It was a lovely September morning in 1852, when, having put my traps
through the purging process twice, and still having enough for
half-a-dozen people, I took my place in the early train from
Euston-square for Liverpool, where I was soon housed in the Adelphi. A
young American friend, who was going out in the same steamer on the
following morning, proposed a little walk before the shades of evening
closed in, as he had seen nothing of the city. Off we started, full of
intentions never to be realized: I stepped into a cutler's shop to buy a
knife; a nice-looking girl in the middle of her teens, placed one or two
before me; I felt a nudge behind, and a voice whispered in my ear, "By
George, what a pretty hand!" It was perfectly true; and so convinced was
my friend of the fact, that he kept repeating it in my ear. When my
purchase was completed, and the pretty hand retired, my friend exhibited
symptoms of a strong internal struggle: it was too much for him. At last
he burst out with, "Have you any scissors?"--Aside to me, "What a pretty
little hand!"--Then came a demand for bodkins, then for needles, then
for knives, lastly for thimbles, which my friend observed were too
large, and begged might be tried on her taper fingers. He had become so
enthusiastic, and his asides to me were so rapid, that I believe he
would have bought anything which those dear little hands had touched.

Paterfamilias, who, while poring over his ledger, had evidently had his
ears open, now became alarmed at the reduction that was going on in his
stock, and consequently came forward to scrutinize the mysterious
purchaser. I heard a voice muttering "Confound that old fellow!" as the
dutiful daughter modestly gave place to papa; a Bank of England tenner
passed from my friend's smallclothes to the cutler's small till, and a
half-crown _vice versa_. When we got to the door it was pitch dark; and
thus ended our lionizing of the public buildings of Liverpool.