We have already said that, in the days of which we are speaking, the
Cheshire side of the Mersey, now bridged to us by steam, was a _terra
incognita_ to the general inhabitants of Liverpool. Almost as little was
known of Aigburth, Childwall, Knotty Ash, Walton, West Derby, and so
forth. Our fashionables were then satisfied to live in their comfortable
town residences, without looking upon a country house and garden, and
hothouse, as necessary to their existence. And we question whether they
were not as happy as, we are certain they were more sociable and
hospitable than, their more refined and degenerate children. We had not
so many sets, cliques, and coteries. Men were more sincere than flashy
in those times, and their entertainments more solid than showy. But we
must not omit to give a “local habitation and a name” to some of our old
leaders. The Hollinsheads lived then, and for many a day after, in the
big family house near the canal. Some few respectable families lingered
in Oldhall-street, to which the venerable Mrs. Linacre, who lived through
so many generations, stuck to the last. Mr. Drinkwater, the father of
Sir George, inhabited a large house in Water-street. Jonas Bold lived
splendidly at the lower end of Redcross-street. The market at that
period was held round St. George’s church, and chiefly in the space then
contracted by a row of houses standing between it and the Crescent, in
the rear of which stood a narrow, winding street, called Castle Ditch,
communicating with Lord-street, then very narrow, and with no pretentions
to attract admiration or even notice from the casual passenger, although
the shops in it were always among the best in the town. In Church-street
lived the old and respectable family of the Cases, now represented by Mr.
J.D. Case, formerly a member of our town council, and at present a
resident in Cheshire. His father, George Case, was for many years the
leader of the Tory party in the ancient town council, and was, without
exception, the best chairman of a public meeting whom we ever met with.
Clayton-square was a strong resort of our leading and substantial
merchants. Many a happy day have we spent in what was then the splendid
mansion of the Rodie family. Kind, magnificent, and munificent in their
hospitalities, but now, alas, without a representative of even the name
surviving. Dr. Currie, so celebrated in his day, and so celebrated yet,
lived in Basnett-street.
Bold-street had its Tobins, Aspinalls, Dawsons, etc. That kind-hearted
man, Rector Renshaw, lived here in a corner house, with its door opening
upon Newington-bridge. A little farther, on the opposite side, was the
house of the famous John Foster, the most influential, as he assuredly
was the cleverest, man of his day; the father of the generation who have
lived and died amongst us, abused, every one of them, for their name, but
admitted, all and each, to have been gifted men in their several callings
and professions. Opposite to the house of Rector Renshaw was that of
Harry Park, as we familiarly called him, the Abernethy or Astley Cooper
of Liverpool; as a surgeon, we believe, second to no man of his day. At
the very next door lived Dr. Brandreth, of whose eminence, or
pre-eminence, as a physician, it is impossible to speak too highly. In
all our wanderings over, and sojournings in, different parts of the
world, we never remember to have met with a medical man whose standing
was so thoroughly ascertained, admitted, and appreciated. And his
position was as elevated in the social as in the medical world. There
was no appeal against the fiats which Fashion issued from her seat in
Bold-street. We now come to Slater-street, then only partially built
upon. Here lived the Myers family, and here resided Mr. Tobin—at a much
later period, Sir John.
In Seel-street was Mr. Perry, the first dentist of his day and locality;
and next door to him lived the tremendous Mrs. Oates, the best
instructress of small children in the rudiments of English whom the world
has ever seen. She had the knack of measuring baby capacity, and of
drawing out all that it contained, helped thereto, doubtless, by a
concentrated essence of birch-rod-look which she constantly wore in
school-hours, and which had “no mistake” written upon it in large
letters. At all events, her name was celebrated at that day in all our
public schools, as the best grounder and trainer of the young idea from
whom they ever received recruits. But now we are in Duke-street, one of
the most fashionable streets in the town at that remote period, and for
some years afterwards. Here lived Mr. Whitehouse, and Mr. Peter Ellames.
A little higher up resided a glorious old soul, Mr., afterwards Sir
William Barton, as hearty a true Briton as ever walked on shoe-leather,
and who had many experiences to tell of the West Indies in general, and
Barbadoes in particular; and many also were the jokes tossed off at his
expense. There used to be a nigger song quoted against him, extemporised
by the black poets, it was said, on some occasion when he had lost a
horse-race in Barbadoes. Some of the jingling rhymes we recollect ran
thus:
“Massa Barton, Massa Barton, we are sorry for your loss;
But when you run again you must get a better oss!”
And then, as they rushed away at his supposed angry approach, came—
“Run boys, run, run for your life,
For here comes Massa Barton with his stick and knife.”
At a later period, when Sir William was mayor, a very laughable
occurrence took place at his own table. A gentleman, rising to propose
his worship’s health, thus commenced his speech, “Addressing myself to
you, sir,” etc., but it so happened that Sir William, who was no enemy to
a jolly full bottle, or two if you like, was, by this time, in a
tolerably muddy, misty, and oblivious state of mind, having no tangible
recollections at the moment, save and except of his Barbadian
experiences, where “you sir” was the term of contempt used by the master
to the slave. Up jumped his worship, his eyes sparkling with wine and
wrath, and with much hiccuping, exclaimed, “You sir, you sir, good
heavens, you sir, that I should have lived to be called you sir!” Then
down he bumped, looking like Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, rolled all into one,
but continuing to start up and interjectionally to shout, “You sir!”
until he fell asleep and slipped under the table. Nobody, however,
laughed more heartily the next morning at the scene than did the mayor
himself, who had returned from Barbadoes to Duke-street.
A few doors from Barton lived John Bridge Aspinall, a man much esteemed
by all in his day, princely in his hospitalities, and with a heart and
hand open to every call of charity. Then came Leather, Naylor, Black,
Penkett, and a crowd of solid and substantial men, much looked up to and
regarded at that time. But whose noble mansion have we here? Built by
one of the Lake family, it was subsequently, for many years, the
residence of a townsman whose name was identified with Liverpool, and
who, comparatively speaking, but lately departed from amongst us. We
talk of John Bolton, a man who worked his own way up from poverty to
riches, and then lived in the most magnificent way, and in so becoming a
manner that he might have been born to the magnificence in which he
lived. No one knew the value of silence better than Mr. Bolton. He had
not received much education, but he saved appearances by making it an
invariable rule never to open his mouth on a subject he did not
understand. But we must stop to-day in the catalogue of our worthies.
It may sound to some of our young readers like a dry chronicle of names.
But never mind them. There are still some old stagers, like ourselves,
left, and they will be delighted with this flight back to the men and
things of their youthful days. Like veterans, we still love the clash of
arms, and to fight our battles over again; and we much mistake if
Liverpool were not at least as remarkable then for its guiding and
leading spirits as it is now.