In our last chapter we mentioned the names of some of the wits and
illustrious in jest of whom Liverpool could boast a few years since. We
now descend the scale, to speak of a class whom we would mildly call “the
practical jokers.” The _Spectator_ makes glorious old Sir Roger de
Coverley horribly afraid of the club of Mohocks who, many years since,
pushed their horse-play in the metropolis into positive ruffianism, and
perpetrated the most savage outrages under the name of fun and frolic.
But the sports of the Liverpool mischief-mongers at the commencement of
the present century were of a much more harmless and innocent character.
One young gentleman, who subsequently flourished as a grave old stager
amongst us, had a passion for collecting, in a kind of museum, or
“curiosity shop,” all the signs and signboards which struck his fancy;
and it was said that he had a large muster of black boys, carried off
from the different tobacconists’ shops in the town. And sometimes he
varied the amusement in the following fashion:—In Pool-lane, now
modernised into South Castle-street, was a famous ship-instrument maker’s
shop, in the front of which was elevated a wooden figure of a midshipman
in full costume, at which we have often gazed with fond delight in
ancient days, and which we are now convinced must have been the original
of the one which Dickens, in Dombey, makes Captain Cuttle contemplate
with so much pride and pleasure. Somewhere in the same locality was one
of the tobacconists’ shops of which we have spoken, with the then usual
sign of a black boy over the door. Time after time would our funny and
facetious friend substitute these signs one for the other, so that, when
morning broke, the midshipman would shine forth in all his glory at the
door of the snuff and tobacco store, while the black boy would be
grinning in front of the ship-instrument maker’s premises. At last the
joke wore itself out. The perpetrator of it never was discovered. He
preferred to play his “fantastic tricks” alone, and kept his own secret.
But there were also associated bodies for the performance of the same
kind of mad pranks. One set of them formed themselves into what they
dignified with the name of “A Committee of Taste,” although they and
their friends called them, over their cups, “The Minions of the Moon.”
Their object seemed to be to emulate and imitate the merry doings of
Falstaff and his companions. They occasionally, however, pushed their
jokes somewhat too far. There was a house in Daulby-street, then a sort
of _rus in urbe_, or, rather, country altogether. It had a garden in
front, and was ornamented with a verandah. This it appears did not
please these fastidious gentlemen, and the owner was served with a
notice, signed by “the Chairman of the Committee of Taste,” directing him
to alter or remove it by a certain day. To this command he paid no
attention. Well, the day arrived;
“‘The ides of March are come.’
‘Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.’”
The verandah was still there. But that very night, at a few minutes
before twelve o’clock, a loud knock at the door called the owner of the
house to the window which overlooked it. The moment he appeared, with
his head and the nightcap upon it looming through the darkness, a cheer
welcomed him from the opposite side of the street. Then came a pull, and
smash, crash; the verandah, with all its trellis-work and ornaments, was
gone. The rogues had sawed away the supports, made their ropes fast, and
then, with wicked waggishness, summoned the gentleman of the house to
witness the destruction of his offending property. We will chronicle
another of the feats of the “Committee of Taste.” At that period Mr.
Samuel Staniforth lived in the large house at the bottom of
Ranelagh-street, afterwards converted into the famous Waterloo Hotel.
Something about it, either a shutter, or a knocker, or a bell-handle, we
have forgotten which, was excommunicated by this tasteful inquisition,
and ordered to be removed. Mr. Staniforth was about the last man in the
world to obey such a lawless mandate, being one of that class who, “if
reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, would not give one on
compulsion.” He therefore treated the notice served on him with
contempt. And now the battle began in good earnest.
“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.”
the thing denounced, whatever it was, was removed, then restored, and
again removed, to be once more restored, and still in the original
offending form, without an atom of alteration. And so the struggle went
on, until Mr. Staniforth became highly exasperated, as well as extremely
indignant at the persevering annoyance. Of this, the jokers, who met him
with grave and sympathising faces every day in society, were fully aware,
and only made thereby more resolute in their fun. In the extremity of
his vexation he consulted George Rowe, the attorney, of whom we have made
honourable mention in a former chapter. We speak from authority, for we
had the story from Mr. Rowe himself, who used often to tell it with great
glee. When the offended alderman had unbosomed all his griefs to the
solicitor, and had urged him to exert all his vigilance to discover the
offenders, and then to put in force all the terrors and pains and
penalties of the law against them, the latter met the history of his
sorrows with one of his good-natured and hearty laughs, to the great
astonishment of his client, who certainly did not belong to the laughing
portion of the creation. When he had settled himself into seriousness,
he said, “Well, Mr. Staniforth, I suppose, after all, your object is to
abate the nuisance, rather than trounce the sinners.” Staniforth,
however, was not so sure that he would not like to do both, and “kill two
birds with one stone.” But at last, after a long and serious
confabulation, he was persuaded to leave the whole affair in the hands of
the lawyer, who, indeed, would only undertake it on that condition. Now
Mr. Rowe, although he had no guilty knowledge of the offenders, had a
shrewd guess in his own mind, and, acting upon the impulse, wrote a note,
desiring to have a conference with the chief captain of the knocker and
bell banditti. They met, and on the next day glorious old George,
sending for Mr. Staniforth, laid the result before him. The latter was
exceedingly angry at first when he heard that the bold rogues, instead of
being overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, still took up very high
ground, being determined to make him capitulate on the immediate point at
issue, but with a promise on their part that he should never more be
annoyed by them on any other. At first he would listen to no such terms,
regarding any treaty with the parties as little better than compounding
for a felony. Gradually, however, he yielded to the reasonings of his
adviser, and the agreement, without being duly signed and sealed, was
honourably carried out on both sides. “And to whom,” we said to George
Rowe, when sitting one day with him after dinner, with our legs under his
mahogany, “to whom did you address your note when you wanted to have this
celebrated interview with the Chairman of the Committee of Taste?’”
“Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure,” he answered, with a very thunder-clap
of laughter, which almost made me tremble lest a blood vessel should
burst or apoplexy ensue; “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure, who else could
it be?”
But alas, alas! for the flight and power of time! Of the actors in this
amusing scene, all have passed from the arena of busy life. We marvel
whether any of the aforesaid “Committee of Taste” yet survive, to sigh or
to smile over the wild pranks of their youth! But how is it that such
follies are only remembered, not perpetrated, now? As Mr. Pickwick
observed, when prosecuted for a breach of promise, men are very much the
victims and tools of circumstances. When we look at the class to which
the parties of whom we have been speaking belonged, we can find many
reasons, without any boast of merit and improvement, which will explain
why young gentlemen in these times should not roam through the streets by
night, bent upon fun and mischief, for hours and hours. Forty or fifty
years ago, men met together to dine about three o’clock. They had,
consequently, not only a longer time to devote to the bottle, but also,
when they broke up, excited by wine, some hours to get through as best
they could, before they retired to bed. This would have a wonderful
influence upon their conduct. Moreover we had only a few old watchmen in
those days, who were as much alarmed at the approach of our “bucks,” as
the travellers by an Eastern caravan at the appearance of the wild Arabs
of the desert. Again, the introduction of gas for lighting the streets,
instead of the old oil lamps which, “few and far between,” used to
twinkle in the distance and just to “make darkness visible,” had a
wonderful influence upon the habits of our young men. Some great
authority on such matters in the metropolis calculated that, for
enforcing order, one gas-lamp was equal, at least, to three policemen.
There are many persons over whom the fear of being found out exerts a
strong power. What they would do under the veil of darkness they
strenuously avoid when its shelter is removed. The temptation may be
strong, the will may be present, but the opportunity is wanting. These
remarks, however, only apply to one class of society. But, when we make
our survey more general, we must also take into account the march of
knowledge, the increase of mechanics’ and literary institutes, and the
spread of cheap and useful books among the masses. To the printing-press
we doubtless owe much for our improved tastes and habits. Who, indeed,
can calculate the might, the magnitude, and extent of its diversified
influences and powers? It is our schoolmaster, our instructor, our
guide, our guardian, our police, all in one. Praise and honour to those
who wield the pen, so long as they use it for the benefit and advantage
of their fellow-creatures. Ill-disposed persons may pervert it to be an
instrument of evil. But who can tell the amount of its well-doing when
directed to good? Truly did the wit observe, that the greatest stand
ever yet made for the improvement and civilisation of mankind was the
inkstand.