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asylum, a charity which adorns the city of Liverpool even more than its docks, or its commercial advantages.

While at Liverpool, I went out to the new town of Birkenhead, which has grown up within a few years with great rapidity, and much resembles some of our cities on the lakes, in its active enterprise and cheerful industry. The principal object of interest here is an old, ruined abbey, built several centuries ago by Baron Haman Massie. It was once the home of religious men, the seat of divine and holy influences; but, like the religion which once flourished within its walls, it is now broken down, and its beauty is entirely destroyed.

A visit to the fine old town of Chester formed another excursion which I took with much pleasure. Unlike Birkenhead, Chester bears the marks of age; old Roman remains appear on every side; and the antiquarian will find a hundred objects of study and contemplation. All around Liverpool are quiet, pleasant villages, lying in great rural beauty, inviting the traveler to turn aside from the busy hum of labor, and the confusion of the crowded city,

“To nature, woods, winds, music, valleys, hills,
And gushing brooks."

After surveying Liverpool and its environs, we repaired, just at nightfall, to the railway station, to take the cars for Manchester. The depot formed a remarkable contrast with those in our own country. It was erected in 1837, at an immense expense, and is lighted from the roof. The stone front has thirty-six Corinthian columns and four large arched gateways, and stands out in its nobility, fit exterior of this great palace of transportation. On leaving the station, the train enters a long tunnel, dark as Egypt, and dreary as night.

This tunnel is six thousand six hundred and ninety feet long, seventy-five feet wide, and fifty-one feet high, and passes directly under the city, while over it rise churches, houses, halls, and places of trade and industry. He who had never rode in a rail-car would hardly be willing to begin by riding through this subterranean passage. The oppressive darkness, which can be felt; the cold, damp chill, which pierces to the bones; the glaring lamp on the engine, and the screaming of the iron horse, all render the five minutes spent under the streets and temples of the great mart of commerce most unpleasant and disagreeable.

On emerging from this dark passage, the traveler has opportunity to examine the car in which he rides, and the countenances of his fellow-passengers. The railway arrangements are very different in England from ours in America. There are three classes of cars, and for either of them the traveler purchases his ticket as he may choose. Having secured his ticket, he is sent into a room where he finds others who are to ride

in the same class cars. If he be a third-class passenger, he does not see those who are to ride in the first and second-class cars. They too are shut up, to await the hour of starting. When this arrives, the first-class passengers are taken from the room where they have been held in durance, and seated in the cars, and the doors are closed, and, in some instances, locked. Then the second-class passengers are seated, and at length the third. The cars are short, being only about eight feet long and six wide, and are frequently divided by a partition as high as the head of a person sitting The first class are well arranged, well fitted, and comfortable; but the fare in them is so high, that few besides the nobility ard the wealthy ride in them. The

second class are destitute of cushions, and almost every other comfort. On the hard seat, with the straight back, the passenger is compelled to sit, with his feet covered up with boxes and baggage, gazing upon the placards which are pasted up on the sides and ends of the car. Generally these cars have two seats, each holding five persons one half looking into the faces and trampling upon the feet of the other half. The window, or ventilator, as it should be called, is a small, square aperture in the door, like the window of a coach, and sometimes has a slide of glass, but more generally of wood, to keep out the rain. Smoking, snuff-taking, tobacco-chewing are all allowed; and these privileges are improved by the English generally. The last time I rode in the cars in England, I found myself in company with one Frenchman and his lady, two young men who were smoking the most abominable. cigars, three apparently well-bred English ladies, and an Irish woman.

The young men kept on smoking, the rain dashed against the window of the car, and compelled us to close it; and twice or thrice during the day, the Irish woman drew an onion of very respectable dimensions from her basket, and slicing it up with bread, devoured it eagerly, with as much apparent relish as if it were a finely-flavored peach.

The third-class cars are somewhat longer, and have rough seats, like some of our baggage cars, and are no more comfortable or convenient. The fare is higher for this class than in our country for the best. Connected with all the roads is what is termed "the Parliament train"—a train which government compels every corporation to run for the accommodation of the poor, at one penny, or two cents, a mile. But the accommodations are so wretched, the speed so slow, the stopping

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places so numerous, that few who can pay higher fare are willing to ride in it.

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The country between Liverpool and Manchester, though not the best in England, is very fine a very garden; and when we passed through it, it was just budding into the life of spring. The banks on each side of the road, and the borders, were all cultivated; and, as we rode on, flowers were seen blooming all around. Increasing our speed every minute, we whirled rapidly by the proud, old residences of aristocratic landholders, and the rude, thatched cottage of the peasant; now entering into cultivated farms, and then through fields of waving grain; now leaving in the distance the village church, imbosomed in rich foliage, like a gem conscious of its worth and beauty, and then rushing by acid works, tin works, tar works, glass works, which send their noxious gases out to deaden the opening verdure of spring; now entering the more dismal regions of coal burning, and then through towns and villages, towards the greatest manufacturing city of the old world.

III.

MANCHESTER.

We entered Manchester just at evening, when the streets were filled with stern, hard-fisted men, returning from their daily toil, and squalid-looking women, flitting along to some rude tenement, weary, faint, and sad. On every hand we met deformed and shapeless beings, - some vending coffee, and some peanuts; some women, some men, and some children, living products of a system which places mere children at the loom, and over the wheel, at an age when they are unable to endure fatigue, or resist the influence of confinement and weariness.

We were amused at the readiness with which the people in the streets recognized us as Americans. A gentleman stepped up as we passed along one day, and inquired if we were acquainted with Mr. B., a gentleman of Philadelphia, who was then in the city. A little lad followed us along some distance, and at length, to extract from us a few coppers, said, "I'll whistle you Yankee Doodle for a penny, sir," and forthwith commenced whistling our national air, to our great amusement.

Manchester is a large and beautiful city. I had pictured out a town of wretched appearance; long, low, narrow streets, filled with beggars and thieves, and lined on each side by the miserable habitations of half-paid laborers. But I was agreeably disappointed.

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