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_LIVERPOOL_
_A FEW YEARS SINCE_:
* * * * *
BY
AN OLD STAGER.
* * * * *
* * * * *
THIRD EDITION.
* * * * *
* * * * *
LIVERPOOL:
ADAM HOLDEN, 48, CHURCH STREET.
* * * * *
1885.
CONTENTS.
Page
CHAPTER I.
Liverpool fifty years since. Goree warehouses. The 1
docks. Extent of the town. Ships in dock. Ships for
sea. Outward bound
CHAPTER II.
War. The old “Princess.” The Press-gangs—their 6
unpopularity—Jack’s race for life
CHAPTER III.
Captain Colquitt. Convoys. Privateers. Dublin packets. 12
The deserts of Cheshire
CHAPTER IV.
Volunteers. Captain Bolton. The Marquis of Londonderry. 18
General Benson. General Fisher
CHAPTER V.
Prince William of Gloucester. The Prince of Wales. The 23
Duke of Clarence. Scene at the Mayor’s dinner
CHAPTER VI.
Old stagers—Dr. Currie, John Foster, Dr. Brandreth, Sir 29
William Barton, John Bridge Aspinall, John Bolton
CHAPTER VII.
Moses Benson. Fashionables. Military beaux. Major 35
Brackenbury. Thomas Leyland. Pudsey Dawson
CHAPTER VIII.
Fletcher Raincock. James Clark. The Recorder non-suited. 41
George Rowe. Jack Shaw. The old Corporation
CHAPTER IX.
Sir George Dunbar. Tom Dunbar. Thomas Wilson. Edward 47
Houghton. Mr. Black’s white wig. Roger Leigh
CHAPTER X.
Joseph Leigh. Shakespeare Tom. William Harper. Bamber 54
Gascoigne
CHAPTER XI.
Society. Sets. Roscoe—how appreciated. Anecdote. Dr. 61
Shepherd
CHAPTER XII.
Sir Joseph Birch. Arthur Heywood. Tom Lowndes. Colonel 68
Nicholson. Rushton. Captain Crowe. Night Action. Peter
Tyrer
CHAPTER XIII.
William James. Silvester Richmond. Anecdotes. Joseph 76
Daltera. Puns. Jokes. Sermon
CHAPTER XIV.
Practical Jokes and Jokers. Committee of Taste—their 83
doings and misdoings. Quarrel with Mr. Staniforth—how
settled. Their Chairman. Improvement of the present age
CHAPTER XV.
The old tower in Water-street. Committee of Taste 90
again—more of their pranks. William Wallace Currie—his
character and writings
CHAPTER XVI.
Sir John Gladstone—his character. Ottiwell Wood. Judge 97
Littledale. General D’Aguilar. Devaynes, the conjurer
CHAPTER XVII.
Old watchmen—tricks played upon them. Pigtails. The last 104
and very last of the pigtails. Hair powder. Barbers
ruined. Marshall Blucher—preparing for the Battle of
Leipsic
CHAPTER XVIII.
The old Corporation—their exclusive spirit—their doings. 113
Management of public affairs. Anecdotes. Corporation
dinners—county guests. Honest John Watkins, and his
defeat at Waterloo
CHAPTER XIX.
The Clergy. Blair’s sermons. The Rev. Thomas Kidd. The 122
Rev. Thomas Moss. Anecdotes. The Bottle and the Wood.
Chat Moss
CHAPTER XX.
Rector Roughsedge. Anecdotes. The Bishop astonishing the 130
Clergy. The Rector’s one joke. St. George’s Church. The
Mayor’s Procession. Maternal discipline. After Church.
Lord Street. The Athenæum steps
CHAPTER XXI.
Jonas. Mr. Pitt. The Duke. Archdeacon Brooks. The Rev. 138
James Hamer. Dr. Hodgson—in Liverpool—in Oxford—his
character, career, and brilliant talents
CHAPTER XXII.
An Election. Parties in the Town and Council. General 145
Tarleton. Old Freemen. General Gascoigne. Bamber
Gascoigne. Conscience
CHAPTER XXIII.
Shops. Danson. Shower bath. The Liverpool Hunt. Peter 154
Carter and his gray horse. Abraham Lowe, the huntsman.
Cheshire Squires. Sir Peter Warburton. Sir Harry
Mainwaring
CHAPTER XXIV.
Old Coaches. Macadam. Coachmen. The Umpire. The 164
Bang-up. Pleasures of travelling on the old roads. Hours
kept by our grandfathers and grandmothers. Visiting.
Sedan Chairs. Routs. Going out and going home
CHAPTER XXV.
Theatres—the managers—actors—singers. Elliston. Lord 172
Nelson. George Bailey. Abolition of the Slave Trade.
Liverpool ruined. Liverpool revived. Conclusion
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
This little volume has been twice published, and this issue of it is in
ready response to the “third time of asking” by an appreciating public,
largely, as we imagine, made up of families associated in some way or
other with “Old Liverpool” as it appeared in the earlier part of the
present century.
The traditions of the “Good Old Town” naturally have an interest to many
of us who are also quite able and equally willing to estimate at their
full value the modern development and rapid progress of the “New City.”
“The inaudible and noiseless foot of time”
passes rapidly on, but even the days that are spent may
“As withered roses yield a late perfume,”
and so give us often very bright and happy retrospects.
Perhaps it may soon be a self-inspired and pleasurable task for someone
to take up the thread of the “Old Stager’s” story, and bring it down to
the present time. Meanwhile, let us hope that the kindly enterprise of
the publisher may be rewarded by a rapid demand for this little book, at
once of real interest to old Liverpool families and at the same time so
simple and sketchy in its style as to give it no place whatever in the
“records” of the community.
CLARKE ASPINALL.
LIVERPOOL, 1885.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
In the year 1852, _Liverpool a Few Years Since_, by “An Old Stager,” was
republished in “a more abiding form” than it had previously assumed in
the columns of the _Liverpool Albion_. The little book sold off rapidly,
notwithstanding its being somewhat expensive, as compared with the
wonderfully cheap publications of the day, and it is now out of print.
It has many a time and oft been suggested that a further and cheaper
issue would be acceptable to the Liverpool public, The publisher has,
therefore, assumed the responsibility of the present issue; and, learning
that such was his intention, I have ventured to “preface” the original
preface by a word or two in explanation of the circumstances and
surroundings under which the Author penned these sketches.
It is scarcely imparting information, to make known the simple truth that
the “Old Stager” in question was none other than the late Rev. James
Aspinall, M.A. Oxon, at one time Incumbent of St. Michael’s Church, and
more recently officiating at St. Luke’s, and afterwards transferred to
the Crown Rectory of Althorpe in Lincolnshire, where he continued to
reside until his death in 1861. The “Old Stager” was always a man of
great activity of mind and body, and could never be idle. Every moment
of his time was turned to some account; and thus the very remote sphere
of his parochial and magisterial duties in Lincolnshire never induced the
slightest dulness or discontent. With a Church, and a Chapel of Ease
three or four miles off, to serve, and with a tolerably large parish to
care for, the “Old Stager” was not without considerable clerical duty;
and, added to this, he most unwillingly undertook the responsibilities of
the magisterial office. Notwithstanding the avocations thus indicated,
time was always found for literary pursuits, for receiving and imparting
knowledge, for refreshing and renewing his powers of mind, in order to
the successful communication, either by voice or pen, of his thoughts and
ideas to his neighbours and to the general public. Amid the many written
utterances of the “Old Stager’s” ready and comprehensive mind, we must
enumerate these notes upon men and things in our good old town, penned
with very considerable pleasure to their writer, as being the jottings
down of his own personal experiences and recollections of a place and of
a people very deeply rooted in the affections of this true son of
Liverpool.
We well remember the bright and genial countenance of the “Old Stager,”
as he thought aloud upon his old and early associations. Liverpool was
his home, as against all other homes. His father had been its chief
magistrate so long ago as 1803. His sons, or some of them, had adopted
it as their abiding place; and thus, for several generations, this
thriving community seemed to the “Old Stager” to smile upon him and upon
his belongings, and as a consequence, not at all unnatural, the “Old
Stager” felt a devotion to the town, and towards its inhabitants, which
kept it and them ever in his grateful remembrance.
C. A.
LIVERPOOL, _January_, 1869.
PREFACE.
The original intention of the Author was to amuse the younger readers of
the _Albion_, by dashing off a few sketches of “men and things,” as he
recollects them in Liverpool a few years since. For this purpose all
that was worth telling, he thought, might be comprised in about two
papers, or chapters. The public, however, like hungry Oliver Twist,
revelling on the thin workhouse gruel, flatteringly asked for “more”; and
with this request he, not being of a nature akin to that of Mr. Bumble,
has willingly complied to the extent of his ability. Nor is this all for
which the naughty public is to be held responsible. The chapters having
been spun out to the length which they now occupy, greedy Oliver again
cries out for “more,” and demands that, instead of being left to die out,
and be forgotten, as the ephemeral occupants of the columns of a
newspaper, they shall be collected, and re-published in a more abiding
form; and once more our good nature triumphs over our prudence, and we
comply. Under such circumstances, the writer of these sketches and
reminiscences neither courts nor deprecates criticism; his only object in
perpetrating these “trifles light as air” was, he repeats, to set before
the rising generation a picture of the “good” old town, at the
commencement of the present century, and to show them how “men and
manners,” and customs and fashions, have changed since the times in which
their grandfathers “ruled the roast,” and were the heroes of the day. In
working out this design, the Author has had neither dates nor memoranda
to refer to, but has trusted entirely to his own powers of recollection,
even as far back as the period when he reached the mature age of six
years! It is satisfactory, however, to add that, although he has painted
wholly from memory, no one has yet disputed the accuracy of any of the
characters which he has drawn, the events which he has related, or the
anecdotes which he has revived. This may be fairly assumed as a
testimony in favour of their correctness. For the rest, he has only once
more to say, with Horace, “_Non meus hic sermo_,” etc.; that is, our
re-appearance is no fault of our own. Oliver Twist “has done it all,”
and must bear the blame.
LIVERPOOL, _October_, 1852.
CHAPTER I.
We are not great at statistics. We do not pretend to be accurate to an
hour in dates, chronology, and so forth. We write, indeed, entirely from
memory, and therefore may perhaps occasionally go wrong in fixing “the
hour for the man, and the man for the hour,” as we dot down a few of our
recollections of the “good old town of Liverpool,” from the time when we
cast off our swaddling clothes, crept out of our cradle, opened our eyes,
and began to exercise our reasoning powers on men and things as in those
days they presented themselves to our view. We think that our memory has
a faint glimmering of the illuminations which took place when peace was
made with Napoleon, in 1801. We also remember being called out of our
bed to gaze at the terrible flames when the Goree warehouses were burnt
down, and how we crept out of the house at day dawn, and rushed to see
the blazing mass and all its tottering ruins in dangerous proximity.
It might only have happened yesterday, so vividly is the scene impressed
upon our mind. But what was Liverpool in those days of early hours,
pigtails, routs and hair-powder?
The docks ended with George’s at one extremity and the Queen’s at the
other. There was a battery near the latter and another near the former.
Farther north was a large fort of some thirty guns, and halfway towards
Bootle, a smaller one with nine. The town hardly on one side extended
beyond Colquitt-street. The greater part of Upper Duke-street was
unbuilt. Cornwallis-street, the large house which Mr. Morrall erected,
the ground on which St. Michael’s Church stands, all were fields at the
time of which we speak. There was a picturesque-looking mill at the top
of Duke-street, and behind Rodney-street we had a narrow lane, with a
high bank overgrown with roses. Russell-street, Seymour-street, and all
beyond were still free from bricks. Lime-street was bounded by a field,
in which many a time we watched rough lads chasing cocks on Shrove
Tuesday for a prize, the competitors having their hands tied behind them,
and catching at the victims with their mouths. Edge-hill, Everton, and
Kirkdale were villages, as yet untouched by the huge Colossus which has
since absorbed them and transmuted them into suburbs. What pilgrimages
we children used to achieve to the second of these places, the very Mecca
of our affections, that we might expend our small cash upon genuine Molly
Bushell’s toffee. And what wonderful tales we heard from our nurses and
companions about Prince Rupert’s Cottage,—only lately demolished by some
modern Goth, under the plea of improvement! And then we crept on to peep
at the old beacon at San Domingo, thinking what a clever device it was to
rouse and alarm the country, never dreaming in our young heads of
telegraphs, and electric telegraphs, and other inventions, which have now
superseded the rude makeshifts of our forefathers. And what a grand
house we thought Mr. Harper’s, at Everton, now turned into barracks. And
Hope-street, now so central, then gave no hopes of existence. It was
country altogether. At one end of it were two gentlemen’s seats,
inhabited by the families of Corrie and Thomas, and far removed from the
smoke and bustle of the town.
But go we back to the docks. There were no steamers in those days to tow
out our vessels. The wind ruled supreme, without a rival. The
consequence was, that when, after a long stretch of contrary winds, a
change took place, and a favourable breeze set in, a whole fleet of ships
would at once be hauled out of dock, and start upon their several
voyages. It was a glorious spectacle. It was the delight of our younger
days to be present on all such occasions. How we used to fly about,
sometimes watching the dashing American ships as they left the King’s and
Queen’s Docks, and sometimes taking a peep at the coasters in the
Salthouse Dock, or at the African traders in the Old Dock, since filled
up, at the instigation of some goose anxious to emulate the fame of the
man who set fire to the Temple at Ephesus. This fatal blunder it was
which first gave a wrong direction to our docks, stretching them out
northwards and southwards _in extenso_, instead of centralising and
keeping them together. But we must not moralise. We are at the dock
side, or on the pierhead. The tide is rising, the wind is favourable,
“The sea, the sea, the open sea,” is the word with all. What bustle and
confusion! What making fast and casting off of ropes! How the captains
shout! How the men swear! How the dock-masters rush about! What
horrible “confusion worse confounded” seems to prevail! And yet there is
method in all this seeming madness. Order will presently come out of all
this apparent chaos. The vessels pass through the dockgates. Meat and
bread are tossed on board of them at the last moment. Friends are
bidding farewell! Wives tremble and look pale. There is a tear in the
stout-hearted sailor’s eye as he waves his adieu. But, “Give way, give
way there, my lads; heave away my hearties!” The vessel clears the dock,
passes through the gut, and then pauses for a brief space at the pier,
while the sails are set and trimmed. Then comes the final word, “Cast
off that rope!” and many a time have we, at hearing it, tugged with our
tiny hands until we have succeeded in effecting it, and then strutted
away as proudly as if we had just won Waterloo or Trafalgar. And now the
sails fill; she moves, she starts, there is a cheer, “Off she goes!”
dashing the spray on either side of her as soon as ever she feels the
breeze. And now all the river is alive. The heavy Baltic vessels are
creeping away. The Americans, always the same, are cracking along with
every stitch of canvas they can carry. The West Indiamen sail nobly
along, like the very rulers of the ocean. There are the coasters, and
the Irish traders, and packets, while the smart pilot-boat dashes along
under easy sail, here, there, and everywhere almost at the same time.
And so they go on, until, like a dissolving view, they are lost behind
the Rock, and we retire from our post, with the determination to be there
again when the same scene is repeated.