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.