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- 6125
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6061
- text
- 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.
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