CHAPTER XIV.
n our last chapter we mentioned the names of some of the wits and illustrious in jest of whom Liverpool could boast a few years since. We now descend the scale, to speak of a class whom we would mildly call “the practical jokers.” The Spectator makes glorious old Sir Roger de Coverley horribly afraid of the club of Mohocks who, many years since, pushed their horse-play in the metropolis into positive ruffianism, and perpetrated the most savage outrages under the name of fun and frolic. But the sports of the Liverpool mischief-mongers at the commencement of the present century were of a much more harmless and innocent character. One young gentleman, who subsequently flourished as a grave old stager amongst us, had a passion for collecting, in a kind of museum, or “curiosity shop,” all the signs and signboards which struck his fancy; and it was said that he had a large muster of black boys, carried off from the different tobacconists’ shops in the town. And sometimes he varied the amusement in the following fashion:—In Pool-lane, now modernised into South Castle-street, was a famous ship-instrument maker’s shop, in the front of which was elevated a wooden figure of a midshipman in full costume, at which we have often gazed with fond delight in ancient days, and which we are now convinced must have been the original of the one which Dickens, in Dombey, makes Captain Cuttle contemplate with so much pride and pleasure. Somewhere in the same locality was one of the tobacconists’ shops of which we have spoken, with the then usual sign of a black boy over the door. Time after time would our funny and facetious friend substitute these signs one for the other, so that, when morning broke, the midshipman would shine forth in all his glory at the door of the snuff and tobacco store, while the black boy would be grinning in front of the ship-instrument maker’s premises. At last the joke wore itself out. The perpetrator of it never was discovered. He preferred to play his “fantastic tricks” alone, and kept his own secret. But there were also associated bodies for the performance of the same kind of mad pranks. One set of them formed themselves into what they dignified with the name of “A Committee of Taste,” although they and their friends called them, over their cups, “The Minions of the Moon.” Their object seemed to be to emulate and imitate the merry doings of Falstaff and his companions. They occasionally, however, pushed their jokes somewhat too far. There was a house in Daulby-street, then a sort of rus in urbe, or, rather, country altogether. It had a garden in front, and was ornamented with a verandah. This it appears did not please these fastidious gentlemen, and the owner was served with a notice, signed by “the Chairman of the Committee of Taste,” directing him to alter or remove it by a certain day. To this command he paid no attention. Well, the day arrived;
“‘The ides of March are come.’
‘Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.’”
The verandah was still there. But that very night, at a few minutes before twelve o’clock, a loud knock at the door called the owner of the house to the window which overlooked it. The moment he appeared, with his head and the nightcap upon it looming through the darkness, a cheer welcomed him from the opposite side of the street. Then came a pull, and smash, crash; the verandah, with all its trellis-work and ornaments, was gone. The rogues had sawed away the supports, made their ropes fast, and then, with wicked waggishness, summoned the gentleman of the house to witness the destruction of his offending property. We will chronicle another of the feats of the “Committee of Taste.” At that period Mr. Samuel Staniforth lived in the large house at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, afterwards converted into the famous Waterloo Hotel. Something about it, either a shutter, or a knocker, or a bell-handle, we have forgotten which, was excommunicated by this tasteful inquisition, and ordered to be removed. Mr. Staniforth was about the last man in the world to obey such a lawless mandate, being one of that class who, “if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, would not give one on compulsion.” He therefore treated the notice served on him with contempt. And now the battle began in good earnest.
the thing denounced, whatever it was, was removed, then restored, and again removed, to be once more restored, and still in the original offending form, without an atom of alteration. And so the struggle went on, until Mr. Staniforth became highly exasperated, as well as extremely indignant at the persevering annoyance. Of this, the jokers, who met him with grave and sympathising faces every day in society, were fully aware, and only made thereby more resolute in their fun. In the extremity of his vexation he consulted George Rowe, the attorney, of whom we have made honourable mention in a former chapter. We speak from authority, for we had the story from Mr. Rowe himself, who used often to tell it with great glee. When the offended alderman had unbosomed all his griefs to the solicitor, and had urged him to exert all his vigilance to discover the offenders, and then to put in force all the terrors and pains and penalties of the law against them, the latter met the history of his sorrows with one of his good-natured and hearty laughs, to the great astonishment of his client, who certainly did not belong to the laughing portion of the creation. When he had settled himself into seriousness, he said, “Well, Mr. Staniforth, I suppose, after all, your object is to abate the nuisance, rather than trounce the sinners.” Staniforth, however, was not so sure that he would not like to do both, and “kill two birds with one stone.” But at last, after a long and serious confabulation, he was persuaded to leave the whole affair in the hands of the lawyer, who, indeed, would only undertake it on that condition. Now Mr. Rowe, although he had no guilty knowledge of the offenders, had a shrewd guess in his own mind, and, acting upon the impulse, wrote a note, desiring to have a conference with the chief captain of the knocker and bell banditti. They met, and on the next day glorious old George, sending for Mr. Staniforth, laid the result before him. The latter was exceedingly angry at first when he heard that the bold rogues, instead of being overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, still took up very high ground, being determined to make him capitulate on the immediate point at issue, but with a promise on their part that he should never more be annoyed by them on any other. At first he would listen to no such terms, regarding any treaty with the parties as little better than compounding for a felony. Gradually, however, he yielded to the reasonings of his adviser, and the agreement, without being duly signed and sealed, was honourably carried out on both sides. “And to whom,” we said to George Rowe, when sitting one day with him after dinner, with our legs under his mahogany, “to whom did you address your note when you wanted to have this celebrated interview with the Chairman of the Committee of Taste?’” “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure,” he answered, with a very thunder-clap of laughter, which almost made me tremble lest a blood vessel should burst or apoplexy ensue; “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure, who else could it be?”
But alas, alas! for the flight and power of time! Of the actors in this amusing scene, all have passed from the arena of busy life. We marvel whether any of the aforesaid “Committee of Taste” yet survive, to sigh or to smile over the wild pranks of their youth! But how is it that such follies are only remembered, not perpetrated, now? As Mr. Pickwick observed, when prosecuted for a breach of promise, men are very much the victims and tools of circumstances. When we look at the class to which the parties of whom we have been speaking belonged, we can find many reasons, without any boast of merit and improvement, which will explain why young gentlemen in these times should not roam through the streets by night, bent upon fun and mischief, for hours and hours. Forty or fifty years ago, men met together to dine about three o’clock. They had, consequently, not only a longer time to devote to the bottle, but also, when they broke up, excited by wine, some hours to get through as best they could, before they retired to bed. This would have a wonderful influence upon their conduct. Moreover we had only a few old watchmen in those days, who were as much alarmed at the approach of our “bucks,” as the travellers by an Eastern caravan at the appearance of the wild Arabs of the desert. Again, the introduction of gas for lighting the streets, instead of the old oil lamps which, “few and far between,” used to twinkle in the distance and just to “make darkness visible,” had a wonderful influence upon the habits of our young men. Some great authority on such matters in the metropolis calculated that, for enforcing order, one gas-lamp was equal, at least, to three policemen. There are many persons over whom the fear of being found out exerts a strong power. What they would do under the veil of darkness they strenuously avoid when its shelter is removed. The temptation may be strong, the will may be present, but the opportunity is wanting. These remarks, however, only apply to one class of society. But, when we make our survey more general, we must also take into account the march of knowledge, the increase of mechanics’ and literary institutes, and the spread of cheap and useful books among the masses. To the printing-press we doubtless owe much for our improved tastes and habits. Who, indeed, can calculate the might, the magnitude, and extent of its diversified influences and powers? It is our schoolmaster, our instructor, our guide, our guardian, our police, all in one. Praise and honour to those who wield the pen, so long as they use it for the benefit and advantage of their fellow-creatures. Ill-disposed persons may pervert it to be an instrument of evil. But who can tell the amount of its well-doing when directed to good? Truly did the wit observe, that the greatest stand ever yet made for the improvement and civilisation of mankind was the inkstand.
CHAPTER XV.
little back from Water-street, between it and St. Nicholas’s Church, stood an ancient Tower in those days. It was one of the remaining antiquities of Liverpool. It had originally belonged to the Lathoms of Lathom, and subsequently passed, by the marriage of the heiress of that family, into the hands of the Stanleys, some generations before the elevation of that illustrious house to the Derby title. At a later period it had become an assembly-room, and, last of all, by one of those strange vicissitudes to which all earthly things are liable, was a prison for debtors. But at the time we speak of there it was, as if frowning in gloomy strength upon the encroachments which modern improvements and the spirit of enterprise were making on every side of it, a grim old giant, the type, and symbol, and representative of other times. As we contemplated its massive walls or walked under its shadow, what reflections it was calculated to awaken within us. We were then too young for our mind to dwell very seriously or very long upon such topics, but we have often since thought within ourselves that, if stone walls had ears, and eyes, and tongues, what strange histories that old Tower could have told. It carried us back to what we call an age of romance, but what, in fact, was an age of stern and iron realities. What associations and recollections did the very sight of it conjure up within us! The monument of many centuries of glory and crime! In its day, although now merely an object of curiosity and a prison for debtors, the palace and fortress of nobles! In its day, perhaps, like other old castles within the land, the living grave, and the grave, when dead, of the guilty and innocent alike, of the ambitious and the victims of ambition, of heroes and saints, of martyrs and traitors, of princes and impostors, of patriots and conspirators! How often has the mailed chivalry of the middle ages rode forth through these gates in all its magnificence, pomp, and pride! How often has chained innocence been dragged through them to its dungeon’s depths, and to the shambles to which, perchance, they were the passage, feeling, as they turned upon their grating hinges and shut it from the world for ever, all the tremendous force of the “Hope no more!” which the Italian poet wrote over the entrance to his Infernal Regions! If, we repeat, its walls had tongues, what wonders could they tell, what secrets reveal, what mysteries unravel! What mighty or memorable names have resided, or been imprisoned and perished here! What strange things have been enacted within these gray old stones now crumbling into ruin, while the wronged and the wrongdoers have together passed to judgment! But the period for indulging such contemplations has long since passed away. The spirit of feudalism, after holding its ground for so many centuries, at last yielded to the genius of commerce, and the gloomy old Tower was sacrificed upon the altars of modern improvement. Carters and porters now shout and swear where stout old knights and ladies fair held high revelry; and sugar hogsheads, and rum puncheons, and cotton bales are now hoisted, and roll, and creak, and clash where prisoners once groaned and chains clanked. It is a new version of arma cedunt togæ.
But we are becoming grave; we moralise; we preach; Vive la bagatelle. Let us go back for a few moments to the subject of the last chapter, and speak a little more of those mischief-mongers who dignified themselves with the title of “The Committee of Taste.” We therein stated that Daltera was the understood or suspected head of the said Committee. On the same authority, neither better nor worse than the assertion of common report, it was whispered that, amongst its members, were some other dashing spirits of the day, to wit, Mr. William, alias “Billy Graham,” “Young Sutton,” as Mr. William of that ilk was always called, “Bob Pickering,” cum multis aliis, the multis aliis including some, we find, who are yet amongst us, and whom, therefore, we would not name for all the world, and so expose them to their children and grandchildren, who look up to them as models of gravity, propriety, and piety. One venerable gentleman, whom, from his confessions, we suspect to have been at least an honorary member, said to us only the other day,—and in such a free and easy and impenitent sort of way, that we verily believe that, with youth restored, and opportunity returned, and policemen and gas-lamps extinguished, he would soon be at his old pranks again,—“Daltera was always pre-eminent for good taste, and was, therefore, elected President of the Committee.” Finding that our friend was inclined to be communicative, we pressed him for more of his reminiscences, when he added, “They were fine fellows, and woe unto anything that came under their waggish displeasure!” They carried on, he told us, a long war, a repetition of that which has been already described between them and Mr. Staniforth, with Mr. Parke, the celebrated surgeon, touching the shape of his knocker. Dr. Solomon, who then lived in the large house at the top of Low-hill, had his grounds studded over with statues, of which he was not a little proud. They were voted to be not classical by the men of taste, and the decree went forth for their removal, and was carried out on the appointed night, when they were all taken from their pedestals, the “old charley” of the beat being either asleep, or feed or frightened into silence. And we must record another of their performances.
Our readers must recollect Mr. William Wallace Currie. He was not himself a man of jokes, and he was about the last man in the world to joke with. Well, he had an office for his business, upon the door of which was inscribed, in the usual way, “William Wallace Currie.” One morning, upon his arrival, he was utterly horrified to find into what the men of taste had transmuted or translated him. The introduction of a comma and the addition of a single letter astonished him with this new reading of his name and profession, “William Wallace, Currier.” He joined in the laugh, and there was an end of it. Nor is this the only play upon Mr. Currie’s name which we have to record. The late Egerton Smith, to whom be all honour and respect as the father of the Liberal press in this district, and for the honesty and independence and goodness of character which distinguished his long career, once made an admirable hit upon it, which, although it has been in print before, will bear repeating, and is worth preserving. When Mr. John Bourne, as worthy a man as ever lived, was Mayor under the old Corporation, Mr. Currie was one of his bailiffs; and Egerton, being asked on some occasion for a toast or sentiment, following the Lancashire pronunciation of their names, electrified the company by proposing, “Burn the Mayor, and Curry the bailiff.”
And now for one more witticism from Daltera, of whom we have already related so much. It was at the expense of the same Mr. Fogg, whose impalement by Richmond, in an electioneering song, we have immortalised in a former chapter. At a dinner given at Ormskirk by the mess of a regiment of volunteers, or local militia, in which Fogg was a subaltern, Daltera was among the guests. When the cloth was removed, Poor Joe, as was “his custom of an afternoon,” became very lively and exhilarated, and, fancying that the other was somewhat dull, suddenly turned to him, and slapping him on the back, exclaimed, “Come, Fogg, clear up!” amidst roars of laughter from the party. A veteran officer of the Guards, who happened to be one of the company, still tells this story with the greatest glee and pleasure, and looks back upon the day in question as one of the merriest and most amusing he ever spent.
But we mentioned the name of Mr. William Wallace Currie just now. We must return to him. He was not a man to be casually mentioned and then passed by. He was the eldest son of the great Dr. Currie. His abilities were above mediocrity, and his mind well-cultivated and stored with literature. He may be described as a reading man, in an almost non-reading community. As a speaker, he was ready, but not eloquent. He had more affluence of argument than command of oratory, but he never failed to express himself to the satisfaction of his hearers. In his own circle of society he was much esteemed. As a party leader, he was greatly respected by the public, who regarded him as that rara avis, an honest politician. His life confirms the verdict, for, with undoubted influence at his command, he never used it to subserve his own ambition or push his own private interest. That he was never in Parliament may be ascribed to his own modesty. We have heard of more than one borough where the electors would gladly have chosen him to be their representative. Mr. Currie is still remembered with strong affection by his friends, and, when they likewise have passed away, his name will yet survive for many a generation in the title-page of one of the most delightful books which we ever remember to have read. We speak of the Life of Dr. Currie, by his son. In reading it, we were charmed and fascinated by the letters and sentiments of the father, and so pleased with the setting in which these jewels were exhibited to us, that our only regret was, that the biographer did not, in executing his task so well, give us more of his own work, but left us to rise from the intellectual treat which he had set before us with an appetite rather whetted than satisfied by the feast which we had been enjoying.
We have said that the reading men in old Liverpool were few. Let us chronicle another of their names, Mr. Alexander Freeland, who still survives amongst us. His inquisitive mind has long since, we may say, made the tour of literature, and the stores of it which he has accumulated are surprising, as he unlocks the treasuries of his mind in the chosen circle before whom “he comes out.” We must also place another veteran, Mr. Henry Lawrence, in the ranks of both well-read and literary men. He always had a good seat in the intellectual tournament, and carried a good lance in the tilting of wit. He was never wanting to contribute his part, when present, at “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” To catalogue all his clever sayings would be an endless work. His conversational powers were brilliant and infinite. His wit was keen and of the purest order. We defy the young stagers of to-day to produce his match out of their ranks.
CHAPTER XVI.
t would be a strange picture of “Liverpool a few years since” which did not exhibit Mr. (afterwards Sir) John Gladstone in the foreground of the canvas. He had, in those early days, already taken his position, and was evidently destined to play a conspicuous part in this busy world. We never remember to have met with a man who possessed so inexhaustible a fund of that most useful of all useful qualities, good common sense. It was never at fault, never baffled. His shrewdness as a man of business was proverbial. His sagacity in all matters connected with commerce was only not prophetic. He seemed to take the whole map of the world into his mind at one glance, and almost by intuition to discover, not only which were the best markets for to-day, but where there would be the best opening to-morrow. What was speculation with others was calculation with him. The letters which from time to time, through a long series of years, he sent forth, like so many signal-rockets, to the trading world, under the signature of Mercator, were looked upon as oracular by a large portion of the public. And there is little doubt that his authority was often sought and acted upon, in commercial legislation, by the different Administrations by which the country has been governed during the last half-century. We recollect, many years ago, standing under the gallery of the House of Commons with the late Mr. Huskisson. A sugar question was under discussion, and Mr. Goulburn was hammering and stammering through a string of figures and details, which it was clear he did not comprehend himself, and which he was in vain labouring to make the House comprehend. Mr. Huskisson smiled, as he quietly observed, “Goulburn has got his facts, and figures, and statistics from Mr. Gladstone, and they are all as correct and right as possible, but he does not understand them, and will make a regular hash of it!” Mr. Gladstone was himself in Parliament for some years, and was always listened to most respectfully on mercantile affairs. If he did not make any very distinguished figure, it was because he did not enter upon public life until he had reached an age at which men’s habits are formed, and at which they rather covet a seat in the House of Commons as a feather or crowning honour of their fortunes, than as an admission into an arena in which they intend to become gladiators in the strife, and to plunge into all the toils, and intrigues, and bustle of statesmanship. Had our clever townsman entered Parliament at an earlier period, and devoted himself to it, we have no doubt that he would have been found a match for the best of them, and might have risen to the highest departments of the Government. His name is well represented amongst us still. He left four sons behind him, one of whom, the Right Honourable William Ewart Gladstone, is second to no statesman of the day, either in promise or performance, eloquence or abilities. Mr. Gladstone lived in Rodney-street, in a house subsequently taken by Mr. Cardwell, the father of our late clever and gifted representative. So that, by a remarkable coincidence, Mr. W. E. Gladstone and Mr. Cardwell, severally the best men of their standing, first at the university, and now in the list of statesmen, are not only from the same county of Lancaster, which produces so large a proportion of the able men in every profession, but from the same town, and the same street in the same town, and the same house in the same street. Did ever house so carry double, and with two such illustrious riders, before? Nor must we forget to mention Mr. Robert Gladstone, an amiable, kind-hearted man, and one of the most agreeable persons ever to be met with in society, always anxious to please and be pleased.
And there was Dr. Crompton, a fearless, outspoken man, English all over in his bearing. He was the father of the new judge, whose appointment enabled proud Liverpool to say that, as before in Judge Parke, she had furnished the cleverest occupant of the bench, so now she may boast that the two best are both her sons. And what a glorious old fellow, kind, clever, benevolent, well-read, well-informed, and well-disposed was Ottiwell Wood. Who can forget him? His Christian name was a curious and rare one. He was once a witness on some trial, when the judge, rather puzzled in making out his name, called upon him to spell it. Out came the answer in sonorous thunder: “O double T, I double U, E double L, double U, double O, D.” His lordship, if puzzled before, was now, if we may perpetrate such an atrocious pun, fairly “doubled up,” amidst the laughter of the court. We lately, in our travels, met with a gentleman at a party in a distant county. His name, as he entered the room, was announced, “The Rev. Ottiwell —.” When we had been introduced to him, we ventured to ask him where he got it. “Oh!” he replied, “I was so called after an old Lancashire relation of mine, as worthy a man as ever lived, Mr. Ottiwell Wood, of Liverpool.” We struck up an alliance, offensive and defensive, and “swore eternal friendship” on the spot. We recollect another gentleman, also called Wood, who once, playing upon the names of some of our fashionables, at a party where he was amongst the guests, thus exclaimed, as he entered the room, “There are, I see, Hills, Lakes, and Littledales, it only wanted Wood to perfect the scene.”
The Littledales here mentioned were then, as the representatives of the family still are, among the most thriving and prosperous of our leading people. They brought both intelligence and industry to their work. They owed nothing to chance, for they left nothing to chance. And we may truly say of them, that, to whatever branch of commerce or the professions they devoted themselves, they deserved and adorned the success which they achieved. And here we cannot pass on without relating an excellent bon mot from the lips of Judge Littledale, the brother of Anthony, Isaac and George, of the last generation, all, in their different ways, distinguished men amongst our old stagers. Some years since, a gentleman, now one of the most prominent of the rising barristers on the Northern Circuit, had, when almost a boy, to appear before the judge in some legal matter. We do not understand the jargon and technicalities of the law. The opposing party, however, moved that, in a certain case, “the rule be enlarged.” To this our young friend demurred, alleging, according to the letter of his instructions, that “he had never, in the whole course of his experience, heard of a rule being enlarged under such circumstances.” “Then,” replied the judge, with the blandest of smiles, “young gentleman, we will enlarge the rule and your experience at the same time.” Never was anything better than this uttered in a court of justice. We heard the story from the young gentleman of such great experience himself. It made an impression on him that will never be effaced; and, doubtless, when a judge himself, he will repeat the anecdote for the benefit of the horse-hair wigs of the next generation.
But, to keep to Liverpool, there must be many yet alive who remember Mr. D’Aguilar among the celebrities and fashionables of the town. A tall, fine-looking, portly man he was. Mrs. D’Aguilar was a charming person in society, the life of every party, and retained to the end of a long life all the vivacity and cheerfulness, as well as the appearance, of youth. She seemed never to grow older. One of their sons, Mr. Joseph D’Aguilar, was decidedly among the wits of the day, and had many a sharp saying and good story attributed to him. Another was General D’Aguilar, who distinguished himself in the Peninsular war, and is the soldier, scholar and gentleman, all three combined in one. Mrs. Laurence, so long the queen of fashion in this locality, was one of their daughters, and, like her brothers, inherited a large portion of intellect from her parents. The patroness of literature in others, she has herself just gone far enough into its realms to excite our regret that she has not gone further. A kindred spirit of Mrs. Hemans, we often wish that she had not only extended her sympathies to that gifted genius, but had, with her own pen, roamed with her, “fancy free,” into the regions of poesy, and emulated her inspirations.
And here let us turn aside to embalm the memory of another old stager, well known and much liked in his day, William Rigby. A gentleman in his bearing, endowed with no slight powers of conversation; clever, witty, social, convivial, he was a most popular man in his circle. And, besides, he played a hand at whist second to none, which always made him a welcome guest at houses where card tables appeared. He was a tall, handsome man, with eyes twinkling with the humour and jocularity which made him such an agreeable companion. And shall we forget Devaynes, that nonpareil of an amateur in the conjuring line? Talk not to us of your wizards of the north, or of the south, or of the east, or of the west. Devaynes was worth them all put together. How we have stared in our boyish days, half in wonder and half in alarm, at his wonderful tricks, perfectly convinced in our own mind that such an accomplished master of arts must assuredly be in league with some unmentionable friend in the unseen world. As you sat at table with him, your piece of bread would suddenly begin to walk towards him. Before you had recovered from this astonishment your wine glass would start after it, next your knife and fork, and then your plate would move, like a hen after its chickens, in the same direction. And then how he would swallow dishes, joints of meat, decanters, and everything that came in his way. He was a perfect terror to the market-women, who really believed that he was on the most intimate terms with the unmentionable old gentleman aforesaid. Having made his purchases and got his change for his guinea or half guinea, he would put the coin into their hand, and say to them, “Now, hold it fast, and be sure you have it;” and then, before leaving them, he would add, “Look again, and be certain,” when, the hand being opened, there was either nothing in it, or perhaps a farthing, or a sixpence. And even when the joke was over, and he had left the market, they eyed the fairy money both with suspicion and alarm, lest it should disappear, and were never easy until they had paid it away in change to some other customer. How well we remember these things! The performer of them was a quiet, unassuming man, much respected by all who knew him, and certainly one of whom it could not be said that he was “no conjuror.”
CHAPTER XVII.
e have spoken in a former chapter of the oil lamps, which, “few and far between,” just made darkness visible, and of the old watchmen, who were supposed or not supposed to be the guardians of our lives and property. The latter deserve another word. The old watchmen, or “Charleys,” as they were generally called, were perfect “curiosities of humanity,” and the principle on which they were selected and the rules by which they were guided were as curious as themselves. They seem to be chosen as schoolmasters are still chosen in remote villages in the rural districts, namely, because they were fit for nothing else, and must be kept off the parish as long as possible. They were for the most part, wheezy, asthmatic old men, generally with a very bad cough, and groaning under the weight of an immense great coat, with immense capes, which almost crushed them to the ground, the very ditto, indeed of him of whom it was written,
“Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door.”
They carried a thick staff, not so much a weapon of offence as to support their tottering steps. They had also rattles in their hands, typical, we presume, of the coming rattles in the throat, for they were of no earthly use whatever. Each of them was furnished with a snug box, in which they slept as long as possible. But, if ever they did wake up, their proceedings were of a most remarkable kind. They set forth round their beat with a lantern in their hands, as a kind of a beacon to warn thieves and rogues that it was time to hide, until these guardians of the night had performed the farce of vigilance and gone back to snore. Moreover, like an army marching to surprise an enemy with all the regimental bands performing a grand chorus, they also gave notice of their approach to the same kind of gentry by yelling the hour of the night and the state of the weather with a tremulous and querulous voice, something between a grunt and a squeak, which even yet reminds us of the lines in Dunciad;
“Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes night hideous: answer him, ye owls.”
But, to be sure, the wisdom of our forefathers had a double object in view when they ordered this musical performance to be got up. It not only saved the poor old watchmen from conflicts in which they must have suffered grievously, but it served another purpose, and so “killed two birds with one stone” with a vengeance. Only fancy the happiness of a peaceful citizen, fast asleep after the toils and fatigues of the day, to have his first slumber disturbed that he might be told that it was “half-past eleven o’clock, and a cloudy night,” and then, by the time that he had digested this interesting intelligence and was composing himself on his pillow again, to be again aroused to learn that it was now “twelve o’clock, and a starlight morning,” and so on every half-hour until day-break. The vagaries of the veritable queen Mab, with “tithe-pigs’ tails” and all the rest of it, were only more poetical, not the least more rest-disturbing, than the shouts of these bawlers of the night. Truly, the watch committee of those days might have taken for their motto, “Macbeth does murder sleep.” And many were the funny tricks played upon these poor, helpless old creatures, by the practical jokers who then so abounded amongst us. Sometimes they would, when caught napping, be nailed up in their boxes, while occasionally, by way of variety, their persecutors would lay them gently on the ground with the doors downwards, so that their unhappy inmates would be as helpless as a turtle turned upon its back, and be kept prisoners till morning. In short, “a Charley” was considered fair game for every lover of mischief to practise upon, and their tormentors were never tired of inventing new devices for teazing and annoying them. Latterly, however, as the town grew larger, the veteran battalions, the cripples, wheezers, coughers, and asthmatics, were superseded by a more stalwart race, who looked as if they would stand no nonsense, and could do a little fighting at a pinch.
The last of these men, whom we recollect before the establishment of the new police, had the beat in the neighbourhood of Clayton-square. Many of our readers must recollect him. He was a six-foot muscular Irishman. “Well, Pat,” some of the young ones, who are middle aged gentlemen now, used to say to him, “Well, Pat, what of O’Connell?” On such occasions Pat invariably drew himself up, like a soldier on parade, to his full height, looked devoutly upwards, and then solemnly exclaimed, “There’s One above, sir—and—next to him—is Daniel O’Connell!” And it was a name to conjure with in his day! We respected, as often as we heard of it, that poor fellow’s reverence for his mighty countryman, and felt that, had we been Irish, we also should have placed that name first and foremost in our calendar of saints, martyrs, patriots and heroes. Who is there now of his name and nation who can rise and say, “Mr. Speaker, I address you as the representative of Ireland.” But, forward. How the old times, and the old things, and the old oil-lamps, and the old watchmen have all passed away and disappeared! And the old pigtails, too, have vanished with them. When we first escaped from petticoats into jacket and trousers, every man, young and old, wore a hairy appendage at the back of his head, called a pigtail, as if anxious to support Lord Monboddo’s theory, that man had originally been a tailed animal of the monkey tribe; for surely our wholesale re-tailing, if we may so speak, could have been for no other purpose. Pigtails were of various sorts and sizes. The sailors wore an immense club of hair reaching half-way down their backs, like that worn by one of Ingoldsby’s heroes, and thus described by him,—
Those of the soldiers were somewhat less in magnitude, but still enormous in their proportions. And quiet citizens wore jauntily one little dainty lock, tied up neatly with black ribbon, and just showing itself over the coat collar. It was a strange practice, but custom renders us familiar with everything. At last, however, Fashion, in one of her capricious moods, issued her fiat, and pigtails were curtailed. But some few old stagers, lovers of things as they were, and the enemies of all innovation, saw revolution in the doom of pigtails, and persevered in wearing them long after they had generally disappeared. The pigtail finally seen in society in Liverpool dangled on the back of —; but, no, no! never mind his name. He still toddles about on ’Change, and might not like to be joked about it, even at this distance of time. Its fate was curious. Through evil report and good report he had stood by that pigtail as part and parcel of the British Constitution, the very Palladium of Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, and the Bill of Rights. But the time for a new edition of The Rape of the Lock arrived. He dined one day with a party of gay fellows like himself. The bottle went freely round, until, under its influence, our unlucky friend fell fast asleep. The opportunity was seized upon. After some hours’ refreshing slumber he awoke, and found himself alone. On the table before him was a neat little parcel, directed to him, made up in silvery paper, and tied with a delicate blue ribbon. What could it be? He eagerly opened it, and found, Il Diavolo! that it was his pigtail. “Achilles’ wrath,” as sung by Homer, was nothing compared with the fury of the wretched man. He stormed, he swore, he threatened, but he could never discover who had been the operator who had so despoiled him, like another Samson, of his pride. Let us hope that remorse has severely visited the guilty criminal. Its work, however, must have been inwardly, for outwardly he is a hale, hearty, cheerful-looking old man, who still carries himself among his brother merchants as if he had never perpetrated such an enormous atrocity.
This, we said, was the last of the pigtails seen in Liverpool society. But we did meet with another, the very Ultimus Romanorum, after a lapse of many years, under very peculiar and interesting circumstances. We were walking in Lime-street, when all at once we caught sight of a tall, patriarchal, respectably-dressed man, some three-quarters of a century old, with a pigtail. It was like the ghost of the past, or a mummy from Egypt, rising suddenly before us. The old gentleman, whose pigtail seemed saucily to defy all modern improvements as the works of Satan and his emissaries, was, with spectacles on nose, reading some document on the wall. Being naturally of an inquisitive turn of mind, and especially anxious at that moment to find out what still on earth could interest a pigtail, we stopped to make the discovery. Ha! ha ha! It nearly killed us with laughter. It was the electioneering address of Sir Howard Douglas. No wonder the old man’s sympathies were excited: it was pigtail studying pigtail, Noah holding sweet communion with Methuselah or Tubal Cain. We often marvel within ourselves whether that last survivor of the pigtail dynasty is yet alive, and whether he believes in steam-ships, and railways, and electric telegraphs; whether indeed he believes in the nineteenth century at all, or in anything except Sir Howard Douglas and pigtails.
Hair-powder, which also used generally to be worn in those days, went out of fashion with pigtails. It was in allusion to this practice that the old song laughingly asked,
“And what are bachelors made of?
Powder and puff,
And such like stuff,
Such are bachelors made of—
Made of!
Such are bachelors made of.”
Even ladies wore hair-powder. The last, within our memory, so adorned, was Mrs. Bridge, the mother of Mr. James Oakes Bridge, who lived in St. Anne-street, and a fine, stately, venerable lady of the old school she was.
A terrible time was it for hair-dressers, who then carried on a thriving business, when pigtails and hair-powder were abolished at one fell swoop. It was in reality to them like the repeal of the Navigation laws, in idea, to the ship-owners, or free-trade to the farmers. We were amusingly reminded of it only a few weeks since. Being on our travels, with rather a wilderness of hair upon our head, we turned into a barber’s shop, in a small town through which a railway, lately opened, runs. The barber had a melancholy look, and seemed to be borne down by some secret sorrow, to which he gave utterance from time to time in the most dreadful groans. At length he found a voice, and rather sobbed than said, “Oh sir, these railways will be the ruin of the country!” Did our ears deceive us? Or was the barber really gone mad? We were silent, but, we suppose, looked unutterable things, for he continued, “Yes, sir, before this line was opened, I shaved twenty post-boys a day from the White Hart, and now if I shave one in a week I am in high luck.” Unhappy shaver, to be thus shaved by the march of improvement! And inconsistent George Hudson! thou talkest of the vested rights of shipowners and landlords, and yet didst thou ever stay thy ruthless hand and project a line the less that country post-boys might flourish, and country barbers live by shaving their superfluous beards? O! most close shaver thyself, not to make compensation to thy shavers thus thrown out of bread and beards by thy countless innovations!
But it is time that we should finish this chapter, and we will do so with copying an anecdote touching hair powder, which greatly struck us as we lately read it in the History of Hungary. Some great measure was under discussion in the diet of that country, when Count Szechenyi appeared in the Chamber of Magnates, on the 28th of October, 1844, in splendid uniform, his breast covered with stars and ribbons of the various orders to which he belonged. “It is now thirty-three years,” said he, “and eleven days since I was sent to the camp of Marshal Blucher. I arrived at the dawn of day, and at the entrance of the tent found a soldier occupied in powdering his hair before a looking-glass. I was rather surprised, but, on passing on a little further, I found a page engaged in the same way. At last I reached the tent of the old general himself, and found him, like the others, powdering and dressing his hair also. ‘General,’ said I, ‘I should have thought this was the time to put powder in the cannon and not in the hair.’ ‘We hope,’ was the reply, ‘to celebrate a grand fête to-day, and we must, therefore, appear in our best costume.’ On that day the battle of Leipsic was fought. For a similar reason, gentlemen, I appear here to-day, dressed in this singular manner. I believe that we are to-day about to perform one of the brightest acts in the history of our nation.” The address was received with loud acclamations. But hair-powder and gunpowder have, we believe, long since been divorced, even in the camp. It was inconvenient. It was found, as touching the former, that, on a hot day, it was impossible “to keep your powder dry.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
hether we consider the magnificence of its estate, the amount of its revenue, or the extent of its influence, the Liverpool Corporation might ever be compared to a German principality put into commission. We have, in a former chapter, alluded briefly to its state and condition in those old days, when
“All went merry as a marriage bell,”
and no Municipal Reform Bill ever loomed in the distance. But we feel that we must say something more about such an important body. The old Liverpool self-elected Corporation was always looked up to and spoken of with respect from one end of the country to the other. It was, indeed, considered to be a kind of model Corporation by all others, and quoted, and emulated, and imitated on all occasions and in all directions.
We have said that it was self-elected. We must add that it was most exclusive in its character and formation. “We don’t shave gentlemen in your line,” says the hair-dresser in Nicholas Nickleby to the coal-heaver. “Why?” retorted the other, “I see you a-shaving of a baker, when I was a-looking through the winder last week.” “It’s necessary to draw the line somewheres, my fine feller,” replied the principal. “We draw the line there. We can’t go beyond bakers.” And so it was with the old Corporation. They drew a line in the admission of select recruits into their body, and strictly kept to it. All tradesmen and shopkeepers, and everything retail, were carefully excluded, and classified in the non-presentable “coal-heavers’ schedule.” But they were not only exclusive in the fashion which has been indicated, but in other ways also. Their line of distinction was more than a separation of class from class. They were not only a self-elected body, but a family party, and carefully guarded the introduction of too many “outsiders,” if we may so speak, of their own rank and order in society. They would, indeed, occasionally admit a stranger, without any ties of relationship to recommend him. But this was only done at long intervals, and just to save appearances. Thus, such men as Mr. Leyland, Mr. Lake, and Mr. Thomas Case were, from time to time, introduced into the old Corporation. But extreme care was taken that the new blood should never be admitted in too large a current. For the same reason, that of saving appearances, our ancient municipals, although ultra-Tory in their politics, occasionally opened the door of the Council Chamber to a very select Whig. Nothing, however, was gained for the public by this quasi-liberality of conduct. The Whigs, so introduced, generally fell into the ways of the company into which they had been admitted; and it was remarked, that in every distribution of patronage they were at least as hearty and zealous jobbers as the most inveterate Tories. This may have been said enviously. But, at all events, it was said. We are, recollect, writing history, not censure. Human nature is of one colour under every shade of politics. “Cæsar and Pompey very much ‘like, Massa; ‘specially Pompey.”
We have said that, with the exception of the occasional Whig admitted for the sake of appearances, or to be ornamental, the politics of the old Corporators tended to extreme Toryism. They were, nevertheless, divided into two parties, as cordially hating each other as the rival factions in Jerusalem. As their opinions on all great public matters exactly coincided, the apple of discord between them must have been the immense patronage at their disposal, and which was too often considered as the heirloom of the Corporate families. On one side were the Hollingsheads, Drinkwaters, Harpers, etc. On the other, and at that time, and for years after, the stronger interest, were arrayed the Cases, Aspinalls, Clarkes, Branckers, etc. The latter party owed much of their preponderance to the influence of the great John Foster of that day, who, although not a member of the Council himself, possessed a strange power over its decisions and judgments, and brought to his friends the aid of as much common sense and as strong an intellect as ever were possessed by any individual. But it is not to be supposed that the members of the former Corporation limited their attention and zeal to the battle for patronage and place. Let us do them justice. Considering the immensity of the trust committed to their charge, the fact that there was no direct responsibility to check, control, or guide them, and the sleepy sort of animal which public opinion, now so vigilant and wakeful, so open-eared, open-eyed, and loud-tongued, was in those old stagnant times, our conviction has always been that they performed their duty miraculously well. We are neither their accusers nor eulogists. If they were not perfect, they were not altogether faulty. They expended the town’s revenues for the town’s good. Their foresight extended to the future as well as the present. They perceived the elements of coming greatness which the port of Liverpool possessed, and laid the foundation, often in the face of as loud clamour and criticism as those days were capable of exciting, of their growth and development. Their successors have but walked in the path which they had opened, and carried out the plans which these Council forefathers had devised. In every part of the town may be seen their works and creations, carried on under the superintendence of the Mr. Foster whom we have mentioned, and of his gifted son, too little appreciated amongst us until he was beyond the reach of all human praise and applause. On the tablet to Sir Christopher Wren, in St. Paul’s, London, it is written, Si monumentum quæris, circumspice. And, even so, if we are asked to point out the ever-abiding epitaph which, from generation to generation till the world’s last blaze, will uphold the memory of our old defunct Corporation, we should answer “Liverpool.” When we are told of their extravagance; when we hear of their nepotism; when their spirit of exclusion is scoffed at; when their ultra politics are ridiculed; let us draw a veil over all and everything, as we contemplate our docks, our churches, our public buildings, and once more exclaim, Si monumentum quæris, circumspice. These speaking memorials will remain when all their faults are forgotten!
But we said, just now, that the members of the old Corporation would, from time to time, for the sake of appearances, admit a select Whig or Liberal into their number. This reminds us of a good story, which was circulated at the time, when it was debated among them whether they should or should not elect the present Mr. William Earle. “He is a very clever fellow,” said one of them to a grim old banker, thinking thereby to conciliate his favour and win his support. The eulogy had just a contrary effect. “So much the worse,” replied old money-bags, “we have too many clever fellows amongst us already.” As nobody cried out, “Name, name!” the list of this multitude, this constellation of clever ones, is lost to posterity. And, having mentioned this joke against one of the old Council, let us add another. One day Prince William of Gloucester and his staff of officers were dining with a certain member thereof, who treated them with the best which his house contained and which money could command. When the cloth was drawn, his wines, which were excellent, were not only enjoyed, but highly praised. Being a little bit of a boaster, he perpetrated a small white fib by saying, “Yes! that port is certainly very fine, but I have some better in the cellar.” “Let us try it,” instantly rejoined a saucy young aide-de-camp, amidst the laughter of the company at the alderman being thus caught in his own trap. On another occasion it was said that the presiding genius at a table where His Royal Highness was a guest, thus encouraged his appetite, “Eat away, your Royal Highness, there’s plenty more in the kitchen.” For the honour of Liverpool refinement, be it known that it was not one of our natives who made this speech, so much more hospitable than polite. It was a gentleman of an aristocratic family, officially connected with the town. But taste was not so fastidious, neither was society so conventional, in those days as they are now. The most expressive word was the word used when it was intended to mean warm sincerity, not empty form.
And what a crowd of the county nobility and the gentry were invited to the Corporation banquets in those old days. There was the venerable Earl of Derby, the grandfather of the present Lord. There was likewise the Earl of Sefton, gay, dashing, and agreeable. Mr. Bootle Wilbraham, and Mr. Bold of Bold Hall, then Mr. Patten, were frequent guests at the Mayor’s table. And there was old Mr. Blackburne, who was the county member for so many years in those quiet times of Toryism, when the squirearchy reigned supreme even in the manufacturing districts. An easy-going man, of very moderate abilities, was old Squire Blackburne. He stuck by his party, and his party stuck by him. Many a sugar-plum of patronage fell into the mouths of his family and friends. The Mr. Blundell of Ince, of that day, came frequently amongst us, although, generally speaking, a man of reserved habits, and more given to cultivate his literary tastes than to mix in company. He presented one of the Mayors of Liverpool, Mr. John Bridge Aspinall, with a portrait of himself, half-length, and an admirable likeness. It hung for many years in the drawing-room of the gentleman in Duke-street. Side by side with it was a splendid painting of Prince William of Gloucester, also a gift from His Royal Highness to Mr. Aspinall. Where they are now we know not. But, when dotting down the names of some of the neighbouring gentry who used to look in upon us some forty odd years ago, we must not forget to recall honest John Watkins, “the Squire” of Ditton. Squire Watkins, as many of our old stagers will recollect, was a Tory, if ever there was one in the world. But a noble-souled, true-hearted, generous, hospitable man was he withal, as ever lived, a kind of Sir Roger de Coverley, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. And what a house he kept! And how he came out in his especial glory on his coursing days, when all the Nimrods and Ramrods in the county assembled under his roof, and did not resemble a temperance society in the slightest degree. Poor old Squire Watkins! Some terrible Philistine once planted a hedge, or built a wall, we forget which, which trespassed, or was supposed to trespass, an inch or two upon his land. It was just the sort of trifle for two people in the country with nothing to do to quarrel about. The feud, or “fun, grew fast and furious.” The squire insisted upon the removal of the encroachment. His opponent refused. Threats followed, defiance succeeded, until, one morning, like Napoleon making his swoop upon Brussels, John Watkins, Esq., took the field at the head of his household troops, the butler, coachman, groom, gardener, etc. At last they arrived on the field of Waterloo. But the opposing Wellington was already there, in position with his followers, himself in front with a double-barrelled gun in his hand. Nothing daunted, the squire, pointing to the encroaching fence which was to be destroyed, cheered on his men to the attack, and the “Old Guard” advanced merrily to the charge. But they were presently brought to a check. “Up Guards!” shouted the hostile Wellington as they approached, while “click” went the cock of his double-barrelled gun, as he raised it to his shoulder, vehemently swearing at the same time that he would shoot the first man who dared to lay hands upon the debatable boundary. The assailants wavered. The squire shouted to them in vain. Even he himself did not like the look of the double-barrelled gun, but, fixing upon John, his butler, to be his Marshal Ney, he encouraged him to the attack. John, however, feeling that “discretion was the better part of valour,” hesitated, when his master again cheered him to the fight with this promise of posthumous consolation, “Never mind him, John; if the scoundrel does shoot you, we’ll have him hanged for it afterwards.” “But please, master,” said John, as wisely and innocently, “I’d rather you hanged him first.” This was too much. There was no help for it. Hugoumont was saved. Napoleon and his forces retreated, baffled and discomfited, from the field. The squire, peace to his memory, fine old fellow, used often to tell this story in after years, never failing to revile poor John for his cowardice, which lost the day. But we always defended John, and turned the laugh against the squire, by gently insinuating that there was somebody more interested in the quarrel, who was even more prudent than prudent John.
CHAPTER XIX.
he Church, in the days we are speaking of, was in a very torpid and sleepy state, not only in Liverpool, but throughout the land. None of the evangelical clergy had then appeared in this district, to stimulate the pace of the old-fashioned jog-trot High Churchmen. Neither had Laudism revived, under its new name of Puseyism. Nothing was heard from our pulpits but what might have passed muster at Athens, or been preached without offence in the great Mosque of Constantinople. In fact, “Extract of Blair” was the dose administered, Sunday after Sunday, by drowsy teachers to drowsy congregations. If it did no harm, it did no good. We do not here speak of James Blair, Commissary of Virginia, President of William and Mary College, etc., whose works, little known, contain a mine of theological wealth. We allude to Dr. Hugh Blair, whose sermons, so celebrated in his day and long after, are really, when analysed, nothing better than a string of cold moral precepts, mixed up with a few gaudy flowers culled from the garden of rhetoric. We have often wondered at the praise beyond measure which Dr. Johnson again and again bestowed upon Blair’s diluted slip-slop and namby-pamby trifles. He not only spoke of them in the highest terms on every occasion, but thus, in his strange way, once exclaimed, “I love Blair’s sermons. Though the dog is a Scotchman, and a Presbyterian, and everything he should not be, I was the first to praise them. Such was my candour.” At all events, as we have already stated, “Extract of Blair” was the pulpit panacea universally prescribed at the beginning of the nineteenth century. And we are bound to add, as far as our youthful recollections go, that the majority of the Liverpool clergy in those days were rather below than above the average of mediocrity.
There were some among them, however, whose names are worth recalling. One of the best preachers in those old times was the incumbent of St. Stephen’s, Byrom-street, the Rev. G. H. Piercy, a fine fellow in every way. He is still alive at his living of Chaddesley, in Worcestershire, to which he was presented through the influence of old Queen Charlotte. His mother-in-law, the wife of the Rev. Mr. Sharp, then vicar of Childwall, had been about the court in some capacity or other, and it was the good fashion of her Majesty never to forget her friends. Mr. Piercy must have reached the age of the patriarchs at least. Then there was the Rev. Mr. Milner, of St. Catharine’s Church, Temple-street, which was removed in making some improvements in that part of the town. Poor Mr. Milner! When not washing his hands, he employed each hour of the day in running after the hour before, and was always losing ground in the race. A kind-hearted man he was, and a pleasant one when you could catch him. He was known as “the late Mr. Milner.” The Rev. Mr. Vause preached in those days at Christ Church. He was considered to be a brilliant star in the pulpit, and was indeed a first-rate scholar, a fellow-student with the illustrious Canning, who made many and strong efforts to reclaim him from a course of life which unhappily contradicted and marred all his Sunday teachings. But, even with regard to his sermons, effective and telling as they were made by style, voice and manner, it was found, after his death, when they passed into other hands, that they were chiefly Blair, with others copied from the popular writers of the day. A clergyman, who was to preach before the Archbishop of York, had the choice of them for the occasion. He picked out the one which seemed to him to be the most spicy and telling, and, confident at the time that it was the production of Vause himself, delivered it with mighty emphasis and stunning effect. When it was over, the Archbishop blandly smiled, praised it exceedingly, and then, to the horror and astonishment of the preacher, whispered, “I always liked —’s sermons,” naming the author from whom it was taken. Never did poor jackdaw feel so much pain at being divested of his borrowed plumage.
One of the ablest men, although a mumbling kind of preacher, in those times, was the Rev. Mr. Kidd, who was for so many years one of the curates of Liverpool, a kind of Church serf, who could never rise to be a Church ruler. He had many kind friends, and at many a table which we could mention a plate and knife and fork were always laid for the poor curate. But he ever appeared to us to be an oppressed and depressed man, with a weight upon his spirits which nothing could shake off. There was indeed a romance attached to his history, although he was perhaps the most unromantic looking person that the human eye ever rested upon. He was a brilliant scholar, when a student at Brasenose College, Oxford, and his hopes and ambition naturally aspired to a fellowship. It was supposed to be within his grasp. But how wide is the distance between the cup and the lip! The principal was unpopular, and some of his doings were severely flogged in a satirical poem which appeared without a name. Its cleverness led him to suspect Mr. Kidd, and, without looking for any other proof of the authorship, he became his sworn enemy, and used all his influence, and only too successfully, to turn the election against him. Some love affair, we have also heard, but this was, it may be, only “one of the tales of our grand-father,” went wrong with him about the same time. So that, altogether, he was thrown upon the world a sad and downcast man, with blighted hopes and blasted expectations from his very youth, and settled down into the curacy of Liverpool, where he saw more than one generation of inferior men, inferior in scholarship, in learning, in wit, in all and everything, promoted over his head. A pleasant, agreeable, quaint and original companion was poor Kidd amongst his intimates, but tongue-tied in a large party. He saw through the hollowness of the world, and despised it. There was nobody like him for unmasking a sham, and reducing a pretender to his real and proper dimensions. And then his chuckling laugh when he had accomplished such a feat, and impaled the human cockchafer upon the point of his sarcasm! And how bitterly he would allude to his curate’s poverty, as, smacking his lips over a glass of old port at some friend’s table, and he did not dislike his glass of port, he would tell us that his own domestic allowance of the same was “to smell at the cork on a week-day, and to take a single glass to support him through his duties on a Sunday.” Poor fellow! Once upon a time, and such godsends did not often fall to his portion, he had married a couple among the higher orders, and received for it a banknote which perfectly dazzled him. Then came the marriage breakfast, then the marriage dinner. He was a guest at both, and perhaps took his share of the good things which were stirring. His way home was through the Haymarket. Another gentleman, whose path was in the same direction, hearing a great noise, came up and found our friend fighting furiously for his fee with a lamp-post, and exclaiming, as he struck it with his stick, “You want to rob me of it, you scoundrel, do you? But come on, we’ll see!” He was a relation of the celebrated Dr. Kidd, who wrote one of the Bridgewater treatises, and who lately died at Oxford full of years and honours.
Another well-known clergyman in those days was the Rev. Mr. Moss, who was afterwards vicar of Walton for so many years. His share of “the drum ecclesiastic” was decidedly the drum stick. But, although a very moderate performer in the pulpit, he had a very good standing in society, and was very much liked in his own “set.” Not over witty himself, never was man the cause of so much wit in others, and often at his own expense. He was known in his own circle as “Old England,” because “he expected every man to do his duty;” that is, he never met a brother clergyman by any chance without seizing upon him, and asking him if he could do his duty on the next Sunday. In allusion to his convivial qualities and bad preaching, somebody once said of him that “he was better in the bottle than in the wood.” This gave him such dreadful offence that he positively consulted his lawyer on the subject of prosecuting the impious blasphemer for a libel. The answer to his enquiry was a hearty laugh on the part of the solicitor himself, with an intimation that he would be laughed out of court also, amidst a shower of jokes about the poet’s description of the Oxonians of that day,
“Steeped in old prejudice and older port,”
and be poked with all sorts of fun about canting, recanting, and decanting. The decanter triumphed, although it was a strong allusion to the original offending joke, and the idea of a prosecution was abandoned.
Mr. Moss had an intense horror of all sorts of innovations, and, in the case of the first railway, that between Manchester and Liverpool, this feeling was greatly increased by the fact of his being a large shareholder in a certain canal which might be affected by its success. He was in a fever of excitement and almost raved whenever the subject was mentioned in company. He long clung to the notion that the accomplishment of the line was impossible and fabulous. He magnified every difficulty, dwelt upon every obstacle, and concluded every harangue on the question with the triumphant exclamation, “But, never mind, they cannot do it; Chat Moss will stop it; Chat Moss will stop it.” This was said in allusion to that great boggy waste, so called, which for so long a time did really battle with and baffle the skill and efforts of the engineers. On one occasion, when our friend had been holding forth in his usual strain, and finished with a look of defiance at all around him, “Chat Moss will stop it,” Mr. Thomas Crowther, who was one of the party, quietly answered, “Depend upon it, your chat, Moss, will not stop it.” This to us is the purest essence of wit, the very ne plus ultraism of it.
“The force of humour can no further go.”
Like Pitt’s description of what a battle should be, “it is sharp, short, and decisive.” It is brilliant, pointed, telling.
There is a joke of almost a similar kind in Boswell’s Life of Johnson. “I told him” (writes the former) “of one of Mr. Burke’s playful sallies upon Dean Marley: ‘I don’t like the Deanery of Ferns, it sounds so like a barren title.’ ‘Dr. Heath should have it,’ said I. Johnson laughed, and, condescending to trifle in the same mode of conceit, suggested Dr. Moss.” But the wit here is overdone and wire-drawn, until it becomes forced, heavy, and exhausted. Crowther’s extempore retort beats the laboured efforts of Burke, Boswell, and Johnson, all put together, as it bursts forth, sparkling, glittering, dazzling, on the spur of the moment. “Depend upon it, your chat, Moss, will not stop it.” We treasure a good thing when we hear it, and love to embalm it. Mr. Crowther, the author of this unrivalled witticism, had a twinkle about the eye which seemed to say for him, that he had many “a shot in the locker,” of equal calibre and ready for action. We did not know much of him ourselves, but have always been told that his stores of humour and wit were as rich as they were inexhaustible. The specimen, or, as men say in Liverpool, the sample, which we have given amply justifies such an opinion.
We must not forget to mention, in connection with the Rev. G. H. Piercy, that of the sons of Liverpool worthies under his care in 1804, and who thumbed their lexicons with redoubled zeal when promised a holiday to witness the marching and counter-marching of the “brave army” before his Royal Highness Prince William of Gloucester, in Mosslake fields or Bankhall Sands, (where are these now?) the following, although in the “sere and yellow leaf,” are still fit for active service:—W. C. Ritson, E. Molyneux, Thomas Brandreth, F. Haywood, R. W. Preston, and James Boardman. The Rev. James Aspinall, rector of Althorpe, Lincolnshire, was also long a favourite pupil of the reverend patriarch.