Liverpool a few years since: by an old stager

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.

CHAPTER XX

The two rectors of those old days were the Rev. Samuel Renshaw and the Rev. R. H. Roughsedge. They were both men past the meridian of life, at the earliest period to which our recollection extends. There was a tradition among the old ladies, that Rector Renshaw in his younger days had been a popular and sparkling preacher of “simples culled” from “the flowery empire” of Blair. We only knew him as a venerable-looking old gentleman, with a sharp eye, a particularly benevolent countenance, and a kind word for everybody. Rector Roughsedge also was a mild, amiable, good-hearted man of the old school, with much more of the innocence of the dove than of the wisdom of the serpent in his composition. He was, in fact, the most guileless and unsophisticated person we ever met with. His studies must have been of books. Certainly they had not extended to the human volume. He was utterly ignorant of the world and the world’s ways, thereby strongly reminding us of the great navigator, of whom it was said that “he had been round the world, but never in it.” As a proof of this we may mention, that once, when the Bishop of Chester, the present Bishop of London, was his guest, he invited Alexandré, the ventriloquist, to meet him at breakfast. There surely never was a worse assortment than this in any cargo of Yankee “notions.” Alexandré, who had a fair share of modest assurance, was quite at home, and made great efforts to draw the bishop into conversation. The latter, however, rather recoiled from his advances, and was very monosyllabic in his answers. Nothing daunted, however, the ventriloquist rattled away quite at his ease, and, amongst other things, assured his lordship that “he had had the honour of being introduced to several of the episcopacy; that, in fact, he had received from more than one of them copies of sermons which they had published, and which he had kept and valued amongst his greatest treasures;” and then finished up with the expression of a wish that he would himself favour him with a similar memento. This was too much, and prompt and tart and cutting was the bishop’s answer – “Yes; I will write one on purpose; it shall be on Modesty!” Vulcan never forged such a thunderbolt as that for Jupiter Tonans himself. It completely floored Alexandré, overwhelming the chaplain and scorching the rector’s wig in its way.

And having mentioned the name of Bishop Bloomfield, let us give another specimen of his ability to check any improper intrusion upon his dignity and position. He was a very young man when first he came into this diocese, and some of the older clergy rather presumed upon this. There were at that time many among them who would cross the country, and take a five-barred gate as if it were that fortieth article of which Theodore Hook spoke to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford. The bishop one day met a number of these black-coated Nimrods. The scene was not far from Manchester. After dinner, some of the old incorrigibles persevered for a long time, with marvellously bad taste, in talking of their dogs and horses, and nothing else. His lordship looked grave, but was silent. At last, one of them, directing his conversation immediately to him, began to tell him a long story about a famous horse which he owned, and “which he had lately ridden sixty miles on the North road without drawing bit.” It was the bishop’s turn now, and down came his sledge hammer with all the force of a steam-engine. “Ah,” he said, with the most cutting indifference, “I recollect hearing of the same feat being once accomplished before, and, by a strange coincidence, on the North road, too: it was Turpin, the highwayman.” Warner’s long range was nothing to this. It was a regular stunner. The reverend fox-hunter had never met with such a rasper before. He was fairly run to earth, and did not break cover again that night, you may be sure. The idea of a Church dignitary, for such he was, having had Turpin for his college tutor, was a view of the case which he had never studied before, and old Tally-ho left the table fully convinced that his spiritual superior was more than his match even at the lex Tally-ho-nis. The same annoyance was never attempted again. The lesson had its effect upon more than one.

But to go back to Rector Roughsedge; he also once perpetrated a joke, and it was so dreadfully heavy that it deserves recording for its exceeding badness. He was a man of strong opinions, prejudices some people would call them. He did not like the evangelical clergy, who so greatly increased in number towards the latter end of his reign in this locality, and, at their expense, he perpetrated the single jest of eighty years. He was at Bangor, on a tour, and, at the same inn there was a large party of the rival section of the Church. They were in the room exactly over the one in which he was sitting, and, as they moved about with rather heavy tread, the old man suddenly exclaimed, “Sure the gentlemen must be walking on their heads!” We do not say much for this ponderous effort ourselves. But it was, we are informed, duly reported at the Clerical Club, and entered among their memorabilia. The curates especially relished it as a great joke, a very gem of brilliancy, and would persist in laughing at and repeating it for months and months in all companies, parties and meetings; and their mirth, it was observed, was always particularly jocund and boisterous when the rector himself was present. But who grudges them the enjoyment of their laugh? A poor curate’s life is such a career of toil and hardship, that anything which can enliven him, even a rector’s jest, should be most welcome. We, at all events, are not iron-hearted enough to envy their few enjoyments. But it was real happiness to hear the old rector and his old wife talk of their son in India. He was their pride, their boast, their treasure, their idol. We never met with him; but from all that we have heard of him, we believe that there was no exaggeration of praise even in the character which his fond parents drew of him. Everybody endorsed it as fact, not eulogy. But the church of churches in that day was St. George’s. How we used to rush down to Castle-street, about a quarter of an hour before the service began, to see the mayor and his train march to church! We were never tired of watching that procession. It was super-royal in our estimation. Sunday after Sunday we would gaze at it with never-wearying and still-increasing admiration. Such cloaks they wore! There never were such cloaks. And such cocked hats! No other cocked-hats ever seemed to be like them. And one man carried a huge sword, which, in our nursery, we verily believed to have been the identical one taken by David from Goliath, although there was a counter tradition, which asserted that Richard the First had won it from a Pagan knight in single combat when in Palestine. We now rather ascribe a “Brummagem” origin to it. And there were other men who carried maces, and various kinds of paraphernalia, which, if not useful, were supposed to be vastly ornamental and magnificent. The mayor himself held what was called a white wand in his hand, which was intended, we opine, to impress the public with the notion that his worship, for the time being, was a bit of a conjurer. But even we little boys knew better than that. Heaven help those dear, darling, innocent old mayors! They knew how to fish up the green fat out of a turtle-mug, and had a tolerably correct idea touching the taste of turbot and lobster-sauce; but as to doing anything in the conjuring line, they were as guiltless on that head as any babe unborn. They would never have run any chance of being burnt for witches. But, nevertheless, it was a very imposing spectacle to see them tramping along Castle-street every Sunday morning to St. George’s Church. Our impression always was, that the very Gauls who paid such small respect to the Roman senate would have trembled with awe at such a sight. Such was our enthusiasm that, often as we witnessed it, we still, on our return home, assembled all our brothers and sister, and arraying ourselves in table-cloths and great-coats, with the shovel, tongs and poker carried before us as our official insignia, performed a solemn march upstairs and downstairs, from garret to cellar, until interrupted by some older member of the family, who looked upon our imitations to be as sinful as sacrilege or “flat blasphemy” itself.

And what a congregation there used to be at St. George’s in those days! It was a regular cram. Every corporator had a pew there, and felt himself in duty bound to attend out of respect to the mayor. And how gay and smart were the bonnets and dresses of their wives and daughters. There was one seat in particular which always divided our attention with the service. It was constantly full of children, who were not at all more unruly than the rest of us. But their mother, who was of a very Christian and pious turn of mind, seemed to be of a different opinion; for when she thought nobody was watching her (but we were always watching her), what sly opportunities she would take of pulling their hair, treading on their toes, and pinching them in all directions. Pinching was the favourite mode of dealing with them. How we used to speculate during the sermon upon the consequences of her practices! We wondered that they did not cry out. And then we wondered more whether hair-pulling, toe-treading, and pinching were apostolical receipts for training young Christians. And then we thought within ourselves that they would be quite bald in so many years at the rate of so many hairs pulled out every Sunday; and then we used to long to know how many square inches of their skin had turned black and blue under the pinching process, and to speculate whether their fond mother boxed their ears, or set them a chapter to learn, or kept them without their dinner when she got them home, and found that we had grinned them out of all memory of the text as we telegraphed them out of our pew to let them know that we were quietly enjoying the fun in theirs.

And what a muster of carriages there always was at St. George’s, to take the corporators and fashionables home after service. How the coachmen squared their elbows, and how the horses pranced, and how the footmen banged-to the doors! And then when “all right” was heard, how they dashed off, to the right and left, some taking one turn and some the other, down narrow old Castle-ditch, and so into narrow old Lord-street, down which they flew “like mad,” until the profane vulgar called these exhibitions “the Liverpool Sunday races!” And what a crowd of dandies and exquisites always assembled on the Athenæum steps, not to discuss the sermon, we fear, but to criticise the equipages as they rattled by, and, when they were gone, to pass judgment upon the walkers, their dress, appearance, etc. The ladies, we recollect, invariably pronounced this phalanx of quizzers to be an accumulation of “sad dogs” and “insufferable puppies;” but it always struck our young mind that it was very odd, if they really thought so, that they did not avoid them by ordering their carriages to be driven, or themselves walking, some other way. If the moth flies into the candle more than once, we must presume that it does not dislike the operation.

CHAPTER XXI

We spoke, in the last chapter, of St. George’s as the church which the mayor and corporation always attended. Once, when Mr. Jonas Bold was Mayor, it happened that Prince William of Gloucester was present. By a strange coincidence, which somewhat disturbed the seriousness of the congregation, the preacher for the day took for his text, “Behold, a greater than Jonas is here.” Both Mayor and Prince, we believe, as well as the discerning public, fancied that there was something more than chance in the selection of so very telling and apposite a text. It reminds us of the Cambridge clergyman, who, when Pitt, Chancellor of the Exchequer, while yet almost a boy, attended the University Church, preached from the words, “There is a lad here which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?”

Some years since the Duke of Wellington, attended by a single aide-de-camp, walked into a Church at Cheltenham. Here there could have been no design; he was totally unexpected. But, when the text was announced, out came the startling words, “Now, Naaman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, was a great man with his master and honourable, because by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria: he was also a mighty man in valour, but he was a leper.” This chance shot evidently told. A grim smile seemed for a moment to gather upon the features of the “Iron Duke,” as he cast an intelligent look at his companion, who telegraphed him in return with an equally knowing glance. They were both particularly attentive to the sermon, in which there were many hard hits, which might have been made to order, as they seemed to be as applicable to Duke Arthur as to Duke Naaman.

But it is time that we should speak of the clergymen attached to St. George’s Church, in the days we are writing of. They were rather a superior lot. Archdeacon Brooks was one of them, and already looked upon as a very promising young man. The Rev. T. Blundell was another. He used to bring out occasionally, in preaching, very odd things in a very odd manner, and sometimes very original things in a very original manner. The Rev. Jas. Hamer was another of the preachers at St. George’s, and very admirable sermons he gave. He was a sedate, grave, serious looking man, a fair scholar, and had a good place in society. He was a fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and, according to the universal anticipation, would have been its next head, had he lived. But he was cut off in the prime of his days, when all the toils and difficulties of his career were surmounted, and, to human judgment,

“The world was all before him, where to choose
His place of rest.”

But here we must make room on our canvas for the portrait, if we can draw it, of one of the most remarkable men whom Liverpool has ever produced. We speak of Dr. Frodsham Hodgson, who, in our young days, was also among the St. George’s preachers. His manner was pompous, and he had a catch in his voice which may still be traced among Oxford men of the old school, some having adopted it from admiration, and others having mimicked it until they could not get rid of it. Never was the truism, that “a prophet is not a prophet in his own country,” more wonderfully illustrated than in the case of Dr. Hodgson. Here, in Liverpool, he was neither known, valued, nor appreciated. He visited chiefly, when amongst us, with the corporation, and those who met him came away with the impression that they had spent their time with a very agreeable and pleasant person, a jovial companion, with great conversational powers, and, for a book-worm, wonderfully at home on every subject started and spoken of on every occasion. This was the opinion generally formed of him, this and nothing more. Our municipal magnificos, while condescendingly patronising and listening to their chaplain, never seemed for a moment to feel that Jupiter himself was among them in disguise.

But let us change the scene to the University of Oxford. Ha! who comes here? “Richard’s himself again.” “The king’s once more at home.” It is the principal of Brasenose College, the same Dr. Hodgson whom we lately saw in Liverpool; but, Quantum mutatis ab illo Hectore, he is here another and a different man. He is in the scene of his glory, his triumphs, and his celebrity, among those who honour, respect, and look up to him, and who are proud to be the followers of such a leader. He stood out from among them as one of nature’s true nobility. Magnificent in his manner and bearing, princely in his tastes, and habits, and notions, and ideas, a scholar in every sense of the word, thoroughly acquainted with, at home in, every branch of literature, and familiar with all the mysteries and workings of the human volume, he was exactly the person to perform a great part wherever his lot of life had been cast. Accordingly he was a potentate even among the self-elated potentates of the University. His will was law. His sic volo sic jubeo was supreme. He ruled without a rival near the throne. From time to time murmurs were heard against the autocrat, and the whispering tokens of a coming storm were frequently perceived. But mind triumphed over matter. He always contrived to crush the incipient rebellion, and to rise, like another Antæus, refreshed and strengthened from the struggle. And we may add here that his ambition was as unbounded as his talents were great and brilliant. The force of his genius, the power of his tact, and the extent of his influence were never so remarkably proved as in the management and clever combinations by which, with the help of Tory tools subdued to his will, he contrived to return the Whig Lord Grenville, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, against Lord Eldon, the most powerful opponent whom it was possible for Toryism to have selected for the struggle in those days of its supremacy. The time at last arrived when Dr. Hodgson was marked for the next elevation to the episcopal bench, and he was spoken of for either an English bishopric or an Irish archbishopric. But who can dive into the secrets of to-morrow? At the moment when to his friends and family it seemed certain that all their fond hopes and anticipations were about to be realised, he was suddenly attacked by the fatal illness which brought him to the grave in a few days. To the end of his life he retained all his influence over the University, and, when he departed, it was as if Gulliver had been taken from Lilliput, and the Lilliputians left to themselves. Nothing soaring above the common place of mediocrity has since shown itself among the college heads and rulers. When we heard of his death, we exclaimed,

“He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.”

Nor have we since had occasion to recall the exclamation, either with regard to men in the Church or out of the Church. And we have yet a more pleasing sight in which to view the character of Dr. Hodgson, namely, as he was seen in the domestic circle. It was a positive treat to see him, with all the pomp and pride of the outer world thrown off, in the bosom of his family. Never was there so kind and affectionate a husband, never so fond, and tender, and indulgent a father. In his home, surrounded by those whom he loved, and who loved him, he seemed to forget at once all things beyond, and to leave behind all the aspirations and longings, pains and pleasures, sweets and bitters of ambition. You had thought him, perhaps, a cold and calculating competitor in the race of intriguing rivals for promotion. You had watched with pleasure his splendid career at college and in the University. You had admired him as a scholar, been dazzled by his literary attainments, or struck by his tact and bearing as a polished and finished courtier, a character on which he laid such stress that it was a frequent saying with him, that, “in his estimation, manner was everything, next to religion.” But it was in the enjoyment of his home, to him not figuratively, but really “home, sweet home,” that you were at once startled and delighted by seeing him in the best and most amiable point of view. Here the exquisite nature of the man was beheld in in all its glory, affectionate, gentle, and earnest, with a heart overflowing with every kindly feeling and domestic virtue. “The most loveable man, perhaps,” as some one has written of the poet Moore, “that ever lived, judging him in the shade of his own home, apart from the artificial glare of society.” All selfishness was there renounced. His happiness was in the happiness of those around, and that those moments, stolen from his active and proud career, were the sweetest and most delicious of his life it was impossible to doubt. He must, like every other public man, often and often have been taught the bitter truth that “all is not gold that glitters.” But, whenever the bubble of popular applause in which he so delighted was grasped, only to burst in his hand, whenever the seemingly gorgeous gems of ambition turned out to be mere trash and tinsel, when they had passed from a dream or a hope into realities, he could dwell upon his home treasures, which were to him his greatest “joys for ever,” far more precious to him than the world’s most approving smiles, and his best and truest consolation if ever it frowned upon him. We respect and honour the name of Dr. Hodgson, when we recollect him as the scholar, the gentleman, and the clergyman; but we love it and fondly dwell upon it when we recall his memory as the husband and the father. How little was he known and how ill understood in his native town! and how few amongst us even remember him or his name at all! And yet Liverpool, and she has been a fruitful parent of worthy children, never had a son of whom she had more cause to be proud than Frodsham Hodgson. We have but feebly sketched a character which, we trust, some stronger pen will undertake to delineate in all its fair proportions and colossal dimensions. Until this is done there will be a gap in biography which certainly ought to be supplied, and the sooner the better.

CHAPTER XXII

An election was an election, indeed, in those days. It was not merely a rush to the hustings for a few short hours, and then all over. There was no getting the lead by ten o’clock in the morning, and winning at once by making a good start. Votes were then taken by tallies, or tens, each tally marching to the hustings, with a band of music and colours before it, and each party bringing up its tally in its regular turn. The curiosity, and excitement, and suspense, and anxiety were kept up, day after day, until there was a grand smash at last on one side or the other; in other words, until “no tally” forthcoming in its turn betrayed weakness, and proclaimed that it was U P with somebody. An election, then, in those times, was a great and solemn affair with our jolly old freemen, who had the vote-market all to themselves, no intrusive ten-pounders having yet been thrust upon the constituency. How well we recollect the hurly-burly of some of those old elections. There were two sections of the Tory party always in the field, the green, or Tarleton party, and the blue, or Gascoigne and “Townside” party. But, at a pinch, they always coalesced against the pinks or Reformers. Among the greens were the Drinkwaters, Hollinsheads, Harpers, etc. Foremost in the ranks of the blues were the Fosters, Cases, Aspinalls, Gregsons, Branckers, Clarkes, Leylands, etc. And the pinks also numbered a gallant phalanx to do battle for them in every struggle, Earles, Lawrences, Croppers, Rathbones, Roscoes, Curries, Harveys, Mathers, cum multis aliis. And how Jack Backhouse and Corf, the butcher, used to head up the greens on horseback, in Castle-street, both they and their horses bedizened all over with ribbons of their favourite hue! And how popular old Tarleton was with the fishwomen! And then how the Tories would shout for “Negro-slavery, and no Popery!” And the Reformers had “Civil and Religious Liberty!” written on their flags. And how well we remember one, long before the opening of the trade to the East Indies, on which was inscribed, “The China trade for ever.” This was quite beyond the geography of the party who carried it; for, supposing it to be an allusion to a competition between home-made crockery and Dresden china, they had, by way of illustration, or commentary, hung the flagstaff round with all sorts of specimens of plates, and dishes, cups and jugs, and so forth. Many a laugh was raised at their expense, as they marched about in blessed ignorance of their blunder.

On one occasion, as if foreshadowing events which were to happen half-a-century later, a big loaf or Free Trade candidate took the field, to the great delight of all the hungry non-electors. It seems but as yesterday when, patriotically braving all the pains and penalties attached to such an audacious proceeding, we escaped from the nursery to clap our little hands, and set up our little shout, as we followed the music and yellow banners of the champion of cheapness and plenty to his house in Kent-square. His name was Chalmer, and he was the father of the venerable, and worthy, and clever doctor and town councillor of that name. Sir Isaac Coffin, too, once made his appearance here just before an election. It was, of course, suspected that he had a design upon the borough. If he had, the intention died in the egg. No chicken ever was hatched out of it. Richmond, however, instantly fired at him with a squib, which opens in this unceremonious fashion: —

“Sir Isaac Coffin’s come to town, not to please the lasses,
But to gull the Whigs, a set of stupid asses.”

A good story is told against Sir Isaac on the other side of the Atlantic. He once made a bet that he would find a given number of gigantic alderman lobsters of the weight of thirty pounds each. It happened not to be in the lobster season, and the monsters were not forthcoming on the appointed day. Sir Isaac, however, not liking to lose his money, sent in certain depositions to the stakeholders from fishermen on the coast, stating that they had frequently met with lobsters of the required weight; to which this pithy answer was returned, “Depositions are not lobsters.”

The old freemen of those days were worthy grandsires of their present worthy grandsons. Some of them were witty rogues in their generation. One of them, on the eve of an election, when in a state of intoxication, asked one of the Hope family to give him a five pound note for his vote. The demand was indignantly rejected. “Then,” rejoined the incorrigible fellow, “if you will not give it me, lend it me, and you may believe I will return it on any day you fix.” Mr. Hope shook his head with resolute incredulity. “Ah,” said the offended elector, staggering away, “they may call you Hope, but hang me if you have either faith or charity in your composition.”

But we must not pass by, without some remarks, the two soldier representatives who so long sat for Liverpool in the House of Commons. General Tarleton was a fearless old guerrilla of the American war, in which his achievements, successful or otherwise, proved him to be as brave as the sword he wore, and were more like the creations of romance than the realities they were. He was open, frank, and free, with many qualities to recommend him to popular favour, but no more fit to represent the mighty interests of Liverpool, even in those days, than any child of three years old taken out of the street. He had not one point of the statesman in his whole character. He was as capriciously selected as he was capriciously ejected by his friends. He was originally adopted without a single recommendation. He was finally repudiated without a fault or failure in addition to those which had marked his career from the first. We have heard many things laid to the charge of our old freemen, but they never appeared in so bad a light to us as when, at the bidding of their employers, or under some other influence, they almost to a man turned their backs with freezing indifference upon a candidate towards whom, on all previous occasions, they had affected to feel an enthusiasm amounting to positive frenzy. Human nature was never presented to us in so despicable a point of view. Poor old Tarleton. We never felt a sympathy for him except when he was thus suddenly victimised by popular caprice, his former worshippers flying from their idol. And why? Tell it not in Gath, if you like, but we will tell it in Liverpool; because the rich men of his party had set up another image, and he presented himself for their votes in formâ pauperis. Say not, or we shall laugh at you, that he was rejected to make way for the brilliant Canning. Aye, Canning, all honour and glory to his memory, was the most brilliant of all the brilliant stars that ever shone in this lower world of ours. But we never loved brilliancy from our hearts in Liverpool. We have tolerated it at times for the sake of other qualities by which it has been accompanied, but we were always anxious to get rid of it as soon as possible. Liverpool looks upon able and clever men as Athens looked upon Aristides. Mediocrity suits our temper best.

But we spoke of General Tarleton’s military colleague, the Castor to his Pollux, General Gascoigne. “The old general,” as the latter was familiarly called, was a remarkable instance of how little is required to make a legislator. He had all the unfitness of General Tarleton without his dashing and brilliant exploits as a soldier, to veneer and varnish over the preter-pluperfect common-place of his character. He was an ignorant and illiterate man. This may, perhaps, be ascribed to the early age at which he had joined the army. At all events, his education must have been more in the school of Mrs. Malaprop than of Dr. Syntax. His highest attribute was a species of cunning, which sometimes did for him what greater talent has failed to do for other persons. He was a man of intense selfishness. His gratitude was of that peculiar kind which burns with a white heat glow for benefits to come, but looks with cold and freezing eyes upon favours received. He treated his friends as he did his gloves, that is, he wore out both, and then cast them from him. He constantly forgot his supporters at the last election, to coquet with those who, he hoped, might help him at the next. But such a game could not be played for ever.

General Tarleton was, we said, in his summary expulsion from the representation, the victim of ingratitude. When General Gascoigne’s turn came, he was justly punished for his ingratitude towards so many of his best friends. He had most industriously earned the fate which overtook him. His immediate predecessor in the seat for the borough was his brother, Bamber Gascoigne, of Childwall-hall, whose only daughter and heiress married, at a later period, the Marquis of Salisbury. Bamber was a man of a very different stamp and calibre from his brother. He was a good specimen of the gentleman of the old school, and very much superior generally to the country squires of his day. His tastes were refined and literary. He was a thoroughly educated and well-read person. He was at once proud and courteous in his manner, and aristocratic in his bearing. His habits attached him more to his library than to the arena of the House of Commons, and he, consequently, did not kill himself with toiling in the cause of his constituents. On some occasion, a deputation of our merchants waited upon him to remonstrate upon some alleged lack of zeal in their behalf. The interview was not a pleasant one. The member received the remonstrants with either too little humility or too little courtesy. As they grew warmer, he became colder and stiffer. The end of the matter was that they did not exactly part company in a gale of wind, but, while they gave him notice to quit, they relented so far that they told him that, out of respect to a family which had so long represented the town, they would, in depriving him of his seat, transfer it to his younger brother, the redoubtable general. It was a pity, for he had every quality which the other wanted. The thing, however, was done, and for years Bamber Gascoigne was a stranger to the town for which he had once sat in parliament. He had received a blow, an insult he deemed it, which he could never forget, although towards the end of his life he seems to have forgiven it, and once more, to some small extent, had some intercourse with Liverpool society. Mrs. Gascoigne, his wife, however, as excellent and kind-hearted a person as ever lived, always took a most lively and remarkably fussy interest in our elections. She felt that, if her husband could not retain the representation of Liverpool, still it was a prize worth keeping in the family. It may be that her husband thought so too, but he was too proud and impassive to show it.

But let us return to the “Old General.” In politics he was a Tory, “thorough and thorough.” He never flinched nor wavered, but followed the banner of his party “for better and for worse,” through good report and evil report, to the close of his career. He was once, indeed, dreadfully puzzled when a schism occurred amongst the leaders of Toryism. On that occasion he wrote a letter, said to be still in existence, to a leading friend in Liverpool, in which he thus expressed himself: – “Dear – , I cannot as yet see my way clearly, or make out which section will prevail, and obtain the government. Until that is decided, I shall vote according to my conscience.” It is refreshing to discover even these brief traces of a conscience in a hack politician of the old school. We have already observed that the education of the General had not been too carefully cultivated. He once, in the House of Commons, gave a remarkable proof of his deficiency, to the great delight of the young and waggish portion of our legislators. In some debate, touching the extension of political privileges to the dissenters, one of the orators had dwelt eloquently upon the beauty and loveliness of harmony and union between different sects. Gascoigne rose to do a bit of bigotry for his friends, but, being most singular in his notions of the plural of the word used, thus commenced his reply, “I hate to hear all this cant about the harmony and union which ought to exist between different sexes.” He got no further. A regular “Hurrah” of laughter burst from every corner of the House. On it went gathering strength as it advanced, explosion after explosion, thunderclap after thunderclap, in the wildest confusion. The younger members shouted with glee and merriment. Grave old statesmen held their sides, and were nearly thrown into fits in the vain endeavour to repress their mirth. Mr. Speaker himself, after an idle attempt to check the row, led the chorus until the very mace danced upon the table, and every hair of his wig stood on end in horror at the profanation. Never was such a scene enacted before or since in the House of Commons; and what gave the greatest zest to the whole thing was, that the General seemed to be unconsciously innocent and ignorant that he was the cause of the unusual commotion which was going on. It was the greatest performance of his life. In parting with him, we may as well add here, that, from a quality which we have before ascribed to him, he was called, his name being Isaac, “Cunning Isaac,” both by friends and foes.

In finishing the chapter, we would remark that subscriptions for electioneering expenses were raised in those times after a fashion which, we trust and believe, does not prevail at the present day. The figure written in the list was understood to be the price of the patronage to be received in return. There was a regular scale. This was corruption in its most unblushing and unscrupulous form.

CHAPTER XXIII

Our shops frequented by the fashionables were “few and far between” in those old times. We had not then reached the bustling age of competition, colossal plate-glass windows, and “selling off under prime cost;” and so, as the Irishman said, making our fortunes by the amount of business transacted. One shop greatly patronised by the ladies was Wilson’s, near the old dock, that is, what was the old dock, but which was most unwisely filled up. The Custom-house now stands where the Jack Park, and the Mary, and the Lovely Nancy once rested on the waters after achieving their homeward voyage, and poked their bowsprits into the windows of the opposite houses, which were inconveniently near. Wilson dealt in all sorts of ladies’ wares, clothing, linen, table-cloths, etc.

At the bottom of Duke-street there was a kind of ornamental or nick-nack shop, kept by a Miss Gregson, who had a monopoly of that line of business. At the corner of King-street and old Pool-lane, now South Castle-street, there was a famous haberdashery and silk shop, presided over by a most respectable person, Mr. Orton. His private residence was in St. Anne-street, opposite to Mr. Boardman, and next door to Mr. Huddleston, whose son, John, lived there in 1790, and lives there still in 1852. There was another in Castle-street, kept by Mr. Bernard or Brennand, almost as celebrated. We remember this one more particularly, as several of the young men who stood behind the counter subsequently embarked as merchants in different lines of business, and were some of them eminently successful. One of them died not very long ago, and is understood to have left an almost princely fortune behind him.

Danson was then, and for many a long year afterwards, our Magnus Apollo in the hair-dressing line. Never was there such a good-natured, polite, kind soul as Danson. He was the most talkative of haircutters, and they are generally a talkative race. What demand he used to be in on the eve of a ball or a great party in those days, when so much stress was laid upon curls and wiggery! Many a good story was told at his expense; but gentlemen of his profession have ever been so martyred. He was said to be of a very inquisitive turn of mind, and much given to fathoming the why and the wherefore of every novelty and mystery which came in his way. This propensity once led him into an awkward scrape. Shower-baths were not as general and everywhere affairs then as they are now. Our Apollo, once summoned to put some lady patroness into curls, had, upon his arrival, to wait some little time in the ante-room. A tall, oblong, curtained sort of box met his eye. What could it be? He cautiously opened the door, peeped and peeped into it, but could make nothing of it. A string dangled from above. And what was that for? Our philosopher, bent upon experiment, took it into his hand; pulled it; and fiz – souse – splash! he was not exactly caught like a rat in a trap, but down came Niagara upon his devoted head, as quick as lightning, and as loud as thunder. The victim screamed; while, to enjoy the sport, in rushed the lady, and the lady’s maid, and the lady’s husband, and Prim, the butler, and John, the footman, and Jane, the housemaid, and Molly, the cook, and Sally, the scullion, and the children, and the lap-dog, and there was such laughing and such barking as human misfortune never called forth before. Merry mourners at a funeral never equalled them in their uproarious enjoyment. There had not been a richer scene since Falstaff was “carried off in a buck basket,” and then, as he described it, “thrown into the Thames and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook.” It was enough to give a man hydrophobia for life.

Our old stagers must also recollect the Liverpool Hunt of those days, famous, far and wide, for its good riders, good horses, and good dogs. It was a glorious sight to the lovers of the sport to see them turn out when

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaimed it a hunting morn.”

Mr. Haywood, who lived in St. Anne-street, was a leading Nimrod among them. It was a treat to have a walk through his stables. And there was Mr. Joseph M’Viccar, with his slight, elegant, and compact figure, who was second to no man in crossing the country. Nor must we forget another of them, Peter Carter. Peter was an original in his way. He loved a good horse and always rode one, and knew how to do it. When George the Fourth, then Prince of Wales, visited Liverpool, Peter had a gray horse, of which he was very fond and very proud. It might have been the very nag of which it was written,

“But the horse of all horses that rivalled the day
Was the squire’s Neck or Nothing, and that was a gray.”

We rather think, if our memory does not play us fast and loose, that Carter was a member of the Liverpool Light Horse, which formed the escort of his royal highness from Knowsley to the town. At all events, the prince saw the horse, and was much struck with it. The price was asked. A hundred guineas was the answer. It was to be a bargain. A few days afterwards a royal groom made his appearance at Peter’s stable. He had come for the horse. Now it so happened that there was a general impression that the prince’s credit with his banker was not very extensive at that time. Peter was awake to this.

“Where’s your money?”
“I’ve forgot,” etc.

The groom, as we said before, had come, but the hundred guineas were not forthcoming. With some people the wish of royalty is said to be a command, but nothing less than an order upon the bank would satisfy Peter Carter. No other “Open Sesame” would unlock his stable door. We will not assert that our old acquaintance was familiar with the axiom which teaches that “there is no royal road to mathematics;” but he was sagacious enough to feel that there was no royal way in horse dealing. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” He had possession of the horse; he might never get the money. It was, therefore, to use a vulgar phrase, “No go with him;” that is, he would not let the horse go. The groom took his leave, greatly astonished and disgusted, and nothing more was ever heard of the matter. And all that we can say of it is, that Peter was no courtier, but a sensible man of business, while the gray continued to adorn the Liverpool, instead of the Royal, Hunt.

And then there was Abraham Lowe, queer, quaint, odd, original, eccentric, funny, unequalled Abraham Lowe, the huntsman to the pack. How well we recollect him! When we were a boy in buttons, that dress which ladies’ pages now usurp and monopolise, we had a taste for haunting and strolling about in the quiet lanes in the neighbourhood of Childwall. We used to fish in some of the pits in that quarter, that is, we threw in our line and hook, and watched them by the hour. But the result was always, like a bad banker’s account, “No effects.” Probably there were no fish in our favourite ponds. We have often thought so since. But “hark back” to Abraham Lowe! How we did reverence and respect him! And how we would listen to his peculiar stories, told in his own peculiar way! We liked and honoured everything at Childwall. We had a strong regard for that fine old fellow, Mr. Clarke, of Stand-house. We rather looked up to the vicar, Mr. Sharpe. We stood in some sort of awe of Bamber Gascoigne, of the Hall, with his proud and grave bearing. It was our pleasure to watch the members of the Childwall Club, at their afternoon sports, with bow and arrow. It was our delight, when our pockets could afford it, to devour the exquisite pies which they made at the inn near the church. But the vicar and the squire, Mr. Clarke, the club, and even the pies, all paled into nothingness when compared with Abraham Lowe. We used to wonder whether Nelson and Julius Cæsar could be at all like him. His horse always seemed to be the best horse in the world, and his whip the nicest whip, a little greasy or so, but that looked knowing. And with what especial reverence his hounds regarded him! They seemed to know and feel that there was but one Abraham Lowe in the world, and that he was their huntsman, and that they were his hounds. And how he would top the fences and gates! Nothing could stop him! And what a voice he had when he shouted “Tally ho!” or gave the “Hark!” when a hare was up before the dogs. And who so acquainted with every art, and trick, and dodge of his craft! How he always hit upon the right spot for affording the best sport! And who like him for recovering a lost, or keeping the hounds up to a cold, scent? Poor Abraham Lowe! It seems but yesterday that he stood before us with his tall, wiry figure; all sinew and bone, not a superfluous ounce of flesh about him. What a treasure of a character he would have been to Scott, or Dickens, or Thackeray! Reality is more wonderful than fiction. These word-painters never delineated anything equal to Abraham Lowe. Poor Abraham! he was run to earth himself at last, and we fear that, in his declining years, the world did not smile upon him as it did at first. Long after the time of which we have been speaking, we have seen him occasionally creeping about the streets of Liverpool with his limbs stiffer than they were of yore, his old top-boots terribly worn and patched, and his old red coat awfully stained and soiled. We always had a passing word with him, for the sake of “auld lang syne.” He never seemed to be downhearted, but maintained his independent character to the end of his days. There are, we trust, other old stagers left who will join us in saying, “Peace to the memory of old Abraham Lowe.” [2 - We copy with much pleasure the following note, which appeared in the Albion of the 2nd August, 1862: – “Old Abraham Lowe. —A Subscriber says, ‘The writer of the interesting papers upon Liverpool a Few Years Since has fallen into an error, which I wish to correct. “Old Abraham Lowe, the huntsman,” did not end his days in poverty, but enjoyed a small annuity, which was purchased for himself and wife for their joint lives, by subscription among those who had enjoyed his services for so many years. This fund was, I believe, under the care of the Messrs. Fletcher, of Allerton, by whose kindness and attention the latter days of the veteran were well protected.’”]

And talking of hunters, we were, in those days, occasionally visited by Nimrods of another sort, of the very race of the Centaurs themselves. We speak of the Cheshire squires of the old times, before railways were thought of, and when Macadam was a theorist. A Cheshire squire was then a remarkable peculiarity of the “old-fashioned English gentleman.” He was proud of his family, of his house, of his grounds, of his horses, of his dogs, and of everything belonging to him. But he was especially proud of his county, and his county was especially fond of him. He seldom passed beyond its borders, except when a fox led the hounds over them. He was constant in his attendance at the Hoo-green Club, where the conversation, not dazzlingly intellectual, generally ran upon proud Cheshire, and its right to be called proud Cheshire, with an occasional episode upon horses, dogs, the crops, the weather, and “the next meet.” A long frost in the winter was a terrible interruption to the comforts and habits of these gentlemen. At such times they would, although not often, get as far as Liverpool, to lay in a stock of wine and so forth. You might always know them. The Cheshire squire, when perambulating our streets in the old times, wore a low crowned hat, a cut-away green coat, and a stripy sort of waistcoat, buckskins, and top boots, looking very like what, in these days, is vulgarly called “a regular swell.” There were some curious characters, very original, spicy, and eccentric among them. How well we recollect old Sir Peter Warburton. He was for many years the master of the Cheshire Hunt. For some reason or other there was not much love lost between him and the people of Knutsford. One day, when the hounds were at fault, a sudden “Tally ho!” was heard from a distant hill. “Who’s that?” said the baronet. “A Knutsford man,” answered the huntsman. At the same moment a favourite dog gave tongue, and led off the pack in another direction. “Hark to Jowler! hark! hark!” shouted Sir Peter, adding with a most uncomplimentary emphasis, “I’d rather believe that dog than any man in Knutsford!”