Liverpool a few years since: by an old stager

CHAPTER VII

Alittle higher up than Colonel Bolton’s, but on the same side of Duke-street, stood the noble palace mansion of Moses Benson, one of the merchant princes of the old times of which we are speaking, with its gardens and pleasure grounds, bounded on one side by Cornwallis-street, and on the other by Kent-street, and extending backwards to St. James-street. In Duke-street also lived his son, Ralph Benson, one of the pleasantest and most agreeable men we ever met with, but somewhat, indeed, too much of a Lothario. After his father’s death he resided at Lutwyche, in Shropshire, became connected with the turf, and represented Stafford in several parliaments. His wife, Mrs. Ralph Benson, was an Irish lady, of good family, – a Ross Lewin, we believe, – a charming person, handsome, and accomplished, who gave delightful parties, where all the wits and fashionables of the day used to assemble. And here we must say that the beaux of those times were beaux indeed. There are none such to be met with at the Wellington-rooms now, or seen at the windows of the Palatine Club. The Littledales, Hamiltons, Duncans, Dawsons, Lakes, etc., of that generation, – where are they now? – were then a list of fine young fellows. And all the parties were so set off by the red jackets and blue jackets of our brave defenders, who made strange havoc among the ladies’ hearts. Among the staff-officers who figured at them all, how well we remember the names and faces of Moultrie, Cox, Oisted, Higgins, and a host of others. And let us not forget the naval aid-de-camp of the Duke of Gloucester, Captain Browne, whose fine manly bearing and noble person must still be impressed upon the memories of many of our older readers. He was a true specimen of the British sailor, deeply respected by all who knew him, as well by landsmen as in naval circles. A generation later, if we may take such a jump, we had, among the staff-officers quartered here, Bainbrigge, now a general, and one of the ablest officers in the service, and one of the cleverest men out of it. There was Peddie, also, a delightful man among those with whom he was intimate. Nor must we forget William, we should say Major William, Brackenbury, a charming fellow, as the ladies said, and a rattling, pleasant, agreeable companion, as all admitted, the life and charm of every party, equal to a good song, and foremost in the dance. But what miracles does time work! Major Brackenbury, and his charger, and his dashing uniform, and his waving plume left Liverpool, and we lost sight of him for a long season. Years elapsed, when we went on a visit to a friend, who lived in a remote village in a far-off corner of the country. One day two strangers were announced. They were a deputation from some missionary society, and had come to invite our host to attend a meeting to be held that evening at the village schoolroom. They were grave looking persons; hair combed down, black coats, white ties, and all the rest of it. As they entered, we were sure that we had seen the countenance of one of them before. We looked at him, and he looked at us. The recognition was mutual, and at the same instant. “By Jove, Brackenbury,” said we. “Ah, – !” exclaimed he, not less warmly, but less profanely; and in an instant, after a hearty hand-shaking, we went back at rattling railway pace to the old times, the old people, and the old memories, to the bewilderment of both of our friends, but clearly to the utter horror of his grave companion. But we could not stop till we had it all out, nor till then could we proceed to business. He died soon afterwards. Poor fellow! he was a good soldier in his soldier days. And his closing career was that of a good Christian. Peace to his memory! And when we go, may those who survive us be able to say the same of us.

But to return to our story. In Duke-street, from which he subsequently removed to Walton Hall, at that time likewise lived Thomas Leyland, the eminent banker, who, from small beginnings, worked his way, by energy, industry, and perseverance, to the possession of immense wealth. He was a man of amazing shrewdness, sagacity, and prudence. When the north countryman was asked for the receipt of his ale, which was always good, he answered, “There’s just a way of doing it, man.” And so it was with Mr. Leyland. He had “just the way of doing things.” We will not compare him to the animals which are said “to see the wind,” but, by some intuition, instinct, or presentiment, call it what you will, he seemed always to have a warning of any coming storm in the money market, and trimmed and steered the ship, and took in sail accordingly. He was a fine-looking man, with what some thought a stern and forbidding, but what we should call a firm and decided look. We remember him with favour and gratitude. We received many civilities, and not a few substantial kindnesses, from him in his day. We omitted to state that what is now the Waterloo hotel, 1 at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, was then the mansion of the Staniforth family. The son, Samuel, lived to be an old man amongst us, and was once the mayor of Liverpool, and afterwards sunk down into being the stamp distributor of the district. He was a gentlemanly kind of person in society, but of a strangely austere and forbidding aspect, the most vinegar-visaged man we ever beheld. And the index was a correct representative of the inner man. When the election poet wrote of him “Sulky Sam Staniforth,” he drew his character in those three words. By his marriage with a most estimable lady, he was closely connected with the Case, Littledale, and Bolton families. His son came in for the great bulk of Colonel Bolton’s wealth, to the exclusion of his own relations; one of the happily rare instances in which a north countryman forgets his own blood in the disposal of his property.

We now approach Colquitt-street, in which resided that shrewd, plodding merchant, Gilbert Henderson, the father of our respected and able Recorder. Here, also, lived Thomas Parr, who afterwards retired into Shropshire. His house was disposed of by a tontine, and, at a later day, became the Royal Institution, from which so many youths have gone forth to encounter the storms or pluck the honours of the world. Here, likewise, lived that true-hearted man of the old school, Peter Whitfield Brancker, one of the worthiest among the worthies of the days we write of. He was one who eschewed anything like nonsense, and was highly gifted with common sense. What he said he meant, and what he did he did with all his heart and soul. Few thought that he had so much kindness beneath his somewhat blunt and bluff bearing; and many called him selfish, when he laid up for his family what others threw away upon vanity and ostentation. We always looked upon him as one of the best men of the day; and, although he was a silent man in general company, he was far before most of our merchant princes in reading and intellectual attainments. In Rodney-street, then only partially built upon, lived Mr. Leicester, and also that “fine old English gentleman,” Pudsey Dawson, who was the delight of our boyhood, as we listened to his powers of talking, and watched, with amazement, his capabilities for taking snuff. He was the father of, we may say, besides his other sons, a race of heroes. William, who was in the Royal Navy, distinguished himself greatly in the East Indies, by the capture, after a desperate action, of a French frigate, which had long been an annoyance and a thorn in the side of our trade in that quarter. Another fell, gloriously, in Spain. Charles, a lamb in society, a lion in battle, was killed at Waterloo. If our memory holds good, both of these last mentioned were then in the 52nd, a crack regiment in the famous fighting brigade of those gunpowder times. Noble old Pudsey Dawson! How he would talk by the hour, of wars and rumours of wars, to the circle which would gather round him at the Athenæum, until, as he turned from one to another, the whole ring in which he moved might be tracked by the overflow of his snuff-box. And what a horror he had of Napoleon and Frenchmen and everything French. It was well for them, as he used to say, that he was not at Blucher’s elbow when he entered Paris, it being his firm belief that the earth would never be quiet, until that city of trouble and confusion was blotted from its face. But Liverpool society could not point to a man of whom it was prouder, or one more respected, esteemed, or honoured, than this same Pudsey Dawson. All men liked him, and we did not make an exception.

CHAPTER VIII

In Rodney-street, likewise, lived Fletcher Raincock, one of the most remarkable characters of his day. He had few equals in a legal capacity, and no superiors in literary attainments. He had a most gluttonous appetite for books, and read everything, old and new. He was a regular “curiosity shop” in the variety of his knowledge, and could produce all sorts of odds and ends at a moment’s notice, from all sorts of ancient authors, unknown to and never heard of by other people. This made him a most agreeable companion, his conversational powers being tremendous, and set off, rather than impaired, by a spice of originality and eccentricity, just enough to draw a line between him and the common herd of ordinary and every-day people by whom he was surrounded. Like Yorick, “he would set the table in a roar,” by the combined wit and wisdom which he had ever at command. And while speaking of lawyers, let us digress for a moment to mention another old giant of those times. We allude to Mr. Hargreaves, who was for some years the Recorder of Liverpool, a deep and profound lawyer, haud ulli veterum virtute secundus. He was succeeded by James Clarke, who lived to a much later date amongst us. Poor Clarke! We never thought him crushed down by the weight of legal lore which he carried. But he was a man given to books, and had learned much from them. A pleasant man in a party, too, he was, abounding in anecdote and the passing stories of the day. And, on one point, we must admit that he was unmatched. We never met with any one who possessed more shrewdness and knowledge of the world. He had thoroughly studied the volume of man as well as printed books, and we often point to his career as a proof of the usefulness of this knowledge. He had a remarkable coolness and calmness about his character, but we did once see him put into a regular “fix,” in his own court, by an obstreperous juryman, who would have a will of his own. A huge sailor and a small boy were being tried for stealing an immense piece of cable. The sailor threw it all upon the boy, and the Recorder, believing him, was charging the jury to the same effect, when one of them rising, and hitching up his trousers, commenced, “But, Mr. Recorder!” This was too much. Mr. Recorder, electrified with indignation at being so interrupted, looked his best thunderbolts at the remonstrant, who still, however, kept sturdily on his legs, muttering protests against the opinion of the bench. The spectators became excited and amused at such an unusual scene, and a titter went round the court. This only added fuel to the fire, and Mr. Recorder made another attempt to silence his persevering assailant. “I tell you,” he exclaimed, “that from the evidence, the boy must have been the culprit who carried off the cable; the law says so, and I say so.” But the obdurate juryman had not yet done. He instantly answered, “But, Mr. Recorder, I do not know what you and the law may tell me, but common sense tells me that that boy could not even lift that piece of cable from the ground, much less run away with it.” This was a poser with a vengeance. It was a new and original view of the case, which set all evidence at naught. The titter in the court grew into a regular burst of laughter, which nothing could check. The poor Recorder was fully nonplussed and nonsuited, and the jury acquitted the boy without a moment’s hesitation.

And here, if we may descend from barristers to solicitors, let us render a tribute of respect to the memory of a fine old fellow, a practitioner in the latter branch of the legal profession. We speak of George Rowe, of whom we knew much, and nothing but what was admirable. He was a warm friend and a delightful companion. He loved the good things of this world, but he liked others to enjoy them with him. He was fond of society, and in his own house kept, we always thought, the best table in Liverpool. But we were going to speak of him as a lawyer. We cannot fathom the exact depth of his reading in Coke, Blackstone, and so forth. We leave his head, to speak of his heart. And in this point of view, we can mention several things which will prove that, unless lawyers in general are greatly maligned, George Rowe was a miracle of a lawyer, in allowing the milk of human kindness to flow so largely through his nature. We recollect an instance in which he offended and lost an old and valuable client, because he refused to make a will for him which he thought unjust towards the gentleman’s own family and relations. And more instances than one could we tell of in which he worked, and included even expensive papers, documents, and stamps, all “free gratis for nothing,” for poor and deserving parties who had solicited his help in the expectation that they were to pay for it on the usual terms. There may be others in the profession, and we trust there are many, equally liberal and kind-hearted. But knowing it of him, we tell it, and we add further, that, in our voyage of life, we never met a kinder, a warmer, and a truer friend. We honoured him in life, and in death we treasure his name and memory.

In Queen-square lived another family, called, with a different spelling, Roe, and of most respectable standing were they, among the substantial old stagers of the town. In the same locality resided Colonel Graham, and also another party upon whom we must bestow a somewhat longer notice. This was Mr. John Shaw, commonly called Jack Shaw, a man of immense wealth and intense vulgarity. Never was there such a sacrifice to the golden calf as that betrayed, not simply by the elevation of such a person to the highest municipal honours, and the civic chair, but in giving him an influence which he held undisturbed for years. He was positively known by the sobriquet of “the King of the Council,” or “King Jack.” His grammar was truly à la Malaprop. On one occasion we recollect hearing him, when wishing to be fine, call the old constables his “mermaids,” instead of his “myrmidons.” At another time, when he was sitting on the bench, the Town-clerk observed to him that a sentence which he was about to pass would be contrary to the Act of Parliament, when the magisterial despot silenced his functionary by retorting, “D – your Acts of Parliament. What cares I for your Acts of Parliament?” He had a habit also of invariably pronouncing the word “digest” as if it were “disgust.” One day, at his own table, he had a waggish friend of his, Carruthers, dining with him. The fish was not very good, as Jack always dealt in the cheapest market. Carruthers rather turned up his nose at the savour, but his host fell to with the greatest vigour, observing, “Oh, I can disgust anything.” “Yes, by – , that you can,” exclaimed C., with a roaring laugh. Presently, however, Jack paid him off, as he thought, with compound interest. “Carruthers, my boy, how many shirts a week do you wear?” said he. “One every day, and sometimes more,” was the answer. “Why, man,” was Jack’s rejoinder, “what a dirty hide you must have. One serves me a fortnight.” Such were the municipal pleasantries of the municipal monarch of his day. We believe that it was the same worthy potentate who once threatened to “slat an inkstand at the head of a Jew, who was a witness before him, if he did not tell him what his Christian name was,” and he would have said the same thing to a Turk or a Hindoo.

We believe it was the same Jack who once complained to the late Egerton Smith that he had not reported something that he had said fairly, when that respected editor facetiously replied, that “if he ever grumbled again, he would report everything he uttered on the bench or elsewhere, verbatim et literatim, exactly as he delivered it.” But our readers must not suppose that because, by some strange metamorphosis more wonderful than any related by Ovid, this awful Jack was translated into a Town-Councilman, we had, therefore, a whole council of such men. Far from it. Jack was a pelican in the wilderness, a thing out of place, an accidental nuisance, how and why admitted into that body, it is impossible now even to guess. As a whole, and with this exception, the old Town Council of Liverpool consisted of some of the first and most respectable and most respected men in the place. Its fault was, that it was too exclusive; like the late Whig cabinet, too much of a family affair. It did its work well in its day; we may, indeed, say remarkably well, considering its irresponsibility. But a change was demanded with the changing times. We sometimes question, however, whether we have improved the class of men. Then it was selection, without election; now it is too often election, without selection. But the present system has this great advantage: a black sheep is not a perpetuity. We can get rid of him at the end of his three years, and that is something, and a great something.

CHAPTER IX

In Mount Pleasant lived, in those good old times, Sir George Dunbar, the representative of an ancient race in Scotland, and a model gentleman, both in appearance and manners. He was originally in business in Liverpool; but when the family title descended to him, the pride of ancestry was stronger than the pride of “the merchant prince” within him, and he retired from vulgar trade, cut sugar hogsheads and rum puncheons, and was no more seen on the “Rialto,” discussing markets and inquiring the price of barilla and pearl ashes. It was a false move on the part of the worthy baronet. No rank would have been sullied by remaining in the firm of which he was the head. His junior partners, Ewart and Rutson, became not only eminent, but pre-eminent, amongst our giants of that day, and achieved a name and reputation known to the ends of the earth, and are still well represented amongst us. The son of the latter is a large landowner in Yorkshire, universally respected; while, of the family of the former, one son, William, has long been in parliament, and another, Joseph Christopher, was a candidate for Liverpool at a recent general election. But the Dunbars have altogether vanished from the scene. The best of them that we knew, poor Tom Dunbar, was one of the handsomest and cleverest, and certainly the most brilliant and the wittiest, of mankind. He had abilities for anything, for everything, but he never cultivated them; at all events, he never used them. He wanted either application or resolution. It might be the pride of his father in another shape. He was a lounger where he might have been a leader. He was satisfied to flash and dazzle as a meteor in society, while men much less intellectually endowed, but of a more persevering and plodding spirit, passed over him, and became persons of mark, position, and distinction. It was mortifying to his friends to see him ever with the game in his hands, yet always throwing up the cards. His active life amounted to just nil; but his sayings, his polished witticisms, his delightful retorts, his splendid and pungent repartees, in English, Greek, and Latin, would fill volumes. They are still treasured by the survivors of the circle of which he was the life and joy and pride, and brought out every now and then, with a sadly smiling countenance, as one of Dunbar’s gems: just as on high and grand days we go to the oldest bin for a bottle of the best vintage. And everything was original with him. He never borrowed nor repeated. It was fresh and fresh with him, as often as you met him.

But we must pass on. Russell-street and Clarence-street had no existence in those days. In St. Anne-Street resided the old families of Bridge, Fisher, and Rogers. Here also lived Mr. Blundell, the clergyman; Mr. Smith, at a later period of Fulwood Lodge; and Mr. Haywood, the father of the eminent cotton-broker of that name. Close to St. Anne’s Church was the house of a celebrated character amongst us, both then and long afterwards. We speak of Mr. Thomas Wilson, profanely called Tommy Wilson, the dancing-master, by his wicked pupils. A good fellow was Tommy, although a strict disciplinarian in “teaching the young idea,” not “how to shoot,” but how to turn out its toes and go through the positions. But, unfortunately, Mr. Wilson grew too ambitious, and, instead of contenting himself with fiddling for boys and girls to dance to, would preside over orchestras and concerts, and cater for the amusement of the public, by which we fear he did not grow too rich. He was a worthy, warm-hearted man in his way, and somewhat of an original, and withal possessing the good opinion of all who knew him. Nor must we forget to state that in St. Anne-street likewise lived Mr. Rutson, of whom we have already spoken. His partner, Mr. Ewart, resided in Birchfield. In Soho-street was the house of Mr. Butler, somewhat too convivial in his habits, but one of the most thorough gentlemen we ever met with. His son is the present Mr. Butler Cole, of Cote and Kirkland Halls, both in this county. In Rose-place, then a fashionable suburb, more country than town, resided Mr. Lake, who subsequently retired to Birkenhead Priory, and afterwards to Castle Godwyn, in Gloucestershire. He was the father of the Captain Lake whose wound from a Minié rifle, at Weedon, was recently mentioned in the newspapers. A little further out towards the green fields, now all streets, we come to the mansion of a noble old worthy of those times, Edward Houghton, the father of Richard and Raymond, of “that ilk,” so well known and so much respected amongst us. How well we remember his amiable and benevolent countenance! He had a kind word for everybody, and was prompt to do kind acts too. And what a staunch sportsman he was, seldom missing his bird, and devoted to his work. And then what a famous breed of pointers he had, jet black and all black. How they would set and back set. How they would range the stubble and never flush a partridge nor run a hare. How they would “down charge” at the sound of a gun, without a word being said. We wonder whether any of the descendants of this celebrated race of dogs are yet in being.

But, before we pass beyond the boundaries of the old borough, let us hark back a little, and enumerate a few more of the ancient worthies, or “standards,” of the town whom we have omitted in the foregoing catalogue. There were the Boardman, Harding, Bancroft, Downward, and Lorimer families. Nor must we forget to mention that admiration of our boyhood, William Peatt Litt. He always seemed to us to be the original of the lines —

“Old King Cole was a jolly old soul,And a jolly old soul was he.”

A munificent, magnificent, generous, hospitable soul indeed was Mr. Litt. There are few like him now. And there were several families of the Byroms. The Naylors and Bournes, the grandfathers of the present generation of those names, lived in Duke-street, and were among the most respectable and respected of our citizens. There, also, lived Mr. Patrick Black, a fine old stager even at the time we speak of. We can see him yet before us. Picture to yourselves a kind and venerable man, in a cloak enveloping his whole body from head to foot, a gold-headed cane in his hand, and a wig. Oh! such a wig, a regular wig of wigs, as white as the whitest of hair-powder could make it, of a transcendental cauliflower appearance, and in size far beyond the proportions of the largest Sunday wig assigned to Dr. Johnson in the pictures which have come down to us. We recollect once, when about some six years old, getting into an awful scrape about this said venerable gentleman and his megatherium wig. We were walking with a small friend of our own age and inches, when suddenly the apparition of Mr. Patrick Black, arrayed as we have described him, came in sight. Our admiration, as usual, burst forth in the far from respectful and almost profane exclamation, “There goes old Black with his white wig.” Hardly were the words out of our mouth, when a gentle tap came upon our shoulders, and a soft whisper fell upon our ear, “Master – , if it would be any particular pleasure to you, I will ask my father to wear a black wig in future.” We looked round, and, O! horror of horrors! were we not thrown into real agonies, and almost hysterics, when, in the person uttering this mild remonstrance, we recognised the daughter of the old gentleman whose wig we had been blaspheming? We stammered and hammered at an excuse, and then ran for our life. And for many a long day we disappeared round the nearest corner as quickly as possible if any of the Black family came in sight of us in our walks. The joke, however, got wind, and it was long before our martyrdom and persecution ceased, even in our own circle, where “Old Black with his white wig” was thrown into our teeth whenever we were inclined to be obstreperous and naughty. Neither must we forget the name of Brian Smith, who lived in Bold-street, and whose very look was a picture of benevolence. John Leigh, too, the attorney, a man of gravity and silence, but with a very intelligent countenance, lived then in Basnett-street. As we shall have occasion to mention his name in a future chapter, we shall merely allude to it here. And there was the firm of M’Iver, M’Viccar, and M’Corquodale, never mentioned by us youngsters without the addition of the awfully bad joke about the old woman, a mythological old woman doubtless, going into their office and asking if they were the house of M’Viper, M’Adder, and M’Crocodile.