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- captain of a forecastle. No: that anchor, ship, and Dibdin’s ditty are
mine; this hand drew them; and on this very voyage to Liverpool. But
not so fast; I did not mean to tell that yet.
Full in the midst of these pencil scrawlings, completely surrounded
indeed, stands in indelible, though faded ink, and in my father’s
hand-writing, the following:—
WALTER REDBURN.
Riddough’s Royal Hotel,
Liverpool, March 20th, 1808.
Turning over that leaf, I come upon some half-effaced miscellaneous
memoranda in pencil, characteristic of a methodical mind, and therefore
indubitably my father’s, which he must have made at various times
during his stay in Liverpool. These are full of a strange, subdued,
old, midsummer interest to me: and though, from the numerous
effacements, it is much like cross-reading to make them out; yet, I
must here copy a few at random:—
£ s. d
_Guide-Book_ 3 6
_Dinner at the Star and Garter_ 10
_Trip to Preston (distance 31 m.)_ 2 6 3
_Gratuities_ 4
_Hack_ 4 6
_Thompson’s Seasons_ 5
_Library_ 1
_Boat on the river_ 6
_Port wine and cigar_ 4
And on the opposite page, I can just decipher the following:
_Dine with Mr. Roscoe on Monday._
_Call upon Mr. Morille same day._
_Leave card at Colonel Digby’s on Tuesday._
_Theatre Friday night—Richard III. and new farce._
_Present letter at Miss L——’s on Tuesday._
_Call on Sampson & Wilt, Friday._
_Get my draft on London cashed._
_Write home by the Princess._
_Letter bag at Sampson and Wilt’s._
Turning over the next leaf, I unfold a map, which in the midst of the
British Arms, in one corner displays in sturdy text, that this is _“A
Plan of the Town of Liverpool.”_ But there seems little plan in the
confined and crooked looking marks for the streets, and the docks
irregularly scattered along the bank of the Mersey, which flows along,
a peaceful stream of shaded line engraving.
On the northeast corner of the map, lies a level Sahara of yellowish
white: a desert, which still bears marks of my zeal in endeavoring to
populate it with all manner of uncouth monsters in crayons. The space
designated by that spot is now, doubtless, completely built up in
Liverpool.
Traced with a pen, I discover a number of dotted lines, radiating in
all directions from the foot of Lord-street, where stands marked
_“Riddough’s Hotel,”_ the house my father stopped at.
These marks delineate his various excursions in the town; and I follow
the lines on, through street and lane; and across broad squares; and
penetrate with them into the narrowest courts.
By these marks, I perceive that my father forgot not his religion in a
foreign land; but attended St. John’s Church near the Hay-market, and
other places of public worship: I see that he visited the News Room in
Duke-street, the Lyceum in Bold-street, and the Theater Royal; and that
he called to pay his respects to the eminent Mr. Roscoe, the historian,
poet, and banker.
Reverentially folding this map, I pass a plate of the Town Hall, and
come upon the Title Page, which, in the middle, is ornamented with a
piece of landscape, representing a loosely clad lady in sandals,
pensively seated upon a bleak rock on the sea shore, supporting her
head with one hand, and with the other, exhibiting to the stranger an
oval sort of salver, bearing the figure of a strange bird, with this
motto elastically stretched for a border—_“Deus nobis haec otia
fecit.”_
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