A little higher up than Colonel Bolton’s, but on the same side of
Duke-street, stood the noble palace mansion of Moses Benson, one of the
merchant princes of the old times of which we are speaking, with its
gardens and pleasure grounds, bounded on one side by Cornwallis-street,
and on the other by Kent-street, and extending backwards to St.
James-street. In Duke-street also lived his son, Ralph Benson, one of
the pleasantest and most agreeable men we ever met with, but somewhat,
indeed, too much of a Lothario. After his father’s death he resided at
Lutwyche, in Shropshire, became connected with the turf, and represented
Stafford in several parliaments. His wife, Mrs. Ralph Benson, was an
Irish lady, of good family,—a Ross Lewin, we believe,—a charming person,
handsome, and accomplished, who gave delightful parties, where all the
wits and fashionables of the day used to assemble. And here we must say
that the beaux of those times were beaux indeed. There are none such to
be met with at the Wellington-rooms now, or seen at the windows of the
Palatine Club. The Littledales, Hamiltons, Duncans, Dawsons, Lakes,
etc., of that generation,—where are they now?—were then a list of fine
young fellows. And all the parties were so set off by the red jackets
and blue jackets of our brave defenders, who made strange havoc among the
ladies’ hearts. Among the staff-officers who figured at them all, how
well we remember the names and faces of Moultrie, Cox, Oisted, Higgins,
and a host of others. And let us not forget the naval aid-de-camp of the
Duke of Gloucester, Captain Browne, whose fine manly bearing and noble
person must still be impressed upon the memories of many of our older
readers. He was a true specimen of the British sailor, deeply respected
by all who knew him, as well by landsmen as in naval circles. A
generation later, if we may take such a jump, we had, among the
staff-officers quartered here, Bainbrigge, now a general, and one of the
ablest officers in the service, and one of the cleverest men out of it.
There was Peddie, also, a delightful man among those with whom he was
intimate. Nor must we forget William, we should say Major William,
Brackenbury, a charming fellow, as the ladies said, and a rattling,
pleasant, agreeable companion, as all admitted, the life and charm of
every party, equal to a good song, and foremost in the dance. But what
miracles does time work! Major Brackenbury, and his charger, and his
dashing uniform, and his waving plume left Liverpool, and we lost sight
of him for a long season. Years elapsed, when we went on a visit to a
friend, who lived in a remote village in a far-off corner of the country.
One day two strangers were announced. They were a deputation from some
missionary society, and had come to invite our host to attend a meeting
to be held that evening at the village schoolroom. They were grave
looking persons; hair combed down, black coats, white ties, and all the
rest of it. As they entered, we were sure that we had seen the
countenance of one of them before. We looked at him, and he looked at
us. The recognition was mutual, and at the same instant. “By Jove,
Brackenbury,” said we. “Ah, —!” exclaimed he, not less warmly, but less
profanely; and in an instant, after a hearty hand-shaking, we went back
at rattling railway pace to the old times, the old people, and the old
memories, to the bewilderment of both of our friends, but clearly to the
utter horror of his grave companion. But we could not stop till we had
it all out, nor till then could we proceed to business. He died soon
afterwards. Poor fellow! he was a good soldier in his soldier days. And
his closing career was that of a good Christian. Peace to his memory!
And when we go, may those who survive us be able to say the same of us.
But to return to our story. In Duke-street, from which he subsequently
removed to Walton Hall, at that time likewise lived Thomas Leyland, the
eminent banker, who, from small beginnings, worked his way, by energy,
industry, and perseverance, to the possession of immense wealth. He was
a man of amazing shrewdness, sagacity, and prudence. When the north
countryman was asked for the receipt of his ale, which was always good,
he answered, “There’s just a way of doing it, man.” And so it was with
Mr. Leyland. He had “just the way of doing things.” We will not compare
him to the animals which are said “to see the wind,” but, by some
intuition, instinct, or presentiment, call it what you will, he seemed
always to have a warning of any coming storm in the money market, and
trimmed and steered the ship, and took in sail accordingly. He was a
fine-looking man, with what some thought a stern and forbidding, but what
we should call a firm and decided look. We remember him with favour and
gratitude. We received many civilities, and not a few substantial
kindnesses, from him in his day. We omitted to state that what is now
the Waterloo hotel, {38} at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, was then the
mansion of the Staniforth family. The son, Samuel, lived to be an old
man amongst us, and was once the mayor of Liverpool, and afterwards sunk
down into being the stamp distributor of the district. He was a
gentlemanly kind of person in society, but of a strangely austere and
forbidding aspect, the most vinegar-visaged man we ever beheld. And the
index was a correct representative of the inner man. When the election
poet wrote of him “Sulky Sam Staniforth,” he drew his character in those
three words. By his marriage with a most estimable lady, he was closely
connected with the Case, Littledale, and Bolton families. His son came
in for the great bulk of Colonel Bolton’s wealth, to the exclusion of his
own relations; one of the happily rare instances in which a north
countryman forgets his own blood in the disposal of his property.
We now approach Colquitt-street, in which resided that shrewd, plodding
merchant, Gilbert Henderson, the father of our respected and able
Recorder. Here, also, lived Thomas Parr, who afterwards retired into
Shropshire. His house was disposed of by a tontine, and, at a later day,
became the Royal Institution, from which so many youths have gone forth
to encounter the storms or pluck the honours of the world. Here,
likewise, lived that true-hearted man of the old school, Peter Whitfield
Brancker, one of the worthiest among the worthies of the days we write
of. He was one who eschewed anything like nonsense, and was highly
gifted with common sense. What he said he meant, and what he did he did
with all his heart and soul. Few thought that he had so much kindness
beneath his somewhat blunt and bluff bearing; and many called him
selfish, when he laid up for his family what others threw away upon
vanity and ostentation. We always looked upon him as one of the best men
of the day; and, although he was a silent man in general company, he was
far before most of our merchant princes in reading and intellectual
attainments. In Rodney-street, then only partially built upon, lived Mr.
Leicester, and also that “fine old English gentleman,” Pudsey Dawson, who
was the delight of our boyhood, as we listened to his powers of talking,
and watched, with amazement, his capabilities for taking snuff. He was
the father of, we may say, besides his other sons, a race of heroes.
William, who was in the Royal Navy, distinguished himself greatly in the
East Indies, by the capture, after a desperate action, of a French
frigate, which had long been an annoyance and a thorn in the side of our
trade in that quarter. Another fell, gloriously, in Spain. Charles, a
lamb in society, a lion in battle, was killed at Waterloo. If our memory
holds good, both of these last mentioned were then in the 52nd, a crack
regiment in the famous fighting brigade of those gunpowder times. Noble
old Pudsey Dawson! How he would talk by the hour, of wars and rumours of
wars, to the circle which would gather round him at the Athenæum, until,
as he turned from one to another, the whole ring in which he moved might
be tracked by the overflow of his snuff-box. And what a horror he had of
Napoleon and Frenchmen and everything French. It was well for them, as
he used to say, that he was not at Blucher’s elbow when he entered Paris,
it being his firm belief that the earth would never be quiet, until that
city of trouble and confusion was blotted from its face. But Liverpool
society could not point to a man of whom it was prouder, or one more
respected, esteemed, or honoured, than this same Pudsey Dawson. All men
liked him, and we did not make an exception.