A little back from Water-street, between it and St. Nicholas’s Church,
stood an ancient Tower in those days. It was one of the remaining
antiquities of Liverpool. It had originally belonged to the Lathoms of
Lathom, and subsequently passed, by the marriage of the heiress of that
family, into the hands of the Stanleys, some generations before the
elevation of that illustrious house to the Derby title. At a later
period it had become an assembly-room, and, last of all, by one of those
strange vicissitudes to which all earthly things are liable, was a prison
for debtors. But at the time we speak of there it was, as if frowning in
gloomy strength upon the encroachments which modern improvements and the
spirit of enterprise were making on every side of it, a grim old giant,
the type, and symbol, and representative of other times. As we
contemplated its massive walls or walked under its shadow, what
reflections it was calculated to awaken within us. We were then too
young for our mind to dwell very seriously or very long upon such topics,
but we have often since thought within ourselves that, if stone walls had
ears, and eyes, and tongues, what strange histories that old Tower could
have told. It carried us back to what we call an age of romance, but
what, in fact, was an age of stern and iron realities. What associations
and recollections did the very sight of it conjure up within us! The
monument of many centuries of glory and crime! In its day, although now
merely an object of curiosity and a prison for debtors, the palace and
fortress of nobles! In its day, perhaps, like other old castles within
the land, the living grave, and the grave, when dead, of the guilty and
innocent alike, of the ambitious and the victims of ambition, of heroes
and saints, of martyrs and traitors, of princes and impostors, of
patriots and conspirators! How often has the mailed chivalry of the
middle ages rode forth through these gates in all its magnificence, pomp,
and pride! How often has chained innocence been dragged through them to
its dungeon’s depths, and to the shambles to which, perchance, they were
the passage, feeling, as they turned upon their grating hinges and shut
it from the world for ever, all the tremendous force of the “Hope no
more!” which the Italian poet wrote over the entrance to his Infernal
Regions! If, we repeat, its walls had tongues, what wonders could they
tell, what secrets reveal, what mysteries unravel! What mighty or
memorable names have resided, or been imprisoned and perished here! What
strange things have been enacted within these gray old stones now
crumbling into ruin, while the wronged and the wrongdoers have together
passed to judgment! But the period for indulging such contemplations has
long since passed away. The spirit of feudalism, after holding its
ground for so many centuries, at last yielded to the genius of commerce,
and the gloomy old Tower was sacrificed upon the altars of modern
improvement. Carters and porters now shout and swear where stout old
knights and ladies fair held high revelry; and sugar hogsheads, and rum
puncheons, and cotton bales are now hoisted, and roll, and creak, and
clash where prisoners once groaned and chains clanked. It is a new
version of _arma cedunt togæ_.
But we are becoming grave; we moralise; we preach; _Vive la bagatelle_.
Let us go back for a few moments to the subject of the last chapter, and
speak a little more of those mischief-mongers who dignified themselves
with the title of “The Committee of Taste.” We therein stated that
Daltera was the understood or suspected head of the said Committee. On
the same authority, neither better nor worse than the assertion of common
report, it was whispered that, amongst its members, were some other
dashing spirits of the day, to wit, Mr. William, _alias_ “Billy Graham,”
“Young Sutton,” as Mr. William of that ilk was always called, “Bob
Pickering,” _cum multis aliis_, the _multis aliis_ including some, we
find, who are yet amongst us, and whom, therefore, we would not name for
all the world, and so expose them to their children and grandchildren,
who look up to them as models of gravity, propriety, and piety. One
venerable gentleman, whom, from his confessions, we suspect to have been
at least an honorary member, said to us only the other day,—and in such a
free and easy and impenitent sort of way, that we verily believe that,
with youth restored, and opportunity returned, and policemen and
gas-lamps extinguished, he would soon be at his old pranks
again,—“Daltera was always pre-eminent for good taste, and was,
therefore, elected President of the Committee.” Finding that our friend
was inclined to be communicative, we pressed him for more of his
reminiscences, when he added, “They were fine fellows, and woe unto
anything that came under their waggish displeasure!” They carried on, he
told us, a long war, a repetition of that which has been already
described between them and Mr. Staniforth, with Mr. Parke, the celebrated
surgeon, touching the shape of his knocker. Dr. Solomon, who then lived
in the large house at the top of Low-hill, had his grounds studded over
with statues, of which he was not a little proud. They were voted to be
not classical by the men of taste, and the decree went forth for their
removal, and was carried out on the appointed night, when they were all
taken from their pedestals, the “old charley” of the beat being either
asleep, or feed or frightened into silence. And we must record another
of their performances.
Our readers must recollect Mr. William Wallace Currie. He was not
himself a man of jokes, and he was about the last man in the world to
joke with. Well, he had an office for his business, upon the door of
which was inscribed, in the usual way, “WILLIAM WALLACE CURRIE.” One
morning, upon his arrival, he was utterly horrified to find into what the
men of taste had transmuted or translated him. The introduction of a
comma and the addition of a single letter astonished him with this new
reading of his name and profession, “WILLIAM WALLACE, CURRIER.” He
joined in the laugh, and there was an end of it. Nor is this the only
play upon Mr. Currie’s name which we have to record. The late Egerton
Smith, to whom be all honour and respect as the father of the Liberal
press in this district, and for the honesty and independence and goodness
of character which distinguished his long career, once made an admirable
hit upon it, which, although it has been in print before, will bear
repeating, and is worth preserving. When Mr. John Bourne, as worthy a
man as ever lived, was Mayor under the old Corporation, Mr. Currie was
one of his bailiffs; and Egerton, being asked on some occasion for a
toast or sentiment, following the Lancashire pronunciation of their
names, electrified the company by proposing, “_Burn_ the Mayor, and
_Curry_ the bailiff.”
And now for one more witticism from Daltera, of whom we have already
related so much. It was at the expense of the same Mr. Fogg, whose
impalement by Richmond, in an electioneering song, we have immortalised
in a former chapter. At a dinner given at Ormskirk by the mess of a
regiment of volunteers, or local militia, in which Fogg was a subaltern,
Daltera was among the guests. When the cloth was removed, Poor Joe, as
was “his custom of an afternoon,” became very lively and exhilarated,
and, fancying that the other was somewhat dull, suddenly turned to him,
and slapping him on the back, exclaimed, “Come, _Fogg_, _clear up_!”
amidst roars of laughter from the party. A veteran officer of the
Guards, who happened to be one of the company, still tells this story
with the greatest glee and pleasure, and looks back upon the day in
question as one of the merriest and most amusing he ever spent.
But we mentioned the name of Mr. William Wallace Currie just now. We
must return to him. He was not a man to be casually mentioned and then
passed by. He was the eldest son of the great Dr. Currie. His abilities
were above mediocrity, and his mind well-cultivated and stored with
literature. He may be described as a reading man, in an almost
non-reading community. As a speaker, he was ready, but not eloquent. He
had more affluence of argument than command of oratory, but he never
failed to express himself to the satisfaction of his hearers. In his own
circle of society he was much esteemed. As a party leader, he was
greatly respected by the public, who regarded him as that _rara avis_, an
honest politician. His life confirms the verdict, for, with undoubted
influence at his command, he never used it to subserve his own ambition
or push his own private interest. That he was never in Parliament may be
ascribed to his own modesty. We have heard of more than one borough
where the electors would gladly have chosen him to be their
representative. Mr. Currie is still remembered with strong affection by
his friends, and, when they likewise have passed away, his name will yet
survive for many a generation in the title-page of one of the most
delightful books which we ever remember to have read. We speak of the
_Life of Dr. Currie_, by his son. In reading it, we were charmed and
fascinated by the letters and sentiments of the father, and so pleased
with the setting in which these jewels were exhibited to us, that our
only regret was, that the biographer did not, in executing his task so
well, give us more of his own work, but left us to rise from the
intellectual treat which he had set before us with an appetite rather
whetted than satisfied by the feast which we had been enjoying.
We have said that the reading men in old Liverpool were few. Let us
chronicle another of their names, Mr. Alexander Freeland, who still
survives amongst us. His inquisitive mind has long since, we may say,
made the tour of literature, and the stores of it which he has
accumulated are surprising, as he unlocks the treasuries of his mind in
the chosen circle before whom “he comes out.” We must also place another
veteran, Mr. Henry Lawrence, in the ranks of both well-read and literary
men. He always had a good seat in the intellectual tournament, and
carried a good lance in the tilting of wit. He was never wanting to
contribute his part, when present, at “the feast of reason and the flow
of soul.” To catalogue all his clever sayings would be an endless work.
His conversational powers were brilliant and infinite. His wit was keen
and of the purest order. We defy the young stagers of to-day to produce
his match out of their ranks.