Liverpool a few years since Part 6

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 compet.i.tion, colossal plate-gla.s.s 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 sc.r.a.pe. 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 a.s.sert 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 Caesar 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. .h.i.t 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 d.i.c.kens, 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 pa.s.sing 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." {160}

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 pa.s.sed 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!"

Sir Harry Mainwaring was another of these antediluvian worthies and wonders. He took the direction of the hounds after the death of Sir Peter. He was a hard rider, and loved his gla.s.s of port after the fatigues of the day. At one time his const.i.tution was supposed to be somewhat shaken by these combined labours of love, and his medical adviser was called in. "Sir," said the doctor, "you are overtaxing your strength in every way. You should go out with the hounds one day less each week; and you must reduce your allowance of wine. You are destroying the coats of your stomach." "Then, hang me, doctor, if I do not fight in out in my _waistcoat_," said the quaint, eccentric old baronet. And truly, medical science was baffled in this instance; for, instead of following the advice of the physician, he added another to his hunting days per week, and doubled his portion of wine, laughed at the doctor, and grew fat and strong. And let us add another story about Sir Harry. It speaks for his heart, and deserves to be told. He called at Hoo-green one day to return a bad five pound note which he had received from the innkeeper at his last visit. "I hope," he said, "that it will be no loss to you, and that you know from whom you received it?" "Oh yes! Sir Harry, it's all right; I took it from Mr. -," he answered, naming a poor curate in the neighbourhood. They were standing by the fire, and Sir Harry had still the note in his hand. In an instant it was torn to fragments and in the flames, while he said, "Poor fellow! I can stand the loss of it better than he can; and see that you don't make him uncomfortable by telling him anything about it. He might feel uneasy at being in any way obliged to me;" and in another moment he was on horseback and galloping down the lane. Honour to the memory of this brave old baronet! In this one act, so beautifully done, there was a combination of pure benevolence and true delicacy of feeling which could not possibly be surpa.s.sed. It could not have been done more kindly; it could not have been done more gracefully. The heart of the wild huntsman was in its right place.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Travelling was both a difficult and a dangerous operation in former days.

We do not know when a direct communication by coach between Liverpool and London was first established; but we have been told that some sort of stage was started to Warrington and Manchester in the year 1767. We have indeed read in an old Liverpool _Chronicle_, January 21st, 1768, that John Stonehewer, a driver of the said stage, had broken his thigh by a fall from the box, a very likely accident in those old-fashioned days of rough stone pavements. Many of our readers must recollect with what persevering tenacity the shaking old road between Liverpool and Prescot was maintained as part and parcel of the British const.i.tution, to the great loss and damage of our more modern coach proprietors, whose vehicles were more tried and injured by the eight miles of paving stones between these two towns than by all the rest of the journey to the metropolis. The surveyors stood by the paving stones to the last.

Liverpool always adhered to the old ways, however rough they might be.

Macadam, "the Colossus of roads," as some wit called him, was an innovator; what right had he to make improvements which would militate against the trade of coach-builders and menders? Macadam! What a short reign was his?

"Come like shadows; so depart!"

Hardly had he grasped his sceptre firmly in his hand, and persuaded the people to mend their ways, when another and a mightier magician waved his wand, and all was changed. George Stephenson and railways burst upon us, and Macadam's meteor flight was brought to a sudden close. The fast man gave way to the faster.

The first coach which we can ourselves recollect travelling by was of a very long shape, and moved at a very slow pace. Its destination was Birmingham, at which we ultimately, after many delays and dangers, managed to arrive. It had many "odoriferous names," as Mrs. Malaprop would say, among which "the cheap and nasty" was the most prominent and usual. The coachman was a fat man, with a low-crowned hat, and a large nosegay stuck in his b.u.t.ton-hole, the very man, we should say, who sat for the picture of old Mr. Weller in _Pickwick_. What business he had to transact on the road! He seemed to be the universal agent for the universal affairs of all mankind, between town and town, and village and village. And what stoppages, not only at public-houses, but "here, there and everywhere," had the miserable pa.s.sengers consequently to undergo!

And what universal flirtations he used to carry on with the universal womankind who dwelt by the wayside! He appeared to have reached high pressure or breach-of-promise point with some inmate of every cottage on the road. And then when at last we reached Birmingham, into what universal fleadom we found that we had plunged when we went to bed! We have eschewed sleeping at Birmingham ever since. A Birmingham bed is a perfect "Cannibal Isle," with a more carnivorous population than can be met with in any part of the globe. There is even less danger of being devoured in New Zealand itself.

But a new era sprang up in the coaching business. The "Bang-up" was started for Birmingham, and the "Umpire" for London. Those were splendid conveyances compared with their slow moving predecessors, combining, as they did, speed, safety, regularity and comfort. They were literally the timekeepers for the several towns and villages through which they pa.s.sed.

They started to a moment, arrived at each stage to a moment, and reached their final destination to a moment. The regularity of the dial could not have been greater. We have heard of the man who boasted that his clock regulated the sun, and truly the old Umpire and Bang-up seemed to regulate the clock. But "where are they now?" An echo answers, "Where?"

Enter, as we have said before, George Stephenson, and exit Bretherton.

Railways came in and coaches went out. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. We are all for speed now. The march of improvement first became a run, then a gallop, and now it has increased into a flight, beating wings and the wind. But, nevertheless, it was pleasant travelling in those old days, "All right," said the guard; smack went the whip; "off she goes!" What a team! How the bits of blood do their work! Even the experienced hands of the veteran Jehu can hardly tame their fire and check their speed.

And now the horn blows, we dash into the market-place of some country town, to the delight of the congregated idlers and gazers of the place.

What a bustle among the grooms and stable boys. Parcels are handed up and down; the smoking horses are unharnessed; fresh ones put to, all in less time than it takes to tell it. Off again! We sweep at speed past the village green, dogs barking, pigs squealing, geese hissing, children shouting, men huzzaing, women smiling. Through the winding pleasant lanes we go, with their lovely hedgerows on either side, the spire in the distance, the mansion in the park, the glorious old trees, the n.o.ble woods, the delicious lakes, the sparkling streams, altogether a landscape of sweetness and beauty which no country but merry England can set before the traveller's eye. All this, however, was lost to us when the last of the coaches disappeared from the road. We now fly, but we do not see.

We are, as it were, shot forth from station to station at a speed becoming the spirit of the age. But one consequence of all this is, that the rising generation know nothing of the old high-ways and by-ways of their country, its many beauties, its shady lanes, its lovely nooks and corners, the sudden turns in our old lines of road which used unexpectedly to open to us the most charming prospect, and then as suddenly to hide it, only to reveal to us some other vision of beauty on the fair face of nature spread before us. These were exquisite treats to us old travellers. We miss them, but we are not regretting. We like to keep up with the pace of the age.

And what early hours our grandfathers and grandmothers used to keep!

What an anarchical, chaotical, daring, radical innovator, the very _aes triplex circ.u.m pectus_ man of old Horace, was that bold spirit considered to be amongst them who first wrote four o'clock, instead of mid-day, upon his "ticket for soup." Then came dinner at five, at six, and all hours, until day and night changed places, and late hours and indigestion became triumphant, until wise people learned that the best plan was to lay in a stock of solids at lunch, and then only trifle and coquet with the grand banquet of the evening.

But how different was the style of visiting in those days from what it is now. About five or six o'clock you might see the ladies on a visit to the house of some one of their number, who was giving what was called "a rout" to her female friends. We speak advisedly when we say her female friends, because it was as difficult to press a gentleman into the service on such occasions as to catch an ostrich or a real live rhinoceros. A treasure, indeed, was the man, and a star, and an idol, who would come to these parties. Dr. Gerard, once mayor of Liverpool, was an especial pet with the ladies in St. Anne-street for accepting all their invitations to these meetings. But what was a rout? It was a muster of all her female friends, with the _rara avis_ of a gentleman, if, like Mrs. Gla.s.s's hare in the cookery book, one could be caught by the heroine or lady-hostess of the evening. The custom was to crowd as many guests as possible into a small room, or a large one, as the case might be. As the hour for a.s.sembling arrived, there was a tremendous crush of sedan-chairs towards the mansion where the party was given.

There were several stands for these old-fashioned conveyances in Newington-bridge. Those ladies who were not so magnificent in their notions, or more moderate in their pocket, might be seen making their way to the festival with what were called calashes over their heads, a reduced form of the covering still raised over gigs on a rainy day. When the party, or a sufficient number to commence operations, had mustered, tea and coffee, rather weak than strong, and bread and b.u.t.ter, rather thin than thick, were handed round. This ceremony performed, the business of the evening fairly began. The lady of the house made up her card tables. Some would sit down to whist, of course, in those old days, long antediluvian patriarchal whist, silver threepences the stake, and nothing more. Short whist had not then come in, with gas, steam railways, and electric telegraphs. But the favourite game with the ladies was one called quadrille or preference. Perhaps they liked it better than whist because it was carried on with more talking. We never could fathom its mysteries. In truth, we never tried to dive into them.

All that we recollect of it is, that it went on with a dreadful clamour about the "pool," "basting," "spadille," "manille," "ponto," and "basto;"

some of which phrases sounded very like Egyptian hieroglyphics turned into language, while others had a sporting smack about them. Indeed we are not certain whether "ponto" is not altogether a fiction or confusion of our memory. When the lady of the house began to tire, or fancied that her company began to flag or look fatigued over their cards, she gave the signal, and in rushed the servants with the trays, on which were spread refreshments of a very mild and innocent character. Ices were almost unknown in those days. Weak lemonade and weaker negus, with jumbles and ratafia cakes, were handed round, and, as they were nibbled and sipped at, Mrs. Gildart would vow that she was nearly ruined by a run of bad luck, which had impoverished her to the amount of two-and-sixpence. Dr.

Gerard would meekly affirm that he had had a most delightful evening.

Robert Norris would lay his hand upon his heart, and swear that he was always at the service of the ladies. Beau Sealy, still, we are told, a flourishing and vigorous plant somewhere near Bridgewater, would smile one of his demure smiles, and say ditto to Norris, ditto to Gerard. The hostess was delighted; the ladies were in raptures. Who like Norris?

Who like Gerard? Who, especially, like Sealy? Sealy being single, as he is single still. By this time all the nibbling and sipping were over.

The jumbles, and cakes, and negus, and lemonade had disappeared. The candles were burning low. There was a cry for the calashes, and a rush to the sedans, and "the feast of reason and the flow of soul" were at an end for that evening. And all this happiness, recollect, was achieved before nine o'clock. Our mothers and grandmothers were unrobing for the night before their gla.s.ses at the hour at which our modern belles are sitting before theirs, clasping the sparkling necklace, arranging the last curl, and practising the fatal smile which is to do such execution at the Wellington-rooms or some private party. We will not attempt to decide upon the charms of the ancient and modern _Houris_; but the _hours_ kept by the former were certainly more reasonable and seasonable.

They had the advantage of all "the beauty sleep," which is said to come before midnight.

CHAPTER XXV.

There must be many old stagers still surviving amongst us who can remember the two managers of the Theatre Royal, Messrs. Knight and Lewis.

The latter was the father of Mr. Thomas Lewis, so well known to the present and last generations. In _Tyke_ and similar characters Knight was unequalled; while Lewis was the best _Mercutio_ ever seen upon the stage. Both were gentlemen, and much liked in society. In those days, moreover, we had occasional visits from the celebrated John Kemble, and his as celebrated sister, Mrs. Siddons, when they were "starring it" in the provinces. Cooke, likewise, the predecessor of Kean in his peculiar line of characters, often appeared upon the Liverpool boards. He was not famous for his sobriety, and one night, being hissed for his usual sin, he rushed forward to the lights, and most unceremoniously told the audience that "he was not there to be insulted by a set of wretches, every brick in whose infernal town was cemented by an African's blood!"

This was a home thrust for our grandfathers. Fortunately for the offender, Lynch-law was unknown in those times, or he might have been the author and hero of a tragedy of his own.

And what glorious singers used to warble in our music-hall in those days!

We can just remember them, although singing to us, in our babyhood and childhood, was very like "wasting their sweetness on the desert air."