkable as a most agreeable and healthy place of
residence, but that it will soon be distinguished for extensive and
profitable commerce. It seems to me to be the only town I ever saw that
has been really built at all in accordance with the advanced science,
taste, and enterprising spirit that are supposed to distinguish the
nineteenth century. I do not doubt it might be found to have plenty
of exceptions to its general character, but I did not inquire for
these, nor did I happen to observe them. Certainly, in what I have
noticed, it is a model town, and may be held up as an example, not only
to philanthropists and men of taste, but to speculators and men of
business.
[Sidenote: _LIBERAL ENTERPRISE AND PROSPERITY._]
After leaving the park, we ascended a hill, from the top of which we
had a fine view of Liverpool and Birkenhead. Its sides were covered
with villas, with little gardens about them. The architecture was
generally less fantastic, and the style and materials of building more
substantial than is usually employed in the same class of residences
with us. Yet there was a good deal of the same _stuck up_ and uneasy
pretentious air about them that the suburban houses of our own city
people so commonly have. Possibly this is the effect of association,
in my mind, of steady, reliable worth and friendship with plain or
old-fashioned dwellings, for I often find it difficult to discover
in the buildings themselves the elements of such expression. I am
inclined to think it is more generally owing to some disunity in the
design—often, perhaps, to a want of keeping between the mansion and
its grounds or its situation. The architect and the gardener do not
understand each other, and commonly the owner or resident is totally
at variance in his tastes and intentions from both; or the man whose
ideas the plan is made to serve, or who pays for it, has no true
independent taste, but had fancies to be accommodated, which only
follow confusedly after custom or fashion. I think, with Ruskin, it is
a pity that every man’s house cannot be really his own, and that he
cannot make all that is true, beautiful, and good in his own character,
tastes, pursuits, and history manifest in it.
But however fanciful and uncomfortable many of the villa houses about
Liverpool and Birkenhead appear at first sight, the substantial and
thorough manner in which most of them are built will atone for many
faults. The friendship of nature has been secured to them. Dampness,
heat, cold, will be welcome to do their best. Every day they will
improve. In fifty or a hundred years fashions may change, and they
will appear, perhaps, quaint, possibly grotesque; but still strong,
HOME-LIKE, and hospitable. They have no shingles to rot, no glued and
puttied and painted gimcrackery, to warp and crack and moulder; and can
never look so shabby, and desolate, and dreary, as will nine-tenths of
the buildings of the same denomination now erecting about New York,
almost as soon as they lose the raw, cheerless, impostor-like airs
which seem almost inseparable from their newness.