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CHAPTER XIV

In our last chapter we mentioned the names of some of the wits and illustrious in jest of whom Liverpool could boast a few years since. We now descend the scale, to speak of a class whom we would mildly call “the practical jokers.” The Spectator makes glorious old Sir Roger de Coverley horribly afraid of the club of Mohocks who, many years since, pushed their horse-play in the metropolis into positive ruffianism, and perpetrated the most savage outrages under the name of fun and frolic. But the sports of the Liverpool mischief-mongers at the commencement of the present century were of a much more harmless and innocent character. One young gentleman, who subsequently flourished as a grave old stager amongst us, had a passion for collecting, in a kind of museum, or “curiosity shop,” all the signs and signboards which struck his fancy; and it was said that he had a large muster of black boys, carried off from the different tobacconists’ shops in the town. And sometimes he varied the amusement in the following fashion: – In Pool-lane, now modernised into South Castle-street, was a famous ship-instrument maker’s shop, in the front of which was elevated a wooden figure of a midshipman in full costume, at which we have often gazed with fond delight in ancient days, and which we are now convinced must have been the original of the one which Dickens, in Dombey, makes Captain Cuttle contemplate with so much pride and pleasure. Somewhere in the same locality was one of the tobacconists’ shops of which we have spoken, with the then usual sign of a black boy over the door. Time after time would our funny and facetious friend substitute these signs one for the other, so that, when morning broke, the midshipman would shine forth in all his glory at the door of the snuff and tobacco store, while the black boy would be grinning in front of the ship-instrument maker’s premises. At last the joke wore itself out. The perpetrator of it never was discovered. He preferred to play his “fantastic tricks” alone, and kept his own secret. But there were also associated bodies for the performance of the same kind of mad pranks. One set of them formed themselves into what they dignified with the name of “A Committee of Taste,” although they and their friends called them, over their cups, “The Minions of the Moon.” Their object seemed to be to emulate and imitate the merry doings of Falstaff and his companions. They occasionally, however, pushed their jokes somewhat too far. There was a house in Daulby-street, then a sort of rus in urbe, or, rather, country altogether. It had a garden in front, and was ornamented with a verandah. This it appears did not please these fastidious gentlemen, and the owner was served with a notice, signed by “the Chairman of the Committee of Taste,” directing him to alter or remove it by a certain day. To this command he paid no attention. Well, the day arrived;

 
“‘The ides of March are come.’
‘Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.’”
 

The verandah was still there. But that very night, at a few minutes before twelve o’clock, a loud knock at the door called the owner of the house to the window which overlooked it. The moment he appeared, with his head and the nightcap upon it looming through the darkness, a cheer welcomed him from the opposite side of the street. Then came a pull, and smash, crash; the verandah, with all its trellis-work and ornaments, was gone. The rogues had sawed away the supports, made their ropes fast, and then, with wicked waggishness, summoned the gentleman of the house to witness the destruction of his offending property. We will chronicle another of the feats of the “Committee of Taste.” At that period Mr. Samuel Staniforth lived in the large house at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, afterwards converted into the famous Waterloo Hotel. Something about it, either a shutter, or a knocker, or a bell-handle, we have forgotten which, was excommunicated by this tasteful inquisition, and ordered to be removed. Mr. Staniforth was about the last man in the world to obey such a lawless mandate, being one of that class who, “if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, would not give one on compulsion.” He therefore treated the notice served on him with contempt. And now the battle began in good earnest.

 
“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.”
 

the thing denounced, whatever it was, was removed, then restored, and again removed, to be once more restored, and still in the original offending form, without an atom of alteration. And so the struggle went on, until Mr. Staniforth became highly exasperated, as well as extremely indignant at the persevering annoyance. Of this, the jokers, who met him with grave and sympathising faces every day in society, were fully aware, and only made thereby more resolute in their fun. In the extremity of his vexation he consulted George Rowe, the attorney, of whom we have made honourable mention in a former chapter. We speak from authority, for we had the story from Mr. Rowe himself, who used often to tell it with great glee. When the offended alderman had unbosomed all his griefs to the solicitor, and had urged him to exert all his vigilance to discover the offenders, and then to put in force all the terrors and pains and penalties of the law against them, the latter met the history of his sorrows with one of his good-natured and hearty laughs, to the great astonishment of his client, who certainly did not belong to the laughing portion of the creation. When he had settled himself into seriousness, he said, “Well, Mr. Staniforth, I suppose, after all, your object is to abate the nuisance, rather than trounce the sinners.” Staniforth, however, was not so sure that he would not like to do both, and “kill two birds with one stone.” But at last, after a long and serious confabulation, he was persuaded to leave the whole affair in the hands of the lawyer, who, indeed, would only undertake it on that condition. Now Mr. Rowe, although he had no guilty knowledge of the offenders, had a shrewd guess in his own mind, and, acting upon the impulse, wrote a note, desiring to have a conference with the chief captain of the knocker and bell banditti. They met, and on the next day glorious old George, sending for Mr. Staniforth, laid the result before him. The latter was exceedingly angry at first when he heard that the bold rogues, instead of being overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, still took up very high ground, being determined to make him capitulate on the immediate point at issue, but with a promise on their part that he should never more be annoyed by them on any other. At first he would listen to no such terms, regarding any treaty with the parties as little better than compounding for a felony. Gradually, however, he yielded to the reasonings of his adviser, and the agreement, without being duly signed and sealed, was honourably carried out on both sides. “And to whom,” we said to George Rowe, when sitting one day with him after dinner, with our legs under his mahogany, “to whom did you address your note when you wanted to have this celebrated interview with the Chairman of the Committee of Taste?’” “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure,” he answered, with a very thunder-clap of laughter, which almost made me tremble lest a blood vessel should burst or apoplexy ensue; “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure, who else could it be?”

But alas, alas! for the flight and power of time! Of the actors in this amusing scene, all have passed from the arena of busy life. We marvel whether any of the aforesaid “Committee of Taste” yet survive, to sigh or to smile over the wild pranks of their youth! But how is it that such follies are only remembered, not perpetrated, now? As Mr. Pickwick observed, when prosecuted for a breach of promise, men are very much the victims and tools of circumstances. When we look at the class to which the parties of whom we have been speaking belonged, we can find many reasons, without any boast of merit and improvement, which will explain why young gentlemen in these times should not roam through the streets by night, bent upon fun and mischief, for hours and hours. Forty or fifty years ago, men met together to dine about three o’clock. They had, consequently, not only a longer time to devote to the bottle, but also, when they broke up, excited by wine, some hours to get through as best they could, before they retired to bed. This would have a wonderful influence upon their conduct. Moreover we had only a few old watchmen in those days, who were as much alarmed at the approach of our “bucks,” as the travellers by an Eastern caravan at the appearance of the wild Arabs of the desert. Again, the introduction of gas for lighting the streets, instead of the old oil lamps which, “few and far between,” used to twinkle in the distance and just to “make darkness visible,” had a wonderful influence upon the habits of our young men. Some great authority on such matters in the metropolis calculated that, for enforcing order, one gas-lamp was equal, at least, to three policemen. There are many persons over whom the fear of being found out exerts a strong power. What they would do under the veil of darkness they strenuously avoid when its shelter is removed. The temptation may be strong, the will may be present, but the opportunity is wanting. These remarks, however, only apply to one class of society. But, when we make our survey more general, we must also take into account the march of knowledge, the increase of mechanics’ and literary institutes, and the spread of cheap and useful books among the masses. To the printing-press we doubtless owe much for our improved tastes and habits. Who, indeed, can calculate the might, the magnitude, and extent of its diversified influences and powers? It is our schoolmaster, our instructor, our guide, our guardian, our police, all in one. Praise and honour to those who wield the pen, so long as they use it for the benefit and advantage of their fellow-creatures. Ill-disposed persons may pervert it to be an instrument of evil. But who can tell the amount of its well-doing when directed to good? Truly did the wit observe, that the greatest stand ever yet made for the improvement and civilisation of mankind was the inkstand.

CHAPTER XV

Alittle back from Water-street, between it and St. Nicholas’s Church, stood an ancient Tower in those days. It was one of the remaining antiquities of Liverpool. It had originally belonged to the Lathoms of Lathom, and subsequently passed, by the marriage of the heiress of that family, into the hands of the Stanleys, some generations before the elevation of that illustrious house to the Derby title. At a later period it had become an assembly-room, and, last of all, by one of those strange vicissitudes to which all earthly things are liable, was a prison for debtors. But at the time we speak of there it was, as if frowning in gloomy strength upon the encroachments which modern improvements and the spirit of enterprise were making on every side of it, a grim old giant, the type, and symbol, and representative of other times. As we contemplated its massive walls or walked under its shadow, what reflections it was calculated to awaken within us. We were then too young for our mind to dwell very seriously or very long upon such topics, but we have often since thought within ourselves that, if stone walls had ears, and eyes, and tongues, what strange histories that old Tower could have told. It carried us back to what we call an age of romance, but what, in fact, was an age of stern and iron realities. What associations and recollections did the very sight of it conjure up within us! The monument of many centuries of glory and crime! In its day, although now merely an object of curiosity and a prison for debtors, the palace and fortress of nobles! In its day, perhaps, like other old castles within the land, the living grave, and the grave, when dead, of the guilty and innocent alike, of the ambitious and the victims of ambition, of heroes and saints, of martyrs and traitors, of princes and impostors, of patriots and conspirators! How often has the mailed chivalry of the middle ages rode forth through these gates in all its magnificence, pomp, and pride! How often has chained innocence been dragged through them to its dungeon’s depths, and to the shambles to which, perchance, they were the passage, feeling, as they turned upon their grating hinges and shut it from the world for ever, all the tremendous force of the “Hope no more!” which the Italian poet wrote over the entrance to his Infernal Regions! If, we repeat, its walls had tongues, what wonders could they tell, what secrets reveal, what mysteries unravel! What mighty or memorable names have resided, or been imprisoned and perished here! What strange things have been enacted within these gray old stones now crumbling into ruin, while the wronged and the wrongdoers have together passed to judgment! But the period for indulging such contemplations has long since passed away. The spirit of feudalism, after holding its ground for so many centuries, at last yielded to the genius of commerce, and the gloomy old Tower was sacrificed upon the altars of modern improvement. Carters and porters now shout and swear where stout old knights and ladies fair held high revelry; and sugar hogsheads, and rum puncheons, and cotton bales are now hoisted, and roll, and creak, and clash where prisoners once groaned and chains clanked. It is a new version of arma cedunt togæ.

But we are becoming grave; we moralise; we preach; Vive la bagatelle. Let us go back for a few moments to the subject of the last chapter, and speak a little more of those mischief-mongers who dignified themselves with the title of “The Committee of Taste.” We therein stated that Daltera was the understood or suspected head of the said Committee. On the same authority, neither better nor worse than the assertion of common report, it was whispered that, amongst its members, were some other dashing spirits of the day, to wit, Mr. William, alias “Billy Graham,” “Young Sutton,” as Mr. William of that ilk was always called, “Bob Pickering,” cum multis aliis, the multis aliis including some, we find, who are yet amongst us, and whom, therefore, we would not name for all the world, and so expose them to their children and grandchildren, who look up to them as models of gravity, propriety, and piety. One venerable gentleman, whom, from his confessions, we suspect to have been at least an honorary member, said to us only the other day, – and in such a free and easy and impenitent sort of way, that we verily believe that, with youth restored, and opportunity returned, and policemen and gas-lamps extinguished, he would soon be at his old pranks again, – “Daltera was always pre-eminent for good taste, and was, therefore, elected President of the Committee.” Finding that our friend was inclined to be communicative, we pressed him for more of his reminiscences, when he added, “They were fine fellows, and woe unto anything that came under their waggish displeasure!” They carried on, he told us, a long war, a repetition of that which has been already described between them and Mr. Staniforth, with Mr. Parke, the celebrated surgeon, touching the shape of his knocker. Dr. Solomon, who then lived in the large house at the top of Low-hill, had his grounds studded over with statues, of which he was not a little proud. They were voted to be not classical by the men of taste, and the decree went forth for their removal, and was carried out on the appointed night, when they were all taken from their pedestals, the “old charley” of the beat being either asleep, or feed or frightened into silence. And we must record another of their performances.

Our readers must recollect Mr. William Wallace Currie. He was not himself a man of jokes, and he was about the last man in the world to joke with. Well, he had an office for his business, upon the door of which was inscribed, in the usual way, “William Wallace Currie.” One morning, upon his arrival, he was utterly horrified to find into what the men of taste had transmuted or translated him. The introduction of a comma and the addition of a single letter astonished him with this new reading of his name and profession, “William Wallace, Currier.” He joined in the laugh, and there was an end of it. Nor is this the only play upon Mr. Currie’s name which we have to record. The late Egerton Smith, to whom be all honour and respect as the father of the Liberal press in this district, and for the honesty and independence and goodness of character which distinguished his long career, once made an admirable hit upon it, which, although it has been in print before, will bear repeating, and is worth preserving. When Mr. John Bourne, as worthy a man as ever lived, was Mayor under the old Corporation, Mr. Currie was one of his bailiffs; and Egerton, being asked on some occasion for a toast or sentiment, following the Lancashire pronunciation of their names, electrified the company by proposing, “Burn the Mayor, and Curry the bailiff.”

And now for one more witticism from Daltera, of whom we have already related so much. It was at the expense of the same Mr. Fogg, whose impalement by Richmond, in an electioneering song, we have immortalised in a former chapter. At a dinner given at Ormskirk by the mess of a regiment of volunteers, or local militia, in which Fogg was a subaltern, Daltera was among the guests. When the cloth was removed, Poor Joe, as was “his custom of an afternoon,” became very lively and exhilarated, and, fancying that the other was somewhat dull, suddenly turned to him, and slapping him on the back, exclaimed, “Come, Fogg, clear up!” amidst roars of laughter from the party. A veteran officer of the Guards, who happened to be one of the company, still tells this story with the greatest glee and pleasure, and looks back upon the day in question as one of the merriest and most amusing he ever spent.

But we mentioned the name of Mr. William Wallace Currie just now. We must return to him. He was not a man to be casually mentioned and then passed by. He was the eldest son of the great Dr. Currie. His abilities were above mediocrity, and his mind well-cultivated and stored with literature. He may be described as a reading man, in an almost non-reading community. As a speaker, he was ready, but not eloquent. He had more affluence of argument than command of oratory, but he never failed to express himself to the satisfaction of his hearers. In his own circle of society he was much esteemed. As a party leader, he was greatly respected by the public, who regarded him as that rara avis, an honest politician. His life confirms the verdict, for, with undoubted influence at his command, he never used it to subserve his own ambition or push his own private interest. That he was never in Parliament may be ascribed to his own modesty. We have heard of more than one borough where the electors would gladly have chosen him to be their representative. Mr. Currie is still remembered with strong affection by his friends, and, when they likewise have passed away, his name will yet survive for many a generation in the title-page of one of the most delightful books which we ever remember to have read. We speak of the Life of Dr. Currie, by his son. In reading it, we were charmed and fascinated by the letters and sentiments of the father, and so pleased with the setting in which these jewels were exhibited to us, that our only regret was, that the biographer did not, in executing his task so well, give us more of his own work, but left us to rise from the intellectual treat which he had set before us with an appetite rather whetted than satisfied by the feast which we had been enjoying.

We have said that the reading men in old Liverpool were few. Let us chronicle another of their names, Mr. Alexander Freeland, who still survives amongst us. His inquisitive mind has long since, we may say, made the tour of literature, and the stores of it which he has accumulated are surprising, as he unlocks the treasuries of his mind in the chosen circle before whom “he comes out.” We must also place another veteran, Mr. Henry Lawrence, in the ranks of both well-read and literary men. He always had a good seat in the intellectual tournament, and carried a good lance in the tilting of wit. He was never wanting to contribute his part, when present, at “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” To catalogue all his clever sayings would be an endless work. His conversational powers were brilliant and infinite. His wit was keen and of the purest order. We defy the young stagers of to-day to produce his match out of their ranks.