ninitiated, quite impracticable by night.

AN A.D.L.L. ADVENTURE IN LIVERPOOL.

Liverpool has perhaps fewer relics of an archaeological nature than any
other town in the United Kingdom; and this at first seems a little
singular, when we remember that it is not without its place in the
more romantic eras of our history, and that a castle of considerable
strength once lent it protection. Its old castle, its towers, and the
walls by which it was surrounded, have all been swept away by the busy
crowds that now throng its thoroughfares. Even the former names of
places have in most instances been altered, as if to obliterate all
recollections and associations connected with its early history. Thus
a row of houses, which a few years ago bore the not very euphonious
name of Castle Ditch, from its having followed a portion of the line
of the moat by which the fortress which once stood near it was
surrounded, was changed into St George's Crescent, and many others
underwent similar transmutations. But if the physical aspect of the
place holds out few or no attractions to the antiquary, the moral one
of its inhabitants, in so far as his favourite subject is concerned,
is equally uninviting; for, taken as a whole, it would be difficult to
find a population less influenced by, or interested in, such studies.

The only relic of the olden times which Liverpool has for a long time
past retained, was a long, low, picturesque-looking thatched cottage
in the small village of Everton (of _toffee_ notoriety), which went by
the name of Prince Rupert's Cottage, from its having been the
head-quarters of that fiery leader when he besieged the town from the
ridge on which the village is situated. But even this was swept away
about six years ago by the proprietor, to allow a street which he had
mapped out to abut upon the village at the point it occupied. The
project did not succeed, and the outline of the contemplated street is
all that as yet marks out the spot where this interesting object
stood.

I confess to the soft impeachment of having been, at a very early
period of my life, inoculated with the true Monkbarns enthusiasm, and
I have always been a great admirer of that beautiful remark of Lord
Bacon's, that 'antiquities may be considered as the planks of a wreck
which wise and prudent men gather and preserve from the deluge of
time.'

Some months ago, I was walking along what is called the Breck Road,
leading out of the little