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CHAPTER XVI

It would be a strange picture of “Liverpool a few years since” which did not exhibit Mr. (afterwards Sir) John Gladstone in the foreground of the canvas. He had, in those early days, already taken his position, and was evidently destined to play a conspicuous part in this busy world. We never remember to have met with a man who possessed so inexhaustible a fund of that most useful of all useful qualities, good common sense. It was never at fault, never baffled. His shrewdness as a man of business was proverbial. His sagacity in all matters connected with commerce was only not prophetic. He seemed to take the whole map of the world into his mind at one glance, and almost by intuition to discover, not only which were the best markets for to-day, but where there would be the best opening to-morrow. What was speculation with others was calculation with him. The letters which from time to time, through a long series of years, he sent forth, like so many signal-rockets, to the trading world, under the signature of Mercator, were looked upon as oracular by a large portion of the public. And there is little doubt that his authority was often sought and acted upon, in commercial legislation, by the different Administrations by which the country has been governed during the last half-century. We recollect, many years ago, standing under the gallery of the House of Commons with the late Mr. Huskisson. A sugar question was under discussion, and Mr. Goulburn was hammering and stammering through a string of figures and details, which it was clear he did not comprehend himself, and which he was in vain labouring to make the House comprehend. Mr. Huskisson smiled, as he quietly observed, “Goulburn has got his facts, and figures, and statistics from Mr. Gladstone, and they are all as correct and right as possible, but he does not understand them, and will make a regular hash of it!” Mr. Gladstone was himself in Parliament for some years, and was always listened to most respectfully on mercantile affairs. If he did not make any very distinguished figure, it was because he did not enter upon public life until he had reached an age at which men’s habits are formed, and at which they rather covet a seat in the House of Commons as a feather or crowning honour of their fortunes, than as an admission into an arena in which they intend to become gladiators in the strife, and to plunge into all the toils, and intrigues, and bustle of statesmanship. Had our clever townsman entered Parliament at an earlier period, and devoted himself to it, we have no doubt that he would have been found a match for the best of them, and might have risen to the highest departments of the Government. His name is well represented amongst us still. He left four sons behind him, one of whom, the Right Honourable William Ewart Gladstone, is second to no statesman of the day, either in promise or performance, eloquence or abilities. Mr. Gladstone lived in Rodney-street, in a house subsequently taken by Mr. Cardwell, the father of our late clever and gifted representative. So that, by a remarkable coincidence, Mr. W. E. Gladstone and Mr. Cardwell, severally the best men of their standing, first at the university, and now in the list of statesmen, are not only from the same county of Lancaster, which produces so large a proportion of the able men in every profession, but from the same town, and the same street in the same town, and the same house in the same street. Did ever house so carry double, and with two such illustrious riders, before? Nor must we forget to mention Mr. Robert Gladstone, an amiable, kind-hearted man, and one of the most agreeable persons ever to be met with in society, always anxious to please and be pleased.

And there was Dr. Crompton, a fearless, outspoken man, English all over in his bearing. He was the father of the new judge, whose appointment enabled proud Liverpool to say that, as before in Judge Parke, she had furnished the cleverest occupant of the bench, so now she may boast that the two best are both her sons. And what a glorious old fellow, kind, clever, benevolent, well-read, well-informed, and well-disposed was Ottiwell Wood. Who can forget him? His Christian name was a curious and rare one. He was once a witness on some trial, when the judge, rather puzzled in making out his name, called upon him to spell it. Out came the answer in sonorous thunder: “O double T, I double U, E double L, double U, double O, D.” His lordship, if puzzled before, was now, if we may perpetrate such an atrocious pun, fairly “doubled up,” amidst the laughter of the court. We lately, in our travels, met with a gentleman at a party in a distant county. His name, as he entered the room, was announced, “The Rev. Ottiwell – .” When we had been introduced to him, we ventured to ask him where he got it. “Oh!” he replied, “I was so called after an old Lancashire relation of mine, as worthy a man as ever lived, Mr. Ottiwell Wood, of Liverpool.” We struck up an alliance, offensive and defensive, and “swore eternal friendship” on the spot. We recollect another gentleman, also called Wood, who once, playing upon the names of some of our fashionables, at a party where he was amongst the guests, thus exclaimed, as he entered the room, “There are, I see, Hills, Lakes, and Littledales, it only wanted Wood to perfect the scene.”

The Littledales here mentioned were then, as the representatives of the family still are, among the most thriving and prosperous of our leading people. They brought both intelligence and industry to their work. They owed nothing to chance, for they left nothing to chance. And we may truly say of them, that, to whatever branch of commerce or the professions they devoted themselves, they deserved and adorned the success which they achieved. And here we cannot pass on without relating an excellent bon mot from the lips of Judge Littledale, the brother of Anthony, Isaac and George, of the last generation, all, in their different ways, distinguished men amongst our old stagers. Some years since, a gentleman, now one of the most prominent of the rising barristers on the Northern Circuit, had, when almost a boy, to appear before the judge in some legal matter. We do not understand the jargon and technicalities of the law. The opposing party, however, moved that, in a certain case, “the rule be enlarged.” To this our young friend demurred, alleging, according to the letter of his instructions, that “he had never, in the whole course of his experience, heard of a rule being enlarged under such circumstances.” “Then,” replied the judge, with the blandest of smiles, “young gentleman, we will enlarge the rule and your experience at the same time.” Never was anything better than this uttered in a court of justice. We heard the story from the young gentleman of such great experience himself. It made an impression on him that will never be effaced; and, doubtless, when a judge himself, he will repeat the anecdote for the benefit of the horse-hair wigs of the next generation.

But, to keep to Liverpool, there must be many yet alive who remember Mr. D’Aguilar among the celebrities and fashionables of the town. A tall, fine-looking, portly man he was. Mrs. D’Aguilar was a charming person in society, the life of every party, and retained to the end of a long life all the vivacity and cheerfulness, as well as the appearance, of youth. She seemed never to grow older. One of their sons, Mr. Joseph D’Aguilar, was decidedly among the wits of the day, and had many a sharp saying and good story attributed to him. Another was General D’Aguilar, who distinguished himself in the Peninsular war, and is the soldier, scholar and gentleman, all three combined in one. Mrs. Laurence, so long the queen of fashion in this locality, was one of their daughters, and, like her brothers, inherited a large portion of intellect from her parents. The patroness of literature in others, she has herself just gone far enough into its realms to excite our regret that she has not gone further. A kindred spirit of Mrs. Hemans, we often wish that she had not only extended her sympathies to that gifted genius, but had, with her own pen, roamed with her, “fancy free,” into the regions of poesy, and emulated her inspirations.

And here let us turn aside to embalm the memory of another old stager, well known and much liked in his day, William Rigby. A gentleman in his bearing, endowed with no slight powers of conversation; clever, witty, social, convivial, he was a most popular man in his circle. And, besides, he played a hand at whist second to none, which always made him a welcome guest at houses where card tables appeared. He was a tall, handsome man, with eyes twinkling with the humour and jocularity which made him such an agreeable companion. And shall we forget Devaynes, that nonpareil of an amateur in the conjuring line? Talk not to us of your wizards of the north, or of the south, or of the east, or of the west. Devaynes was worth them all put together. How we have stared in our boyish days, half in wonder and half in alarm, at his wonderful tricks, perfectly convinced in our own mind that such an accomplished master of arts must assuredly be in league with some unmentionable friend in the unseen world. As you sat at table with him, your piece of bread would suddenly begin to walk towards him. Before you had recovered from this astonishment your wine glass would start after it, next your knife and fork, and then your plate would move, like a hen after its chickens, in the same direction. And then how he would swallow dishes, joints of meat, decanters, and everything that came in his way. He was a perfect terror to the market-women, who really believed that he was on the most intimate terms with the unmentionable old gentleman aforesaid. Having made his purchases and got his change for his guinea or half guinea, he would put the coin into their hand, and say to them, “Now, hold it fast, and be sure you have it;” and then, before leaving them, he would add, “Look again, and be certain,” when, the hand being opened, there was either nothing in it, or perhaps a farthing, or a sixpence. And even when the joke was over, and he had left the market, they eyed the fairy money both with suspicion and alarm, lest it should disappear, and were never easy until they had paid it away in change to some other customer. How well we remember these things! The performer of them was a quiet, unassuming man, much respected by all who knew him, and certainly one of whom it could not be said that he was “no conjuror.”

CHAPTER XVII

We have spoken in a former chapter of the oil lamps, which, “few and far between,” just made darkness visible, and of the old watchmen, who were supposed or not supposed to be the guardians of our lives and property. The latter deserve another word. The old watchmen, or “Charleys,” as they were generally called, were perfect “curiosities of humanity,” and the principle on which they were selected and the rules by which they were guided were as curious as themselves. They seem to be chosen as schoolmasters are still chosen in remote villages in the rural districts, namely, because they were fit for nothing else, and must be kept off the parish as long as possible. They were for the most part, wheezy, asthmatic old men, generally with a very bad cough, and groaning under the weight of an immense great coat, with immense capes, which almost crushed them to the ground, the very ditto, indeed of him of whom it was written,

 
“Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door.”
 

They carried a thick staff, not so much a weapon of offence as to support their tottering steps. They had also rattles in their hands, typical, we presume, of the coming rattles in the throat, for they were of no earthly use whatever. Each of them was furnished with a snug box, in which they slept as long as possible. But, if ever they did wake up, their proceedings were of a most remarkable kind. They set forth round their beat with a lantern in their hands, as a kind of a beacon to warn thieves and rogues that it was time to hide, until these guardians of the night had performed the farce of vigilance and gone back to snore. Moreover, like an army marching to surprise an enemy with all the regimental bands performing a grand chorus, they also gave notice of their approach to the same kind of gentry by yelling the hour of the night and the state of the weather with a tremulous and querulous voice, something between a grunt and a squeak, which even yet reminds us of the lines in Dunciad;

 
“Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes night hideous: answer him, ye owls.”
 

But, to be sure, the wisdom of our forefathers had a double object in view when they ordered this musical performance to be got up. It not only saved the poor old watchmen from conflicts in which they must have suffered grievously, but it served another purpose, and so “killed two birds with one stone” with a vengeance. Only fancy the happiness of a peaceful citizen, fast asleep after the toils and fatigues of the day, to have his first slumber disturbed that he might be told that it was “half-past eleven o’clock, and a cloudy night,” and then, by the time that he had digested this interesting intelligence and was composing himself on his pillow again, to be again aroused to learn that it was now “twelve o’clock, and a starlight morning,” and so on every half-hour until day-break. The vagaries of the veritable queen Mab, with “tithe-pigs’ tails” and all the rest of it, were only more poetical, not the least more rest-disturbing, than the shouts of these bawlers of the night. Truly, the watch committee of those days might have taken for their motto, “Macbeth does murder sleep.” And many were the funny tricks played upon these poor, helpless old creatures, by the practical jokers who then so abounded amongst us. Sometimes they would, when caught napping, be nailed up in their boxes, while occasionally, by way of variety, their persecutors would lay them gently on the ground with the doors downwards, so that their unhappy inmates would be as helpless as a turtle turned upon its back, and be kept prisoners till morning. In short, “a Charley” was considered fair game for every lover of mischief to practise upon, and their tormentors were never tired of inventing new devices for teazing and annoying them. Latterly, however, as the town grew larger, the veteran battalions, the cripples, wheezers, coughers, and asthmatics, were superseded by a more stalwart race, who looked as if they would stand no nonsense, and could do a little fighting at a pinch.

The last of these men, whom we recollect before the establishment of the new police, had the beat in the neighbourhood of Clayton-square. Many of our readers must recollect him. He was a six-foot muscular Irishman. “Well, Pat,” some of the young ones, who are middle aged gentlemen now, used to say to him, “Well, Pat, what of O’Connell?” On such occasions Pat invariably drew himself up, like a soldier on parade, to his full height, looked devoutly upwards, and then solemnly exclaimed, “There’s One above, sir – and – next to him – is Daniel O’Connell!” And it was a name to conjure with in his day! We respected, as often as we heard of it, that poor fellow’s reverence for his mighty countryman, and felt that, had we been Irish, we also should have placed that name first and foremost in our calendar of saints, martyrs, patriots and heroes. Who is there now of his name and nation who can rise and say, “Mr. Speaker, I address you as the representative of Ireland.” But, forward. How the old times, and the old things, and the old oil-lamps, and the old watchmen have all passed away and disappeared! And the old pigtails, too, have vanished with them. When we first escaped from petticoats into jacket and trousers, every man, young and old, wore a hairy appendage at the back of his head, called a pigtail, as if anxious to support Lord Monboddo’s theory, that man had originally been a tailed animal of the monkey tribe; for surely our wholesale re-tailing, if we may so speak, could have been for no other purpose. Pigtails were of various sorts and sizes. The sailors wore an immense club of hair reaching half-way down their backs, like that worn by one of Ingoldsby’s heroes, and thus described by him, —

 
“And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick,
Like a pump handle stuck on the end of a stick.”
 

Those of the soldiers were somewhat less in magnitude, but still enormous in their proportions. And quiet citizens wore jauntily one little dainty lock, tied up neatly with black ribbon, and just showing itself over the coat collar. It was a strange practice, but custom renders us familiar with everything. At last, however, Fashion, in one of her capricious moods, issued her fiat, and pigtails were curtailed. But some few old stagers, lovers of things as they were, and the enemies of all innovation, saw revolution in the doom of pigtails, and persevered in wearing them long after they had generally disappeared. The pigtail finally seen in society in Liverpool dangled on the back of – ; but, no, no! never mind his name. He still toddles about on ’Change, and might not like to be joked about it, even at this distance of time. Its fate was curious. Through evil report and good report he had stood by that pigtail as part and parcel of the British Constitution, the very Palladium of Magna Charta, Habeas Corpus, and the Bill of Rights. But the time for a new edition of The Rape of the Lock arrived. He dined one day with a party of gay fellows like himself. The bottle went freely round, until, under its influence, our unlucky friend fell fast asleep. The opportunity was seized upon. After some hours’ refreshing slumber he awoke, and found himself alone. On the table before him was a neat little parcel, directed to him, made up in silvery paper, and tied with a delicate blue ribbon. What could it be? He eagerly opened it, and found, Il Diavolo! that it was his pigtail. “Achilles’ wrath,” as sung by Homer, was nothing compared with the fury of the wretched man. He stormed, he swore, he threatened, but he could never discover who had been the operator who had so despoiled him, like another Samson, of his pride. Let us hope that remorse has severely visited the guilty criminal. Its work, however, must have been inwardly, for outwardly he is a hale, hearty, cheerful-looking old man, who still carries himself among his brother merchants as if he had never perpetrated such an enormous atrocity.

This, we said, was the last of the pigtails seen in Liverpool society. But we did meet with another, the very Ultimus Romanorum, after a lapse of many years, under very peculiar and interesting circumstances. We were walking in Lime-street, when all at once we caught sight of a tall, patriarchal, respectably-dressed man, some three-quarters of a century old, with a pigtail. It was like the ghost of the past, or a mummy from Egypt, rising suddenly before us. The old gentleman, whose pigtail seemed saucily to defy all modern improvements as the works of Satan and his emissaries, was, with spectacles on nose, reading some document on the wall. Being naturally of an inquisitive turn of mind, and especially anxious at that moment to find out what still on earth could interest a pigtail, we stopped to make the discovery. Ha! ha ha! It nearly killed us with laughter. It was the electioneering address of Sir Howard Douglas. No wonder the old man’s sympathies were excited: it was pigtail studying pigtail, Noah holding sweet communion with Methuselah or Tubal Cain. We often marvel within ourselves whether that last survivor of the pigtail dynasty is yet alive, and whether he believes in steam-ships, and railways, and electric telegraphs; whether indeed he believes in the nineteenth century at all, or in anything except Sir Howard Douglas and pigtails.

Hair-powder, which also used generally to be worn in those days, went out of fashion with pigtails. It was in allusion to this practice that the old song laughingly asked,

 
“And what are bachelors made of?
Powder and puff,
And such like stuff,
Such are bachelors made of —
Made of!
Such are bachelors made of.”
 

Even ladies wore hair-powder. The last, within our memory, so adorned, was Mrs. Bridge, the mother of Mr. James Oakes Bridge, who lived in St. Anne-street, and a fine, stately, venerable lady of the old school she was.

A terrible time was it for hair-dressers, who then carried on a thriving business, when pigtails and hair-powder were abolished at one fell swoop. It was in reality to them like the repeal of the Navigation laws, in idea, to the ship-owners, or free-trade to the farmers. We were amusingly reminded of it only a few weeks since. Being on our travels, with rather a wilderness of hair upon our head, we turned into a barber’s shop, in a small town through which a railway, lately opened, runs. The barber had a melancholy look, and seemed to be borne down by some secret sorrow, to which he gave utterance from time to time in the most dreadful groans. At length he found a voice, and rather sobbed than said, “Oh sir, these railways will be the ruin of the country!” Did our ears deceive us? Or was the barber really gone mad? We were silent, but, we suppose, looked unutterable things, for he continued, “Yes, sir, before this line was opened, I shaved twenty post-boys a day from the White Hart, and now if I shave one in a week I am in high luck.” Unhappy shaver, to be thus shaved by the march of improvement! And inconsistent George Hudson! thou talkest of the vested rights of shipowners and landlords, and yet didst thou ever stay thy ruthless hand and project a line the less that country post-boys might flourish, and country barbers live by shaving their superfluous beards? O! most close shaver thyself, not to make compensation to thy shavers thus thrown out of bread and beards by thy countless innovations!

But it is time that we should finish this chapter, and we will do so with copying an anecdote touching hair powder, which greatly struck us as we lately read it in the History of Hungary. Some great measure was under discussion in the diet of that country, when Count Szechenyi appeared in the Chamber of Magnates, on the 28th of October, 1844, in splendid uniform, his breast covered with stars and ribbons of the various orders to which he belonged. “It is now thirty-three years,” said he, “and eleven days since I was sent to the camp of Marshal Blucher. I arrived at the dawn of day, and at the entrance of the tent found a soldier occupied in powdering his hair before a looking-glass. I was rather surprised, but, on passing on a little further, I found a page engaged in the same way. At last I reached the tent of the old general himself, and found him, like the others, powdering and dressing his hair also. ‘General,’ said I, ‘I should have thought this was the time to put powder in the cannon and not in the hair.’ ‘We hope,’ was the reply, ‘to celebrate a grand fête to-day, and we must, therefore, appear in our best costume.’ On that day the battle of Leipsic was fought. For a similar reason, gentlemen, I appear here to-day, dressed in this singular manner. I believe that we are to-day about to perform one of the brightest acts in the history of our nation.” The address was received with loud acclamations. But hair-powder and gunpowder have, we believe, long since been divorced, even in the camp. It was inconvenient. It was found, as touching the former, that, on a hot day, it was impossible “to keep your powder dry.”