In Mount Pleasant lived, in those good old times, Sir George Dunbar, the
representative of an ancient race in Scotland, and a model gentleman,
both in appearance and manners. He was originally in business in
Liverpool; but when the family title descended to him, the pride of
ancestry was stronger than the pride of “the merchant prince” within him,
and he retired from vulgar trade, cut sugar hogsheads and rum puncheons,
and was no more seen on the “Rialto,” discussing markets and inquiring
the price of barilla and pearl ashes. It was a false move on the part of
the worthy baronet. No rank would have been sullied by remaining in the
firm of which he was the head. His junior partners, Ewart and Rutson,
became not only eminent, but pre-eminent, amongst our giants of that day,
and achieved a name and reputation known to the ends of the earth, and
are still well represented amongst us. The son of the latter is a large
landowner in Yorkshire, universally respected; while, of the family of
the former, one son, William, has long been in parliament, and another,
Joseph Christopher, was a candidate for Liverpool at a recent general
election. But the Dunbars have altogether vanished from the scene. The
best of them that we knew, poor Tom Dunbar, was one of the handsomest and
cleverest, and certainly the most brilliant and the wittiest, of mankind.
He had abilities for anything, for everything, but he never cultivated
them; at all events, he never used them. He wanted either application or
resolution. It might be the pride of his father in another shape. He
was a lounger where he might have been a leader. He was satisfied to
flash and dazzle as a meteor in society, while men much less
intellectually endowed, but of a more persevering and plodding spirit,
passed over him, and became persons of mark, position, and distinction.
It was mortifying to his friends to see him ever with the game in his
hands, yet always throwing up the cards. His active life amounted to
just _nil_; but his sayings, his polished witticisms, his delightful
retorts, his splendid and pungent repartees, in English, Greek, and
Latin, would fill volumes. They are still treasured by the survivors of
the circle of which he was the life and joy and pride, and brought out
every now and then, with a sadly smiling countenance, as one of Dunbar’s
gems: just as on high and grand days we go to the oldest bin for a bottle
of the best vintage. And everything was original with him. He never
borrowed nor repeated. It was fresh and fresh with him, as often as you
met him.
But we must pass on. Russell-street and Clarence-street had no existence
in those days. In St. Anne-Street resided the old families of Bridge,
Fisher, and Rogers. Here also lived Mr. Blundell, the clergyman; Mr.
Smith, at a later period of Fulwood Lodge; and Mr. Haywood, the father of
the eminent cotton-broker of that name. Close to St. Anne’s Church was
the house of a celebrated character amongst us, both then and long
afterwards. We speak of Mr. Thomas Wilson, profanely called Tommy
Wilson, the dancing-master, by his wicked pupils. A good fellow was
Tommy, although a strict disciplinarian in “teaching the young idea,” not
“how to shoot,” but how to turn out its toes and go through the
positions. But, unfortunately, Mr. Wilson grew too ambitious, and,
instead of contenting himself with fiddling for boys and girls to dance
to, would preside over orchestras and concerts, and cater for the
amusement of the public, by which we fear he did not grow too rich. He
was a worthy, warm-hearted man in his way, and somewhat of an original,
and withal possessing the good opinion of all who knew him. Nor must we
forget to state that in St. Anne-street likewise lived Mr. Rutson, of
whom we have already spoken. His partner, Mr. Ewart, resided in
Birchfield. In Soho-street was the house of Mr. Butler, somewhat too
convivial in his habits, but one of the most thorough gentlemen we ever
met with. His son is the present Mr. Butler Cole, of Cote and Kirkland
Halls, both in this county. In Rose-place, then a fashionable suburb,
more country than town, resided Mr. Lake, who subsequently retired to
Birkenhead Priory, and afterwards to Castle Godwyn, in Gloucestershire.
He was the father of the Captain Lake whose wound from a Minié rifle, at
Weedon, was recently mentioned in the newspapers. A little further out
towards the green fields, now all streets, we come to the mansion of a
noble old worthy of those times, Edward Houghton, the father of Richard
and Raymond, of “that ilk,” so well known and so much respected amongst
us. How well we remember his amiable and benevolent countenance! He had
a kind word for everybody, and was prompt to do kind acts too. And what
a staunch sportsman he was, seldom missing his bird, and devoted to his
work. And then what a famous breed of pointers he had, jet black and all
black. How they would set and back set. How they would range the
stubble and never flush a partridge nor run a hare. How they would “down
charge” at the sound of a gun, without a word being said. We wonder
whether any of the descendants of this celebrated race of dogs are yet in
being.
But, before we pass beyond the boundaries of the old borough, let us hark
back a little, and enumerate a few more of the ancient worthies, or
“standards,” of the town whom we have omitted in the foregoing catalogue.
There were the Boardman, Harding, Bancroft, Downward, and Lorimer
families. Nor must we forget to mention that admiration of our boyhood,
William Peatt Litt. He always seemed to us to be the original of the
lines—
“Old King Cole was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he.”
A munificent, magnificent, generous, hospitable soul indeed was Mr. Litt.
There are few like him now. And there were several families of the
Byroms. The Naylors and Bournes, the grandfathers of the present
generation of those names, lived in Duke-street, and were among the most
respectable and respected of our citizens. There, also, lived Mr.
Patrick Black, a fine old stager even at the time we speak of. We can
see him yet before us. Picture to yourselves a kind and venerable man,
in a cloak enveloping his whole body from head to foot, a gold-headed
cane in his hand, and a wig. Oh! such a wig, a regular wig of wigs, as
white as the whitest of hair-powder could make it, of a transcendental
cauliflower appearance, and in size far beyond the proportions of the
largest Sunday wig assigned to Dr. Johnson in the pictures which have
come down to us. We recollect once, when about some six years old,
getting into an awful scrape about this said venerable gentleman and his
megatherium wig. We were walking with a small friend of our own age and
inches, when suddenly the apparition of Mr. Patrick Black, arrayed as we
have described him, came in sight. Our admiration, as usual, burst forth
in the far from respectful and almost profane exclamation, “There goes
old Black with his white wig.” Hardly were the words out of our mouth,
when a gentle tap came upon our shoulders, and a soft whisper fell upon
our ear, “Master —, if it would be any particular pleasure to you, I will
ask my father to wear a black wig in future.” We looked round, and, O!
horror of horrors! were we not thrown into real agonies, and almost
hysterics, when, in the person uttering this mild remonstrance, we
recognised the daughter of the old gentleman whose wig we had been
blaspheming? We stammered and hammered at an excuse, and then ran for
our life. And for many a long day we disappeared round the nearest
corner as quickly as possible if any of the Black family came in sight of
us in our walks. The joke, however, got wind, and it was long before our
martyrdom and persecution ceased, even in our own circle, where “Old
Black with his white wig” was thrown into our teeth whenever we were
inclined to be obstreperous and naughty. Neither must we forget the name
of Brian Smith, who lived in Bold-street, and whose very look was a
picture of benevolence. John Leigh, too, the attorney, a man of gravity
and silence, but with a very intelligent countenance, lived then in
Basnett-street. As we shall have occasion to mention his name in a
future chapter, we shall merely allude to it here. And there was the
firm of M’Iver, M’Viccar, and M’Corquodale, never mentioned by us
youngsters without the addition of the awfully bad joke about the old
woman, a mythological old woman doubtless, going into their office and
asking if they were the house of M’Viper, M’Adder, and M’Crocodile.
But who is this “Goliath of Gath” whom we see approaching, and whom, if
he had lived in these days and been a poor man, Barnum would certainly
have bagged, and caravaned, and made a fortune out of as a giant? It is
Roger Leigh, as kind-hearted a man as ever lived, with an amiable and
benevolent smile ever playing upon and irradiating his huge countenance.
He was a general favourite, as he walked amongst us like Gulliver among
the Lilliputians. And what a character he was at an election! His
activity and energy in such times were tremendous. But Roger was rather
a paradox in his politics. A Roman Catholic in his religion, he was what
was then called “a Church and King man” to the backbone; a Tory of
Tories, in days when Tories were not the faint-hearted chickens which we
now see them. Poor old Roger Leigh! Like Sir Abel Handy, he had always
some scheme on the anvil for getting rich, but we fear that, like the
rest of us, he sometimes took two steps backward for one forward. The
stone of Sisyphus is the type of most of us. But, rich or poor,
successful or otherwise, peace to his memory! We never heard harm of
him. He had everybody’s good word. We wish that the world contained
many more like him.