England, by twilight, at ten o'clock in the evening without difficulty. In sailing up the Mersey, I was struck with the aspect of the fields on the bank, particularly with the various shades of green. Most of them were lighter and brighter than are usually seen in America; the deep green of our fields I could hardly find—which to be sure, I think, nothing could replace. But this may be peculiar to the banks of the Mersey. If it is common in England, I shall conclude that the incessant rains, of which one is now dropping from the willing clouds, have produced one effect upon English scenery, which I have never heard anything of in the books of travels. The next thing to attract the attention of the

stranger in ascending the Mersey, is—the glory of Liverpool—its docks. They wall up the river on

the Liverpool side, with a solid mass of masonry (hammered freestone) thirty, forty, and, in some places, fifty feet from the foundation. The wall at top appears almost wide enough for a carriage way. The basins within are filled with ships, whose tangled masts and yards gird the town on that side with a mimic forest. The bells have rung three chimes to-day, in

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compliment to the anniversary of the king's coming
to the throne. In our country, it would have been
the discharge of cannon. But I prefer the merry
bells, What a singular language of rejoicing is the
thunder of those death-dealing engines I sup-
pose it is the noise that recommends this method;
just as a barbarian king gets a great drum, or
gong, to make a great noise, because he knows of
no other way of testifying joy. How much fitter
would it be, on a birthday anniversary, to have a
band of musicians pass through the streets and in
the public places, playing appropriate airs, mar-
tial or patriotic
The thing I admired most in Liverpool was
the new cemetery, with the chapel for the burial
service. It was formerly a quarry of freestone;
and was dug to the depth of a hundred feet I should
think, so that it is quite retired and secluded,
though streets and houses are around it. The
chapel is on the elevated ground at the entrance,
level with the street; and not far distant, is the
parsonage or rectory occupied by the officiating
clergyman, who enjoys a handsome salary from
the board of aldermen.
The brick of which the city is mostly built, is of
the ugliest description, resembling what we call
fire brick, and is besides so begrimed with smoke,

that the city presents a very dingy and dismal appearance. One of the first things that strikes the American stranger as he lands on the shores of the Old World, is the attention and deference he receives from those classes of the people whose business it is to minister to his comfort—from innkeepers, proprietors, and drivers of coaches, waiters, porters, &c., servants of all descriptions—from those, in short, the breath of whose life is in the civility of their manners. It is a strong bond for civil behaviour doubtless, this necessity of getting a livelihood, and especially in countries where a livelihood is hard to come by ; and it may cause civility to degenerate in servility: still were it not to be wished that something of the manner at least could be learned in our country? Not that any class among us should entertain a sense of its relation to any other class, that would be degrading to it; the very contrary. There is nothing that is more incompatible with a just self-respect, than the manners of a churl. No man really respects himself who is guilty of discourtesy to others. The waiter who brings me my dinner, and stands behind my chair while I

eat it, very commonly shows in his frank and easy

bearing, as much self-respect as I myself can feel. And the coachman who, when I ask him to give

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me a seat on the box with him, touches his hat as he answers, seems to me a far more respectable person than the stage driver of our country, who often answers with a surly indifference, as if he did not care whether you sat there, or sat anywhere at all. Both the coachman and the waiter are looking to you for a gratuity, it is true, in pay

ment for their attentions. But it is a fair compact;

and degrading to neither party. And for my part,
I am as willing to pay for civility as for my din-
ner. One would like to buy not only his dinner,
but some reasonable chance of digesting it; and
that is hard to do when one has to digest slovenli-
ness, negligence, and ill manners besides.
CHESTER, JULY 2. It is so cold to-day, that I
have ridden with a surtout and India-rubber great-
Coat over it, and have been scarcely comfortable.
To be sure, it was on the outside of the coach—the
only side, for my part, that I ever wish to see. The
hand of prescription is heavy upon many things in
England, small as well as great; they do here as
their fathers did, in far more respects than we do.
At least this is the only reason I can see, why they
build in the centre of the coach a small, confined,
dark box, with the curtains obstinately fastened
down, and cushioned indeed, so that they are never
rolled up even in the hottest day of summer; and in

addition to this inconvenience, the only chance of seeing the country is a loophole view through the window. There are few sensations more agreeable—I believe I am nearly repeating Johnson—than those with which one sets off on an excursion of a fine morning, seated on the top of an English stage coach; the horses clothed in plated harness, burnished to the brightness of gold; the guard, seated on the back part of the coach, taking all care of baggage off your hands, and at the same time regaling your ears with a lively strain of music from his bugle; and the coachman—truly he deserves a separate paragraph. No mortal charioteer ever gave one such a sense of security—such a well-fed, well-dressed, respectable-looking person is he, as he steps forth, amid attendant lackeys and horseboys, in his drab breeches, white-topped boots, and with the long and graceful whip in his gloved hand —but above all, a person of such corporeal weight and substance, of such a massive and compact frame, that as he takes his seat on the coach box, you fancy him saying to all obstacles and dangers,

“Come on, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.”

Chester is an ancient town, with marks of an*.

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