In Rodney-street, likewise, lived Fletcher Raincock, one of the most
remarkable characters of his day. He had few equals in a legal capacity,
and no superiors in literary attainments. He had a most gluttonous
appetite for books, and read everything, old and new. He was a regular
“curiosity shop” in the variety of his knowledge, and could produce all
sorts of odds and ends at a moment’s notice, from all sorts of ancient
authors, unknown to and never heard of by other people. This made him a
most agreeable companion, his conversational powers being tremendous, and
set off, rather than impaired, by a spice of originality and
eccentricity, just enough to draw a line between him and the common herd
of ordinary and every-day people by whom he was surrounded. Like Yorick,
“he would set the table in a roar,” by the combined wit and wisdom which
he had ever at command. And while speaking of lawyers, let us digress
for a moment to mention another old giant of those times. We allude to
Mr. Hargreaves, who was for some years the Recorder of Liverpool, a deep
and profound lawyer, _haud ulli veterum virtute secundus_. He was
succeeded by James Clarke, who lived to a much later date amongst us.
Poor Clarke! We never thought him crushed down by the weight of legal
lore which he carried. But he was a man given to books, and had learned
much from them. A pleasant man in a party, too, he was, abounding in
anecdote and the passing stories of the day. And, on one point, we must
admit that he was unmatched. We never met with any one who possessed
more shrewdness and knowledge of the world. He had thoroughly studied
the volume of man as well as printed books, and we often point to his
career as a proof of the usefulness of this knowledge. He had a
remarkable coolness and calmness about his character, but we did once see
him put into a regular “fix,” in his own court, by an obstreperous
juryman, who would have a will of his own. A huge sailor and a small boy
were being tried for stealing an immense piece of cable. The sailor
threw it all upon the boy, and the Recorder, believing him, was charging
the jury to the same effect, when one of them rising, and hitching up his
trousers, commenced, “But, Mr. Recorder!” This was too much. Mr.
Recorder, electrified with indignation at being so interrupted, looked
his best thunderbolts at the remonstrant, who still, however, kept
sturdily on his legs, muttering protests against the opinion of the
bench. The spectators became excited and amused at such an unusual
scene, and a titter went round the court. This only added fuel to the
fire, and Mr. Recorder made another attempt to silence his persevering
assailant. “I tell you,” he exclaimed, “that from the evidence, the boy
must have been the culprit who carried off the cable; the law says so,
and I say so.” But the obdurate juryman had not yet done. He instantly
answered, “But, Mr. Recorder, I do not know what you and the law may tell
me, but common sense tells me that that boy could not even lift that
piece of cable from the ground, much less run away with it.” This was a
poser with a vengeance. It was a new and original view of the case,
which set all evidence at naught. The titter in the court grew into a
regular burst of laughter, which nothing could check. The poor Recorder
was fully nonplussed and nonsuited, and the jury acquitted the boy
without a moment’s hesitation.
And here, if we may descend from barristers to solicitors, let us render
a tribute of respect to the memory of a fine old fellow, a practitioner
in the latter branch of the legal profession. We speak of George Rowe,
of whom we knew much, and nothing but what was admirable. He was a warm
friend and a delightful companion. He loved the good things of this
world, but he liked others to enjoy them with him. He was fond of
society, and in his own house kept, we always thought, the best table in
Liverpool. But we were going to speak of him as a lawyer. We cannot
fathom the exact depth of his reading in Coke, Blackstone, and so forth.
We leave his head, to speak of his heart. And in this point of view, we
can mention several things which will prove that, unless lawyers in
general are greatly maligned, George Rowe was a miracle of a lawyer, in
allowing the milk of human kindness to flow so largely through his
nature. We recollect an instance in which he offended and lost an old
and valuable client, because he refused to make a will for him which he
thought unjust towards the gentleman’s own family and relations. And
more instances than one could we tell of in which he worked, and included
even expensive papers, documents, and stamps, all “free gratis for
nothing,” for poor and deserving parties who had solicited his help in
the expectation that they were to pay for it on the usual terms. There
may be others in the profession, and we trust there are many, equally
liberal and kind-hearted. But knowing it of him, we tell it, and we add
further, that, in our voyage of life, we never met a kinder, a warmer,
and a truer friend. We honoured him in life, and in death we treasure
his name and memory.
In Queen-square lived another family, called, with a different spelling,
Roe, and of most respectable standing were they, among the substantial
old stagers of the town. In the same locality resided Colonel Graham,
and also another party upon whom we must bestow a somewhat longer notice.
This was Mr. John Shaw, commonly called Jack Shaw, a man of immense
wealth and intense vulgarity. Never was there such a sacrifice to the
golden calf as that betrayed, not simply by the elevation of such a
person to the highest municipal honours, and the civic chair, but in
giving him an influence which he held undisturbed for years. He was
positively known by the sobriquet of “the King of the Council,” or “King
Jack.” His grammar was truly _à la_ Malaprop. On one occasion we
recollect hearing him, when wishing to be fine, call the old constables
his “mermaids,” instead of his “myrmidons.” At another time, when he was
sitting on the bench, the Town-clerk observed to him that a sentence
which he was about to pass would be contrary to the Act of Parliament,
when the magisterial despot silenced his functionary by retorting, “D—
your Acts of Parliament. What cares I for your Acts of Parliament?” He
had a habit also of invariably pronouncing the word “digest” as if it
were “disgust.” One day, at his own table, he had a waggish friend of
his, Carruthers, dining with him. The fish was not very good, as Jack
always dealt in the cheapest market. Carruthers rather turned up his
nose at the savour, but his host fell to with the greatest vigour,
observing, “Oh, I can disgust anything.” “Yes, by —, that you can,”
exclaimed C., with a roaring laugh. Presently, however, Jack paid him
off, as he thought, with compound interest. “Carruthers, my boy, how
many shirts a week do you wear?” said he. “One every day, and sometimes
more,” was the answer. “Why, man,” was Jack’s rejoinder, “what a dirty
hide you must have. One serves me a fortnight.” Such were the municipal
pleasantries of the municipal monarch of his day. We believe that it was
the same worthy potentate who once threatened to “_slat_ an inkstand at
the head of a Jew, who was a witness before him, if he did not tell him
what his Christian name was,” and he would have said the same thing to a
Turk or a Hindoo.
We believe it was the same Jack who once complained to the late Egerton
Smith that he had not reported something that he had said fairly, when
that respected editor facetiously replied, that “if he ever grumbled
again, he would report everything he uttered on the bench or elsewhere,
_verbatim et literatim_, exactly as he delivered it.” But our readers
must not suppose that because, by some strange metamorphosis more
wonderful than any related by Ovid, this awful Jack was translated into a
Town-Councilman, we had, therefore, a whole council of such men. Far
from it. Jack was a pelican in the wilderness, a thing out of place, an
accidental nuisance, how and why admitted into that body, it is
impossible now even to guess. As a whole, and with this exception, the
old Town Council of Liverpool consisted of some of the first and most
respectable and most respected men in the place. Its fault was, that it
was too exclusive; like the late Whig cabinet, too much of a family
affair. It did its work well in its day; we may, indeed, say remarkably
well, considering its irresponsibility. But a change was demanded with
the changing times. We sometimes question, however, whether we have
improved the class of men. Then it was selection, without election; now
it is too often election, without selection. But the present system has
this great advantage: a black sheep is not a perpetuity. We can get rid
of him at the end of his three years, and that is something, and a great
something.