The two rectors of those old days were the Rev. Samuel Renshaw and the
Rev. R. H. Roughsedge. They were both men past the meridian of life, at
the earliest period to which our recollection extends. There was a
tradition among the old ladies, that Rector Renshaw in his younger days
had been a popular and sparkling preacher of “simples culled” from “the
flowery empire” of Blair. We only knew him as a venerable-looking old
gentleman, with a sharp eye, a particularly benevolent countenance, and a
kind word for everybody. Rector Roughsedge also was a mild, amiable,
good-hearted man of the old school, with much more of the innocence of
the dove than of the wisdom of the serpent in his composition. He was,
in fact, the most guileless and unsophisticated person we ever met with.
His studies must have been of books. Certainly they had not extended to
the human volume. He was utterly ignorant of the world and the world’s
ways, thereby strongly reminding us of the great navigator, of whom it
was said that “he had been round the world, but never in it.” As a proof
of this we may mention, that once, when the Bishop of Chester, the
present Bishop of London, was his guest, he invited Alexandré, the
ventriloquist, to meet him at breakfast. There surely never was a worse
assortment than this in any cargo of Yankee “notions.” Alexandré, who
had a fair share of modest assurance, was quite at home, and made great
efforts to draw the bishop into conversation. The latter, however,
rather recoiled from his advances, and was very monosyllabic in his
answers. Nothing daunted, however, the ventriloquist rattled away quite
at his ease, and, amongst other things, assured his lordship that “he had
had the honour of being introduced to several of the episcopacy; that, in
fact, he had received from more than one of them copies of sermons which
they had published, and which he had kept and valued amongst his greatest
treasures;” and then finished up with the expression of a wish that he
would himself favour him with a similar memento. This was too much, and
prompt and tart and cutting was the bishop’s answer—“Yes; I will write
one on purpose; it shall be on MODESTY!” Vulcan never forged such a
thunderbolt as that for Jupiter Tonans himself. It completely floored
Alexandré, overwhelming the chaplain and scorching the rector’s wig in
its way.
And having mentioned the name of Bishop Bloomfield, let us give another
specimen of his ability to check any improper intrusion upon his dignity
and position. He was a very young man when first he came into this
diocese, and some of the older clergy rather presumed upon this. There
were at that time many among them who would cross the country, and take a
five-barred gate as if it were that fortieth article of which Theodore
Hook spoke to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford. The bishop one day met a
number of these black-coated Nimrods. The scene was not far from
Manchester. After dinner, some of the old incorrigibles persevered for a
long time, with marvellously bad taste, in talking of their dogs and
horses, and nothing else. His lordship looked grave, but was silent. At
last, one of them, directing his conversation immediately to him, began
to tell him a long story about a famous horse which he owned, and “which
he had lately ridden sixty miles on the North road without drawing bit.”
It was the bishop’s turn now, and down came his sledge hammer with all
the force of a steam-engine. “Ah,” he said, with the most cutting
indifference, “I recollect hearing of the same feat being once
accomplished before, and, by a strange coincidence, on the North road,
too: it was _Turpin_, _the highwayman_.” Warner’s long range was nothing
to this. It was a regular stunner. The reverend fox-hunter had never
met with such a rasper before. He was fairly run to earth, and did not
break cover again that night, you may be sure. The idea of a Church
dignitary, for such he was, having had Turpin for his college tutor, was
a view of the case which he had never studied before, and old _Tally-ho_
left the table fully convinced that his spiritual superior was more than
his match even at the _lex Tally-ho-nis_. The same annoyance was never
attempted again. The lesson had its effect upon more than one.
But to go back to Rector Roughsedge; he also once perpetrated a joke, and
it was so dreadfully heavy that it deserves recording for its exceeding
badness. He was a man of strong opinions, prejudices some people would
call them. He did not like the evangelical clergy, who so greatly
increased in number towards the latter end of his reign in this locality,
and, at their expense, he perpetrated the single jest of eighty years.
He was at Bangor, on a tour, and, at the same inn there was a large party
of the rival section of the Church. They were in the room exactly over
the one in which he was sitting, and, as they moved about with rather
heavy tread, the old man suddenly exclaimed, “Sure the gentlemen must be
walking on their heads!” We do not say much for this ponderous effort
ourselves. But it was, we are informed, duly reported at the Clerical
Club, and entered among their _memorabilia_. The curates especially
relished it as a great joke, a very gem of brilliancy, and would persist
in laughing at and repeating it for months and months in all companies,
parties and meetings; and their mirth, it was observed, was always
particularly jocund and boisterous when the rector himself was present.
But who grudges them the enjoyment of their laugh? A poor curate’s life
is such a career of toil and hardship, that anything which can enliven
him, even a rector’s jest, should be most welcome. We, at all events,
are not iron-hearted enough to envy their few enjoyments. But it was
real happiness to hear the old rector and his old wife talk of their son
in India. He was their pride, their boast, their treasure, their idol.
We never met with him; but from all that we have heard of him, we believe
that there was no exaggeration of praise even in the character which his
fond parents drew of him. Everybody endorsed it as fact, not eulogy.
But _the_ church of churches in that day was St. George’s. How we used
to rush down to Castle-street, about a quarter of an hour before the
service began, to see the mayor and his train march to church! We were
never tired of watching that procession. It was super-royal in our
estimation. Sunday after Sunday we would gaze at it with never-wearying
and still-increasing admiration. Such cloaks they wore! There never
were such cloaks. And such cocked hats! No other cocked-hats ever
seemed to be like them. And one man carried a huge sword, which, in our
nursery, we verily believed to have been the identical one taken by David
from Goliath, although there was a counter tradition, which asserted that
Richard the First had won it from a Pagan knight in single combat when in
Palestine. We now rather ascribe a “Brummagem” origin to it. And there
were other men who carried maces, and various kinds of paraphernalia,
which, if not useful, were supposed to be vastly ornamental and
magnificent. The mayor himself held what was called a white wand in his
hand, which was intended, we opine, to impress the public with the notion
that his worship, for the time being, was a bit of a conjurer. But even
we little boys knew better than that. Heaven help those dear, darling,
innocent old mayors! They knew how to fish up the green fat out of a
turtle-mug, and had a tolerably correct idea touching the taste of turbot
and lobster-sauce; but as to doing anything in the conjuring line, they
were as guiltless on that head as any babe unborn. They would never have
run any chance of being burnt for witches. But, nevertheless, it was a
very imposing spectacle to see them tramping along Castle-street every
Sunday morning to St. George’s Church. Our impression always was, that
the very Gauls who paid such small respect to the Roman senate would have
trembled with awe at such a sight. Such was our enthusiasm that, often
as we witnessed it, we still, on our return home, assembled all our
brothers and sister, and arraying ourselves in table-cloths and
great-coats, with the shovel, tongs and poker carried before us as our
official insignia, performed a solemn march upstairs and downstairs, from
garret to cellar, until interrupted by some older member of the family,
who looked upon our imitations to be as sinful as sacrilege or “flat
blasphemy” itself.
And what a congregation there used to be at St. George’s in those days!
It was a regular cram. Every corporator had a pew there, and felt
himself in duty bound to attend out of respect to the mayor. And how gay
and smart were the bonnets and dresses of their wives and daughters.
There was one seat in particular which always divided our attention with
the service. It was constantly full of children, who were not at all
more unruly than the rest of us. But their mother, who was of a very
Christian and pious turn of mind, seemed to be of a different opinion;
for when she thought nobody was watching her (but we were always watching
her), what sly opportunities she would take of pulling their hair,
treading on their toes, and pinching them in all directions. Pinching
was the favourite mode of dealing with them. How we used to speculate
during the sermon upon the consequences of her practices! We wondered
that they did not cry out. And then we wondered more whether
hair-pulling, toe-treading, and pinching were apostolical receipts for
training young Christians. And then we thought within ourselves that
they would be quite bald in so many years at the rate of so many hairs
pulled out every Sunday; and then we used to long to know how many square
inches of their skin had turned black and blue under the pinching
process, and to speculate whether their fond mother boxed their ears, or
set them a chapter to learn, or kept them without their dinner when she
got them home, and found that we had grinned them out of all memory of
the text as we telegraphed them out of our pew to let them know that we
were quietly enjoying the fun in theirs.
And what a muster of carriages there always was at St. George’s, to take
the corporators and fashionables home after service. How the coachmen
squared their elbows, and how the horses pranced, and how the footmen
banged-to the doors! And then when “all right” was heard, how they
dashed off, to the right and left, some taking one turn and some the
other, down narrow old Castle-ditch, and so into narrow old Lord-street,
down which they flew “like mad,” until the profane vulgar called these
exhibitions “the Liverpool Sunday races!” And what a crowd of dandies
and exquisites always assembled on the Athenæum steps, not to discuss the
sermon, we fear, but to criticise the equipages as they rattled by, and,
when they were gone, to pass judgment upon the walkers, their dress,
appearance, etc. The ladies, we recollect, invariably pronounced this
phalanx of quizzers to be an accumulation of “sad dogs” and “insufferable
puppies;” but it always struck our young mind that it was very odd, if
they really thought so, that they did not avoid them by ordering their
carriages to be driven, or themselves walking, some other way. If the
moth flies into the candle more than once, we must presume that it does
not dislike the operation.