As a young boy and an old man I have seen my native town under two very diverse aspects.

As a boy, I have seen it ranked only as a third-rate seaport. Its streets tortuous and narrow, with pavements in the middle, skirted by mud or dirt as the season happened. The sidewalks rough with sharp-pointed stones, that made it misery to walk upon them. I have seen houses, with little low rooms, suffice for the dwelling of the merchant or well-to-do trader—the first being content to live in Water-street or Old Hall-street, while the latter had no idea of leaving his little shop, with its bay or square window, to take care of itself at night. I have seen Liverpool streets with scarcely a coach or vehicle in them, save such as trade required, and the most enlightened of its inhabitants, at that time, could not boast of much intelligence, while those who constituted its lower orders were plunged in the deepest vice, ignorance, and brutality.

But we should not judge too harshly of those who have gone before us. Of the sea-savouring greatly were the friends and acquaintances of my youth. Scarcely a town by the margin of the ocean could be more salt in its people than the men of Liverpool of the last century: so barbarous were they in their amusements, bull-baitings and cock and dog-fightings, and pugilistic encounters. What could we expect when we opened no book to the young, and employed no means of imparting knowledge to the old?—deriving our prosperity from two great sources—the slave-trade and privateering. What could we expect but the results we have witnessed? Swarming with sailor men flushed with prize money, was it not likely that the inhabitants generally would take a tone from what they daily beheld and quietly countenanced? Have we not seen the father investing small sums in some gallant ship fitting out for the West Indies or the Spanish Main, in the names of each of his children, girls and boys? Was it not natural that they should go down to the “Old Dock,” or the “Salthouse,” or the “New Dock,” and there be gratified with a sight of a ship of which they—little as they were—were still part-owners? We took them on deck and showed them where a bloody battle had been fought—on the very deck and spot on which their little feet pattered about. And did we not show them the very guns, and the muskets, the pistols and the cutlasses, the shot-lockers and magazines, and tell them how the lad, scrubbing a brass kettle in the caboose, had been occupied as a powder-monkey and seen blood shed in earnest? And did we not moreover tell them that if the forthcoming voyage was only successful, and if the ships of the enemy were taken—no matter about the streams of blood that might run through the scuppers—how their little ventures would be raised in value many hundredfold—would not young imaginations be excited and the greed for gain be potent in their young hearts? No matter what woman might be widowed—parent made childless, or child left without protector—if the gallant privateer was successful that was all they were taught to look for. And must not such teaching have had effect in after life? I have seen these things, and know them to be true; but I have seen them, I am glad to say, fade away, while other and better prospects have, step by step, presented themselves to view.

As a man, I have seen the old narrow streets widening—the old houses crumbling—and the salty savouring of society evaporate, and the sea influence recede before improvement—education and enlightenment of all sorts. Step by step has that sea-element in my townsmen declined. The three-bottle and punch-drinking man is the exception now, and not the rule of the table. The wide, open street and the ample window is now everywhere to be found, while underneath that street the well-constructed sewer carries off the germs of disease that in other times rose up potently amongst us, and through that window comes streaming the sunlight of heaven, cheering and gladdening every heart. Scarcely can the man of old, who has outlived his generation, believe in the huge edifices that now the merchant occupies, or credit his sight, when he looks at the great shops that display their costly goods of all descriptions, with the best of taste. Nor is there a less remarkable aspect presented in the appearance of the people. Of old one scarcely met a well-dressed man—now scores upon scores. In bye-gone times, we scarcely beheld a carriage, lumbering and uneasy as those things were—now we see elegant equipages of every make, shape, and build, suitable for every style of locomotion. In all things have we progressed; nor are we yet standing still.

We are doubling our trade. We are doubling our imports and exports; we have been doubling them since 1749—about every 16 years. In that year the total tonnage of vessels that entered the port of Liverpool was 28,250 tons. In 1764 it was 56,499 tons, in 1780 it was 112,000 tons, in 1796 it was 224,000 tons, in 1811 it was 611,190 tons, in 1827 it was 1,225,313 tons, in 1841 it was 2,425,461 tons, in 1857 it had reached 4,645,362 tons, so that by the same rule that doubled the tonnage of the port, between 1749 and 1764, the tonnage doubled itself between 1841 and 1857. It occupied 134 years to produce an increase equal to that which had taken place between 1841 and 1857. The value of exports in the whole kingdom in 1857, amounted to £110,000,000 sterling, out of which £55,000,000 passed through Liverpool alone. One hundred and fifty years ago there was not a dock in England. In Liverpool they now extend over five miles in length. An hundred years hence?—and what then?

His tale being told the old man bids his readers farewell. He has chronicled a few odd matters relating to his native town. He has spoken of what it was, and of what it is. If it increase in wealth and extent during the next century as it has done in that which is past, our descendants may be so much in advance of us in wisdom and knowledge as to look slightingly upon us. But if our sons’ sons will only emulate our good and graceful actions, and avoid that which in us is wicked and ignoble, they will have better reason to be proud of their ancestors than we have of ours, or even of ourselves.