Whether we consider the magnificence of its estate, the amount of its
revenue, or the extent of its influence, the Liverpool Corporation might
ever be compared to a German principality put into commission. We have,
in a former chapter, alluded briefly to its state and condition in those
old days, when
“All went merry as a marriage bell,”
and no Municipal Reform Bill ever loomed in the distance. But we feel
that we must say something more about such an important body. The old
Liverpool self-elected Corporation was always looked up to and spoken of
with respect from one end of the country to the other. It was, indeed,
considered to be a kind of model Corporation by all others, and quoted,
and emulated, and imitated on all occasions and in all directions.
We have said that it was self-elected. We must add that it was most
exclusive in its character and formation. “We don’t shave gentlemen in
your line,” says the hair-dresser in _Nicholas Nickleby_ to the
coal-heaver. “Why?” retorted the other, “I see you a-shaving of a baker,
when I was a-looking through the winder last week.” “It’s necessary to
draw the line somewheres, my fine feller,” replied the principal. “We
draw the line there. We can’t go beyond bakers.” And so it was with the
old Corporation. They drew a line in the admission of select recruits
into their body, and strictly kept to it. All tradesmen and shopkeepers,
and everything retail, were carefully excluded, and classified in the
non-presentable “coal-heavers’ schedule.” But they were not only
exclusive in the fashion which has been indicated, but in other ways
also. Their line of distinction was more than a separation of class from
class. They were not only a self-elected body, but a family party, and
carefully guarded the introduction of too many “outsiders,” if we may so
speak, of their own rank and order in society. They would, indeed,
occasionally admit a stranger, without any ties of relationship to
recommend him. But this was only done at long intervals, and just to
save appearances. Thus, such men as Mr. Leyland, Mr. Lake, and Mr.
Thomas Case were, from time to time, introduced into the old Corporation.
But extreme care was taken that the new blood should never be admitted in
too large a current. For the same reason, that of saving appearances,
our ancient municipals, although ultra-Tory in their politics,
occasionally opened the door of the Council Chamber to a very select
Whig. Nothing, however, was gained for the public by this
quasi-liberality of conduct. The Whigs, so introduced, generally fell
into the ways of the company into which they had been admitted; and it
was remarked, that in every distribution of patronage they were at least
as hearty and zealous jobbers as the most inveterate Tories. This may
have been said enviously. But, at all events, it was said. We are,
recollect, writing history, not censure. Human nature is of one colour
under every shade of politics. “Cæsar and Pompey very much ‘like, Massa;
‘specially Pompey.”
We have said that, with the exception of the occasional Whig admitted for
the sake of appearances, or to be ornamental, the politics of the old
Corporators tended to extreme Toryism. They were, nevertheless, divided
into two parties, as cordially hating each other as the rival factions in
Jerusalem. As their opinions on all great public matters exactly
coincided, the apple of discord between them must have been the immense
patronage at their disposal, and which was too often considered as the
heirloom of the Corporate families. On one side were the Hollingsheads,
Drinkwaters, Harpers, etc. On the other, and at that time, and for years
after, the stronger interest, were arrayed the Cases, Aspinalls, Clarkes,
Branckers, etc. The latter party owed much of their preponderance to the
influence of the great John Foster of that day, who, although not a
member of the Council himself, possessed a strange power over its
decisions and judgments, and brought to his friends the aid of as much
common sense and as strong an intellect as ever were possessed by any
individual. But it is not to be supposed that the members of the former
Corporation limited their attention and zeal to the battle for patronage
and place. Let us do them justice. Considering the immensity of the
trust committed to their charge, the fact that there was no direct
responsibility to check, control, or guide them, and the sleepy sort of
animal which public opinion, now so vigilant and wakeful, so open-eared,
open-eyed, and loud-tongued, was in those old stagnant times, our
conviction has always been that they performed their duty miraculously
well. We are neither their accusers nor eulogists. If they were not
perfect, they were not altogether faulty. They expended the town’s
revenues for the town’s good. Their foresight extended to the future as
well as the present. They perceived the elements of coming greatness
which the port of Liverpool possessed, and laid the foundation, often in
the face of as loud clamour and criticism as those days were capable of
exciting, of their growth and development. Their successors have but
walked in the path which they had opened, and carried out the plans which
these Council forefathers had devised. In every part of the town may be
seen their works and creations, carried on under the superintendence of
the Mr. Foster whom we have mentioned, and of his gifted son, too little
appreciated amongst us until he was beyond the reach of all human praise
and applause. On the tablet to Sir Christopher Wren, in St. Paul’s,
London, it is written, _Si monumentum quæris_, _circumspice_. And, even
so, if we are asked to point out the ever-abiding epitaph which, from
generation to generation till the world’s last blaze, will uphold the
memory of our old defunct Corporation, we should answer “LIVERPOOL.”
When we are told of their extravagance; when we hear of their nepotism;
when their spirit of exclusion is scoffed at; when their ultra politics
are ridiculed; let us draw a veil over all and everything, as we
contemplate our docks, our churches, our public buildings, and once more
exclaim, _Si monumentum quæris_, _circumspice_. These speaking memorials
will remain when all their faults are forgotten!
But we said, just now, that the members of the old Corporation would,
from time to time, for the sake of appearances, admit a select Whig or
Liberal into their number. This reminds us of a good story, which was
circulated at the time, when it was debated among them whether they
should or should not elect the present Mr. William Earle. “He is a very
clever fellow,” said one of them to a grim old banker, thinking thereby
to conciliate his favour and win his support. The eulogy had just a
contrary effect. “So much the worse,” replied old money-bags, “we have
too many clever fellows amongst us already.” As nobody cried out, “Name,
name!” the list of this multitude, this constellation of clever ones, is
lost to posterity. And, having mentioned this joke against one of the
old Council, let us add another. One day Prince William of Gloucester
and his staff of officers were dining with a certain member thereof, who
treated them with the best which his house contained and which money
could command. When the cloth was drawn, his wines, which were
excellent, were not only enjoyed, but highly praised. Being a little bit
of a boaster, he perpetrated a small white fib by saying, “Yes! that port
is certainly very fine, but I have some better in the cellar.” “Let us
try it,” instantly rejoined a saucy young _aide-de-camp_, amidst the
laughter of the company at the alderman being thus caught in his own
trap. On another occasion it was said that the presiding genius at a
table where His Royal Highness was a guest, thus encouraged his appetite,
“Eat away, your Royal Highness, there’s plenty more in the kitchen.” For
the honour of Liverpool refinement, be it known that it was not one of
our natives who made this speech, so much more hospitable than polite.
It was a gentleman of an aristocratic family, officially connected with
the town. But taste was not so fastidious, neither was society so
conventional, in those days as they are now. The most expressive word
was the word used when it was intended to mean warm sincerity, not empty
form.
And what a crowd of the county nobility and the gentry were invited to
the Corporation banquets in those old days. There was the venerable Earl
of Derby, the grandfather of the present Lord. There was likewise the
Earl of Sefton, gay, dashing, and agreeable. Mr. Bootle Wilbraham, and
Mr. Bold of Bold Hall, then Mr. Patten, were frequent guests at the
Mayor’s table. And there was old Mr. Blackburne, who was the county
member for so many years in those quiet times of Toryism, when the
squirearchy reigned supreme even in the manufacturing districts. An
easy-going man, of very moderate abilities, was old Squire Blackburne.
He stuck by his party, and his party stuck by him. Many a sugar-plum of
patronage fell into the mouths of his family and friends. The Mr.
Blundell of Ince, of that day, came frequently amongst us, although,
generally speaking, a man of reserved habits, and more given to cultivate
his literary tastes than to mix in company. He presented one of the
Mayors of Liverpool, Mr. John Bridge Aspinall, with a portrait of
himself, half-length, and an admirable likeness. It hung for many years
in the drawing-room of the gentleman in Duke-street. Side by side with
it was a splendid painting of Prince William of Gloucester, also a gift
from His Royal Highness to Mr. Aspinall. Where they are now we know not.
But, when dotting down the names of some of the neighbouring gentry who
used to look in upon us some forty odd years ago, we must not forget to
recall honest John Watkins, “the Squire” of Ditton. Squire Watkins, as
many of our old stagers will recollect, was a Tory, if ever there was one
in the world. But a noble-souled, true-hearted, generous, hospitable man
was he withal, as ever lived, a kind of Sir Roger de Coverley, from the
crown of his head to the sole of his foot. And what a house he kept!
And how he came out in his especial glory on his coursing days, when all
the Nimrods and Ramrods in the county assembled under his roof, and did
not resemble a temperance society in the slightest degree. Poor old
Squire Watkins! Some terrible Philistine once planted a hedge, or built
a wall, we forget which, which trespassed, or was supposed to trespass,
an inch or two upon his land. It was just the sort of trifle for two
people in the country with nothing to do to quarrel about. The feud, or
“fun, grew fast and furious.” The squire insisted upon the removal of
the encroachment. His opponent refused. Threats followed, defiance
succeeded, until, one morning, like Napoleon making his swoop upon
Brussels, John Watkins, Esq., took the field at the head of his household
troops, the butler, coachman, groom, gardener, etc. At last they arrived
on the field of Waterloo. But the opposing Wellington was already there,
in position with his followers, himself in front with a double-barrelled
gun in his hand. Nothing daunted, the squire, pointing to the
encroaching fence which was to be destroyed, cheered on his men to the
attack, and the “Old Guard” advanced merrily to the charge. But they
were presently brought to a check. “Up Guards!” shouted the hostile
Wellington as they approached, while “click” went the cock of his
double-barrelled gun, as he raised it to his shoulder, vehemently
swearing at the same time that he would shoot the first man who dared to
lay hands upon the debatable boundary. The assailants wavered. The
squire shouted to them in vain. Even he himself did not like the look of
the double-barrelled gun, but, fixing upon John, his butler, to be his
Marshal Ney, he encouraged him to the attack. John, however, feeling
that “discretion was the better part of valour,” hesitated, when his
master again cheered him to the fight with this promise of posthumous
consolation, “Never mind him, John; if the scoundrel does shoot you,
we’ll have him hanged for it afterwards.” “But please, master,” said
John, as wisely and innocently, “I’d rather you hanged him first.” This
was too much. There was no help for it. Hugoumont was saved. Napoleon
and his forces retreated, baffled and discomfited, from the field. The
squire, peace to his memory, fine old fellow, used often to tell this
story in after years, never failing to revile poor John for his
cowardice, which lost the day. But we always defended John, and turned
the laugh against the squire, by gently insinuating that there was
somebody more interested in the quarrel, who was even more prudent than
prudent John.