When the first church
was built, and long afterwards, it must have stood on the grassy verge of
the Mersey; but now there are pavements and warehouses, and the thronged
Prince's and George's Docks, between it and the river; and all around it
is the very busiest bustle of commerce, rumbling wheels, hurrying men,
porter-shops, everything that pertains to the grossest and most practical
life. And, notwithstanding, there is the broad churchyard extending on
three sides of it, just as it used to be a thousand years ago. It is
absolutely paved from border to border with flat tombstones, on a level
with the soil and with each other, so that it is one floor of stone over
the whole space, with grass here and there sprouting between the
crevices. All these stones, no doubt, formerly had inscriptions; but as
many people continually pass, in various directions, across the
churchyard, and as the tombstones are not of a very hard material, the
records on many of them are effaced. I saw none very old. A quarter of
a century is sufficient to obliterate the letters, and make all smooth,
where the direct pathway from gate to gate lies over the stones. The
climate and casual footsteps rub out any inscription in less than a
hundred years. Some of the monuments are cracked. On many is merely cut
"The burial place of" so and so; on others there is a long list of
half-readable names; on some few a laudatory epitaph, out of which,
however, it were far too tedious to pick the meaning.
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