Among the great West Indian merchants of the days we are writing of, we
must not forget to place the James and France families. The
representative of the latter resides at Bostock Hall, not far from
Northwich, in Cheshire. The present Mr. James sat for some years in the
House of Commons, and gave evidence of talent far beyond mediocrity.
There was also a spice of originality about him which commanded attention
whenever he spoke. It was but seldom, however, that he opened his lips.
Senatorial honours, we presume, had no attractions for him. We so
conclude from his voluntary and premature retreat from their pursuit,
much to the regret of all his friends. There was another Mr. James in
Liverpool in those days, rather a rough-spun and unhewn kind of person,
and very eccentric and amusing in his way, a character, in short, amongst
his own circle. Many of our old readers must remember Gabriel James, or,
“the Angel Gabriel,” as some of his waggish friends called him. He had a
ready tongue and plenty of mother wit, and seldom came off second best in
a tilt and tournament with words. Nor must we omit to mention old Mr.
Waterhouse, of Everton, a grave and venerable-looking man, whom we always
regarded with awe and reverence. There was Mr. Neilson, too, whose sons
still uphold the family name amongst us with so much credit and
respectability. And there was the lively, gay, agreeable “Jack
Backhouse,” who lived in Smithdown-lane; and Mr. Backhouse of Everton,
and another family of the same name at Wavertree; and the Colquitts, and
the Dawsons of Mossley-hill. And the gay parties in those times used
frequently to be enlivened by Lord Henry Murray, who was often a visitor
with the Neilsons and Backhouses.
And we had also our circle of wits, whose sharp sayings were passed
round, as household words, from mouth to mouth, and so afforded pleasure
and amusement, as they spread from set to set, from one extremity of
society to the other. First and foremost in this bright and brilliant
band, we must place Mr. Silvester Richmond, or “Sil Richmond,” as he was
generally called. Next to him was Joe Daltera. And with them we must
join Sam Pole, and “Jim Gregson,” who lived in Rodney-street, a man of
racy humour, with a fund of originality about him which revelled in the
utterance of good things. And here be it observed, that, as Liverpool is
still called the town of “Dicky Sams,” so, in those ancient days, its
people were all Sils, and Joes, and Sams, and Jims. It was the custom of
the place, and equally observable in every rank of society. But, for a
time, let us speak of our prince of wits, Sil Richmond, who was one of
the most sparkling, agreeable men ever met with in company. Amongst his
own set no party was ever thought to be complete without him. He held
the post of a searcher in the Customs, and many were the amusing stories,
coined, perhaps, to raise a laugh at his expense, of the “diamond cut
diamond” warfare carried on between him and persons striving to break the
Revenue laws, of which he was a most vigilant guardian. His powers of
conversation were immense, and never flagged. He was always the rocket,
never the stick; and he was as potent with the pen as he was brilliant
with the tongue. We may call him the poet laureate of the Tories, with
whom he warmly sided. The encounters, therefore, between him and Dr.
Shepherd, who was ever the principal scribe for the liberal party, were
frequent, fierce, and savage. His weapons were not quite so keen and
polished as the doctor’s, but they would do a great deal of mangling
work, and, like Antæus springing from his mother earth, if foiled and
thrown in one round, he was always ready for another. No amount of
punishment could dishearten him, and he was always in wind, and, what is
more, kept his temper unruffled in the thickest of the fray. He was the
author of all the election squibs in his day. Out they poured, grave and
gay, in prose and verse, and he seemed never to be exhausted. We doubt
not that some of our old stagers yet retain many of them among their
treasures and curiosities. One line in one of his songs is still as
fresh upon our mind as if we had heard it but yesterday for the first
time. Mr. Fogg, a butcher, was one of the most zealous and active
canvassers in the reform ranks at some election. Richmond instantly had
his eye upon him, and, bringing intellect as well as ink to the work,
thus impaled him on the point of his wit as he spoke of him as
“A FOGG that could never be MIST.”
This, of course, told better in the midst of political excitement; but
still, at all times, we must admire it as a specimen of our friend’s
ready wit. We used often to look up at him in boyish wonder and
admiration, as he cracked his jokes, and his filberts, and his bottle all
at the same time. And one thing particularly struck us. He never led
the laugh at his own jests, but looked as grave as a judge, and far more
knowing, through his spectacles, while “setting the table in a roar.” O,
for another Hamlet! to say for us, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well,
Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” etc. Of
Mr. Richmond’s family, one went into the navy, and another into the army.
They were both fine young fellows. The soldier, called after his father,
distinguished himself and was wounded in the last, we hope that it will
always be the last, American war.
But we spoke of Mr., _alias_ “Joe,” Daltera just now, as one of the
circle of wits in the former days which are slipping from our memory. He
was a regular character in his day and in his way. He was brought up to
be a solicitor, and at one time was in partnership with the late Mr.
Topham. He had abilities to have raised himself to the greatest eminence
in his profession, but he wanted business habits. He had no application,
no attention, no steadiness of purpose. In short, he was of a jovial,
convivial turn of mind, full of fun and frolic and glee, was fond of
company, and greatly preferred shining in society to poring over
parchments. He was a terrible sitter at a party. He never sung, “We’ll
not go home till morning,” but practically it was impossible to get rid
of him until long after the short hours had set in; and, in truth, he was
such a pleasant companion, so overflowing with sparkling conversation,
“full of mirth and full of glee,” as we said before, that no one ever
made the attempt. Steady old fellows at whose houses he used to visit
would say, before he arrived, “We will be rude to that Daltera to-night,
and give him a hint that shall send him home in decent time.” But when
the appointed hour had struck, and long after, these same steady old
boys, fascinated by Joe’s wonderful powers of jest and anecdote, were the
loudest in pressing him to keep his seat, a pressure which he never
resisted. He thought, with Dibdin’s famous song, that there was “nothing
like grog,” or, as he and his familiars called it, “rosin.” Often, when
you thought that at last he was really going, he would suddenly exclaim,
instead of “one glass more,” “Now, lads, rosin again, and then we’ll
positively go.” He could not use his pen like Richmond, but he was quite
his match in wit and repartee. Countless were the stories told of his
sayings and doings. Once the watchman found him in the street quite
unequal to steer his course home. This friend in need wished to place
him in a wheelbarrow, and to carry him to his house in this kind of
triumphal car, when Daltera, steadying himself for a moment, and throwing
himself into a theatrical attitude, astonished “poor old Charley” as he
addressed him, _a la_ John Kemble, whom he had seen performing the
character that night, “Villain, stand back; the gods take care of Cato!”
We ourselves remember crossing the river with him, in one of the
old-fashioned ferry-boats, before the invention of steamers. There was a
stiff breeze, next door to a gale of wind, blowing, and we were in
momentary peril from the rash attempt of the boatmen to head a ship at
anchor. The sailors themselves were alarmed, while most of the
passengers were in an agony of terror. One poor market-woman, in the
excess of her fright, threw herself upon her knees in the middle of the
boat, and burst out into the exclamation, “Lord have mercy upon us!” when
the inveterate punster, alluding to the name of the river, thus cried out
to her, “No, no, my good woman; do not say, ‘The Lord have _Mersey_ upon
us’ this time!” We were both vexed and shocked at the moment, as the
jest out of season jarred upon our ears, while the crew and the
passengers looked inclined to _extemporise_ poor Joe into a Jonah at the
instant. But we have often smiled at it since. Poor fellow, he could
not help it. He could no more have kept it in than the effervescence
will remain quiet in a ginger-beer bottle when the cork is drawn. It was
the ruling passion strong in death, or in the face of death. Like
Sheridan, “he had it in him, and it would come out.” On another
occasion, it was said that, upon landing from the boat at Runcorn, or
some village between here and Chester, he was seized upon by several
persons, who supposed him, from his dress of sober black, to be some
celebrated preacher whom they expected, and were on the look out for.
Joe, having made himself safe and certain on two points, namely, in the
first place, that none of the villagers had ever seen the anticipated
star; and, secondly, that he could not possibly arrive that day by any
conveyance, humoured the mistake, was carried in triumph to the chapel,
preached the most brilliant sermon ever heard, and delighted and won the
hearts of the elders, by whom he was entertained, withal taking care to
disappear from the scene the next morning before the real Simon Pure
arrived. We do not, recollect, vouch for the accuracy of all the details
connected with this episode. We only relate it as we have heard it
related by Daltera himself a hundred times. Poor Joe! He had many
friends and only one enemy, and that was himself. He wasted talents,
energy, wit, brilliancy, which would have made an intellectual capital
for a hundred shining characters. But who is faultless? Let us look at
the beam in our own eye.