Some people have very strange notions of the duties of the historian and
the biographer. They fancy that our part is to suppress or distort the
truth, and to substitute flattery for it; that we should deal in
sickening and nauseous eulogy only,—
“In sugar and spice,
And all that’s nice,”—
and exert our energies in the vain effort to extract sunbeams from
cucumbers, or to make deal boards out of sawdust. The child, walking in
the churchyard, and reading the epitaphs, exclaimed, “Mother, where do
they bury the bad people, for I can only find the good ones here?” But
we are not epitaph-mongers, we are not flattery-spinners, we are not
eulogy-penners. We are not, we never were, a society of angels, and we
take men as we find them. We are not making a collection of fancy
sketches, to be all beauties. We are forming a cabinet of likenesses.
We took up our pen with this end in view, and we shall continue to work
it out. We shall tell “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.” We shall “nothing extenuate, and nought set down in malice,” but
state facts as facts, call a spade a spade, and describe men as they
were, not as they ought to have been. We have, of course, an object in
these prefatory remarks. We have. It seems that certain, it may be
well-intentioned, or it may be over squeamish, censors and critics are
bombarding us with good advice, to the effect that we ought in
chronicling the past to praise everybody; in other words, as we have
already hinted, to write epitaphs, not history. But, once for all, we
beg leave to state that we are not going to take this advice. We have,
however, two propositions to make in answer to it. The first is, that
those amiable persons who are shocked by our plain speaking, should just
skip our effusions; or, if that does not satisfy them, we will surrender
our task and pen and inkstand altogether to them, and allow them to begin
with the next chapter, and carry our work to a conclusion in their own
fashion, which we doubt not will be infinitely superior to our way of
putting our rough notes together, and stating our homely thoughts in
homely language. We trust that this offer will be accepted. We would
rather be learners than teachers, and shall be delighted to be convinced
that every common councilman of the last generation was a Chesterfield
and an Adonis, and every merchant a Lindley Murray and an Admirable
Crichton, miracles of wit, literature and learning. But we, at all
events, are not the Plutarch to record the mythology, not the history, of
these impossible prodigies and inconceivable wonders. And now we
proceed, until our critics volunteer to supersede us. But, verily, as we
return to our work, _vires acquirit eundo_, it grows upon our hands.
When first we undertook it, we had a notion that we could in a brace of
chapters dot down all our reminiscences of the times we speak of. But
here we are now, in Chapter XII, with as yet no port in view, and
scudding along with all sail set over the interminable ocean of
garrulity, and with our catalogue of worthies growing into a far greater
magnitude than that of Homer’s ships.
“Who goes there?” It is Mr. Birch, afterwards Sir Joseph, the father of
our late worthy representative. A noble-looking specimen of the merchant
prince and the “fine old English gentleman” was Mr. B., and much esteemed
and respected by all who knew him. And look at the tall, commanding
figure that now approaches. It is Mr. Brooks, the father of the
venerable Rector and Archdeacon of that name. And there were the
Walkers, who lived in Hanover-street, and who in their day were the very
tip-top of the tip-tops, and the head of all the gaiety and fashion of
Liverpool. And there were the Gregsons, ever one of our first and
leading families; and the Heskeths, and the Midgleys, and the Caldwells.
And Arthur Heywood, then a middle-aged man, has a foremost place in our
recollections. And there were the Rathbones, Bensons and Croppers, of
that generation, as brave-hearted and active and zealous philanthropists
as their descendants of the present day. And there was Hugh Mulleneux,
who went through a long life marked by deeds of charity, and who to the
last of his life, was one of the most guileless and sterling men we ever
met with. And there were the other families of the same name, with a
different spelling, Thomas Molineux, William Molineux, and other
brothers, of whom we can safely say that we never heard any evil, and
knew much good. They had hearts exactly in the right place, and with the
right feelings in them. They are worthily represented yet amongst us.
Nor must we forget to chronicle the name of old Mr. Yates, whose sons
still walk worthily in the steps of their respected sire. And there were
Hughes and Duncan, and the celebrated world-famous “Tom Lowndes,” who
shot like a meteor across the sky of the commercial world, and who, in
the magnificence of his speculations, would have thought no more of
bidding for the United States for a cabbage garden, or of undertaking to
pay off the national debt at a week’s notice, than he would of swallowing
his breakfast. A fine fellow comes next, Mr. Nicholson, or Colonel
Nicholson, as we used to call him, a title which, we believe, he bore in
the Militia. He was a gentleman, out and out, through and through, every
inch of him, in look, in bearing, in manner, in feeling. We never saw,
to our fancy, a handsomer man than he was in those days, and amiability
sat on every feature of his noble countenance. And how he could skate!
How we have by turns laughed, and trembled, and shouted, and clapped our
young hands as we have watched him darting along on the St. Domingo pit,
and then cutting figures of eight and all sorts of fancy forms and
hieroglyphics on the ice, and taking the most surprising leaps, and
achieving all kinds of dangerous miracles. But, _arma cedunt togæ_. The
soldier subsequently subsided into the citizen. Mr. Nicholson became a
member of the Corporation, and was Mayor of Liverpool. He married one of
the Miss Roes, in Queen-square. She was a niece of the celebrated
Council king, Mr. Shaw; and their son, having dropped his paternal name
for that of his maternal great-uncle, now lives at Arrow, in Cheshire.
He has a strong look of his father in his features, and seems to have
inherited his kindness of heart and manner. And there go the Harveys,
fine fellows every one of them. And there is noble old Rushton, who,
like his son after him, our late respected and lamented magistrate, had a
head upon his shoulders with something in it, and a heart swelling and
flowing, aye, and overflowing, not merely with a river, but with an
ocean, of “the milk of human kindness.” Shall we ever “look upon his
like again?” Selfishness was not in his nature. He felt for the woes
and sorrows of his fellow-creatures, without respect to colour, climate,
creed, or country. His sympathies were universal. The earth’s limits
alone were their limits. He might have taken for his motto the glorious
sentiment which, nearly two thousand years ago, called forth such
thunders of applause in the theatre of ancient Rome:
_Homo sum_, _humani nil a me alienum puto_.
All honour and respect and peace to his memory! But we must go on,
although you may say—
“What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet?”
Yes; and one very different from our last-mentioned hero. The next
figure upon our canvas was also a character in his way. Look at his
bluff, resolute, determined countenance. It is Captain Crowe, as brave a
sailor and as odd and eccentric a man as ever walked a quarter-deck.
Once, in the good ship _Mary_, he fell in with two English sloops of war,
somewhere in the middle passage, which Liverpool ships were engaged upon
in those times. They took his trim-looking vessel for a French cruiser,
and he took them for a couple of the same craft. It was, however,
nothing to old Crowe that they were two to one. He was like the
stout-hearted ancient, who said that he would count his enemies when he
had beaten them. Night was coming on, and they could not distinguish
each other’s flags. To it they went, and kept at it hammer and tongs
until morning showed them the English colours floating on all their
masts. The cruisers had, in the dark, made several efforts to board him,
and had been repulsed with terrible loss. The firing of course ceased as
soon as the light showed them their mistake, and the senior commander of
the man-of-war sent an officer on board, with a sulky civil message, to
know if they could do anything for him in the way of helping him to
repair damages. “I want nothing,” said the old Turk, with a grim smile,
which meant that he had given as much as he had taken in the action; “I
want nothing, but a certificate to my owner that I have done my duty.”
And who next? That is Taylor the brewer. And there is another of the
same trade, jolly old Ackers, great in malt and hops, greater in
politics, and greatest of all in the actual bustle and conflict of an
election. And there is his friend with him, old Hesketh, the famous
tailor, of Paradise-street. Instead of being the ninth part of a man,
Hesketh was nine men all in one, the picture of a true Englishman, the
very portrait of John Bull himself, a regular old Tory, for men, out of
his trade, more than measures, and with such a good-tempered countenance,
that it drew customers, better than a thousand advertisements, to his
shop.
And there was another character who must not be excluded from the
“curiosity shop” of our reminiscences. Every old stager must recollect
Peter Tyrer, the coach-builder, and keeper of hackney coaches. A very
primitive-looking man was old Peter, but as full of eccentricity and
solemn jocularity as an egg is full of meat. Peter’s jests were always
uttered with a serious tone, and spoken out of his nose more than through
his lips, so that we laughed at the twang when there was nothing else to
laugh at. There was occasionally some originality in his humour; but he
had one standing joke, a very grave one, which has now passed into a
regular Joe Miller with the men of his craft. Whenever any one came to
order the funeral cavalcade which he had to let out, he invariably
pointed to the plumed hearse, of which he was very proud, and observed,
“That is the very thing for you, for of all that have travelled by it
none have ever been heard to complain that they had not an easy and
pleasant journey by it.” Poor Peter! And when thy turn came, we trust
that thy journey, both to the grave and through it, was an easy one! Nor
do we doubt it. With all his whims and oddities, Peter was a good man,
no idle professor, but a zealous, practical Christian. We could do with
more like him.