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!