THE OLD CHURCH OF ST. NICHOLAS, AND THE DEAD-HOUSE
The floating chapel recalls to mind the _“Old Church,”_ well known to
the seamen of many generations, who have visited Liverpool. It stands
very near the docks, a venerable mass of brown stone, and by the town’s
people is called the Church of St. Nicholas. I believe it is the best
preserved piece of antiquity in all Liverpool.
Before the town rose to any importance, it was the only place of
worship on that side of the Mersey; and under the adjoining Parish of
Walton was a _chapel-of-ease;_ though from the straight backed pews,
there could have been but little comfort taken in it.
In old times, there stood in front of the church a statue of St.
Nicholas, the patron of mariners; to which all pious sailors made
offerings, to induce his saintship to grant them short and prosperous
voyages. In the tower is a fine chime of bells; and I well remember my
delight at first hearing them on the first Sunday morning after our
arrival in the dock. It seemed to carry an admonition with it;
something like the premonition conveyed to young Whittington by Bow
Bells. _“Wellingborough! Wellingborough! you must not forget to go to
church, Wellingborough! Don’t forget, Wellingborough! Wellingborough!
don’t forget.”_
Thirty or forty years ago, these bells were rung upon the arrival of
every Liverpool ship from a foreign voyage. How forcibly does this
illustrate the increase of the commerce of the town! Were the same
custom now observed, the bells would seldom have a chance to cease.
What seemed the most remarkable about this venerable old church, and
what seemed the most barbarous, and grated upon the veneration with
which I regarded this time-hallowed structure, was the condition of the
grave-yard surrounding it. From its close vicinity to the haunts of the
swarms of laborers about the docks, it is crossed and re-crossed by
thoroughfares in all directions; and the tomb-stones, not being erect,
but horizontal (indeed, they form a complete flagging to the spot),
multitudes are constantly walking over the dead; their heels erasing
the death’s-heads and crossbones, the last mementos of the departed. At
noon, when the lumpers employed in loading and unloading the shipping,
retire for an hour to snatch a dinner, many of them resort to the
grave-yard; and seating themselves upon a tomb-stone use the adjoining
one for a table. Often, I saw men stretched out in a drunken sleep upon
these slabs; and once, removing a fellow’s arm, read the following
inscription, which, in a manner, was true to the life, if not to the
death:—
HERE LYETH YE BODY OF
TOBIAS DRINKER.
For two memorable circumstances connected with this church, I am
indebted to my excellent friend, Morocco, who tells me that in 1588 the
Earl of Derby, coming to his residence, and waiting for a passage to
the Isle of Man, the corporation erected and adorned a sumptuous stall
in the church for his reception. And moreover, that in the time of
Cromwell’s wars, when the place was taken by that mad nephew of King
Charles, Prince Rupert, he converted the old church into a military
prison and stable; when, no doubt, another _“sumptuous stall”_ was
erected for the benefit of the steed of some noble cavalry officer.
In the basement of the church is a Dead House, like the Morgue in
Paris, where the bodies of the drowned are exposed until claimed by
their friends, or till buried at the public charge.
From the multitudes employed about the shipping, this dead-house has
always more or less occupants. Whenever I passed up Chapel-street, I
used to see a crowd gazing through the grim iron grating of the door,
upon the faces of the drowned within. And once, when the door was
opened, I saw a sailor stretched out, stark and stiff, with the sleeve
of his frock rolled up, and showing his name and date of birth tattooed
upon his arm. It was a sight full of suggestions; he seemed his own
headstone.
I was told that standing rewards are offered for the recovery of
persons falling into the docks; so much, if restored to life, and a
less amount if irrecoverably drowned. Lured by this, several horrid old
men and women are constantly prying about the docks, searching after
bodies. I observed them principally early in the morning, when they
issued from their dens, on the same principle that the rag-rakers, and
rubbish-pickers in the streets, sally out bright and early; for then,
the night-harvest has ripened.
There seems to be no calamity overtaking man, that can not be rendered
merchantable. Undertakers, sextons, tomb-makers, and hearse-drivers,
get their living from the dead; and in times of plague most thrive. And
these miserable old men and women hunted after corpses to keep from
going to the church-yard themselves; for they were the most wretched of
starvelings.