Our shops frequented by the fashionables were “few and far between” in
those old times. We had not then reached the bustling age of
competition, colossal plate-glass windows, and “selling off under prime
cost;” and so, as the Irishman said, making our fortunes by the amount of
business transacted. One shop greatly patronised by the ladies was
Wilson’s, near the old dock, that is, what was the old dock, but which
was most unwisely filled up. The Custom-house now stands where the Jack
Park, and the Mary, and the Lovely Nancy once rested on the waters after
achieving their homeward voyage, and poked their bowsprits into the
windows of the opposite houses, which were inconveniently near. Wilson
dealt in all sorts of ladies’ wares, clothing, linen, table-cloths, etc.
At the bottom of Duke-street there was a kind of ornamental or nick-nack
shop, kept by a Miss Gregson, who had a monopoly of that line of
business. At the corner of King-street and old Pool-lane, now South
Castle-street, there was a famous haberdashery and silk shop, presided
over by a most respectable person, Mr. Orton. His private residence was
in St. Anne-street, opposite to Mr. Boardman, and next door to Mr.
Huddleston, whose son, John, lived there in 1790, and lives there still
in 1852. There was another in Castle-street, kept by Mr. Bernard or
Brennand, almost as celebrated. We remember this one more particularly,
as several of the young men who stood behind the counter subsequently
embarked as merchants in different lines of business, and were some of
them eminently successful. One of them died not very long ago, and is
understood to have left an almost princely fortune behind him.
Danson was then, and for many a long year afterwards, our _Magnus Apollo_
in the hair-dressing line. Never was there such a good-natured, polite,
kind soul as Danson. He was the most talkative of haircutters, and they
are generally a talkative race. What demand he used to be in on the eve
of a ball or a great party in those days, when so much stress was laid
upon curls and wiggery! Many a good story was told at his expense; but
gentlemen of his profession have ever been so martyred. He was said to
be of a very inquisitive turn of mind, and much given to fathoming the
why and the wherefore of every novelty and mystery which came in his way.
This propensity once led him into an awkward scrape. Shower-baths were
not as general and everywhere affairs then as they are now. Our Apollo,
once summoned to put some lady patroness into curls, had, upon his
arrival, to wait some little time in the ante-room. A tall, oblong,
curtained sort of box met his eye. What could it be? He cautiously
opened the door, peeped and peeped into it, but could make nothing of it.
A string dangled from above. And what was that for? Our philosopher,
bent upon experiment, took it into his hand; pulled it; and
fiz—souse—splash! he was not exactly caught like a rat in a trap, but
down came Niagara upon his devoted head, as quick as lightning, and as
loud as thunder. The victim screamed; while, to enjoy the sport, in
rushed the lady, and the lady’s maid, and the lady’s husband, and Prim,
the butler, and John, the footman, and Jane, the housemaid, and Molly,
the cook, and Sally, the scullion, and the children, and the lap-dog, and
there was such laughing and such barking as human misfortune never called
forth before. Merry mourners at a funeral never equalled them in their
uproarious enjoyment. There had not been a richer scene since Falstaff
was “carried off in a buck basket,” and then, as he described it, “thrown
into the Thames and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a
horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook.” It
was enough to give a man hydrophobia for life.
Our old stagers must also recollect the Liverpool Hunt of those days,
famous, far and wide, for its good riders, good horses, and good dogs.
It was a glorious sight to the lovers of the sport to see them turn out
when
“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaimed it a hunting morn.”
Mr. Haywood, who lived in St. Anne-street, was a leading Nimrod among
them. It was a treat to have a walk through his stables. And there was
Mr. Joseph M’Viccar, with his slight, elegant, and compact figure, who
was second to no man in crossing the country. Nor must we forget another
of them, Peter Carter. Peter was an original in his way. He loved a
good horse and always rode one, and knew how to do it. When George the
Fourth, then Prince of Wales, visited Liverpool, Peter had a gray horse,
of which he was very fond and very proud. It might have been the very
nag of which it was written,
“But the horse of all horses that rivalled the day
Was the squire’s Neck or Nothing, and that was a gray.”
We rather think, if our memory does not play us fast and loose, that
Carter was a member of the Liverpool Light Horse, which formed the escort
of his royal highness from Knowsley to the town. At all events, the
prince saw the horse, and was much struck with it. The price was asked.
A hundred guineas was the answer. It was to be a bargain. A few days
afterwards a royal groom made his appearance at Peter’s stable. He had
come for the horse. Now it so happened that there was a general
impression that the prince’s credit with his banker was not very
extensive at that time. Peter was awake to this.
“Where’s your money?”
“I’ve forgot,” etc.
The groom, as we said before, had come, but the hundred guineas were not
forthcoming. With some people the wish of royalty is said to be a
command, but nothing less than an order upon the bank would satisfy Peter
Carter. No other “Open Sesame” would unlock his stable door. We will
not assert that our old acquaintance was familiar with the axiom which
teaches that “there is no royal road to mathematics;” but he was
sagacious enough to feel that there was no royal way in horse dealing.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” He had possession of the
horse; he might never get the money. It was, therefore, to use a vulgar
phrase, “No go with him;” that is, he would not let the horse go. The
groom took his leave, greatly astonished and disgusted, and nothing more
was ever heard of the matter. And all that we can say of it is, that
Peter was no courtier, but a sensible man of business, while the gray
continued to adorn the Liverpool, instead of the Royal, Hunt.
And then there was Abraham Lowe, queer, quaint, odd, original, eccentric,
funny, unequalled Abraham Lowe, the huntsman to the pack. How well we
recollect him! When we were a boy in buttons, that dress which ladies’
pages now usurp and monopolise, we had a taste for haunting and strolling
about in the quiet lanes in the neighbourhood of Childwall. We used to
fish in some of the pits in that quarter, that is, we threw in our line
and hook, and watched them by the hour. But the result was always, like
a bad banker’s account, “No effects.” Probably there were no fish in our
favourite ponds. We have often thought so since. But “hark back” to
Abraham Lowe! How we did reverence and respect him! And how we would
listen to his peculiar stories, told in his own peculiar way! We liked
and honoured everything at Childwall. We had a strong regard for that
fine old fellow, Mr. Clarke, of Stand-house. We rather looked up to the
vicar, Mr. Sharpe. We stood in some sort of awe of Bamber Gascoigne, of
the Hall, with his proud and grave bearing. It was our pleasure to watch
the members of the Childwall Club, at their afternoon sports, with bow
and arrow. It was our delight, when our pockets could afford it, to
devour the exquisite pies which they made at the inn near the church.
But the vicar and the squire, Mr. Clarke, the club, and even the pies,
all paled into nothingness when compared with Abraham Lowe. We used to
wonder whether Nelson and Julius Cæsar could be at all like him. His
horse always seemed to be the best horse in the world, and his whip the
nicest whip, a little greasy or so, but that looked knowing. And with
what especial reverence his hounds regarded him! They seemed to know and
feel that there was but one Abraham Lowe in the world, and that he was
their huntsman, and that they were his hounds. And how he would top the
fences and gates! Nothing could stop him! And what a voice he had when
he shouted “Tally ho!” or gave the “Hark!” when a hare was up before the
dogs. And who so acquainted with every art, and trick, and dodge of his
craft! How he always hit upon the right spot for affording the best
sport! And who like him for recovering a lost, or keeping the hounds up
to a cold, scent? Poor Abraham Lowe! It seems but yesterday that he
stood before us with his tall, wiry figure; all sinew and bone, not a
superfluous ounce of flesh about him. What a treasure of a character he
would have been to Scott, or Dickens, or Thackeray! Reality is more
wonderful than fiction. These word-painters never delineated anything
equal to Abraham Lowe. Poor Abraham! he was run to earth himself at
last, and we fear that, in his declining years, the world did not smile
upon him as it did at first. Long after the time of which we have been
speaking, we have seen him occasionally creeping about the streets of
Liverpool with his limbs stiffer than they were of yore, his old
top-boots terribly worn and patched, and his old red coat awfully stained
and soiled. We always had a passing word with him, for the sake of “auld
lang syne.” He never seemed to be downhearted, but maintained his
independent character to the end of his days. There are, we trust, other
old stagers left who will join us in saying, “Peace to the memory of old
Abraham Lowe.” {160}
And talking of hunters, we were, in those days, occasionally visited by
Nimrods of another sort, of the very race of the Centaurs themselves. We
speak of the Cheshire squires of the old times, before railways were
thought of, and when Macadam was a theorist. A Cheshire squire was then
a remarkable peculiarity of the “old-fashioned English gentleman.” He
was proud of his family, of his house, of his grounds, of his horses, of
his dogs, and of everything belonging to him. But he was especially
proud of his county, and his county was especially fond of him. He
seldom passed beyond its borders, except when a fox led the hounds over
them. He was constant in his attendance at the Hoo-green Club, where the
conversation, not dazzlingly intellectual, generally ran upon proud
Cheshire, and its right to be called proud Cheshire, with an occasional
episode upon horses, dogs, the crops, the weather, and “the next meet.”
A long frost in the winter was a terrible interruption to the comforts
and habits of these gentlemen. At such times they would, although not
often, get as far as Liverpool, to lay in a stock of wine and so forth.
You might always know them. The Cheshire squire, when perambulating our
streets in the old times, wore a low crowned hat, a cut-away green coat,
and a stripy sort of waistcoat, buckskins, and top boots, looking very
like what, in these days, is vulgarly called “a regular swell.” There
were some curious characters, very original, spicy, and eccentric among
them. How well we recollect old Sir Peter Warburton. He was for many
years the master of the Cheshire Hunt. For some reason or other there
was not much love lost between him and the people of Knutsford. One day,
when the hounds were at fault, a sudden “Tally ho!” was heard from a
distant hill. “Who’s that?” said the baronet. “A Knutsford man,”
answered the huntsman. At the same moment a favourite dog gave tongue,
and led off the pack in another direction. “Hark to Jowler! hark! hark!”
shouted Sir Peter, adding with a most uncomplimentary emphasis, “I’d
rather believe that dog than any man in Knutsford!”
Sir Harry Mainwaring was another of these antediluvian worthies and
wonders. He took the direction of the hounds after the death of Sir
Peter. He was a hard rider, and loved his glass of port after the
fatigues of the day. At one time his constitution was supposed to be
somewhat shaken by these combined labours of love, and his medical
adviser was called in. “Sir,” said the doctor, “you are overtaxing your
strength in every way. You should go out with the hounds one day less
each week; and you must reduce your allowance of wine. You are
destroying the coats of your stomach.” “Then, hang me, doctor, if I do
not fight in out in my _waistcoat_,” said the quaint, eccentric old
baronet. And truly, medical science was baffled in this instance; for,
instead of following the advice of the physician, he added another to his
hunting days per week, and doubled his portion of wine, laughed at the
doctor, and grew fat and strong. And let us add another story about Sir
Harry. It speaks for his heart, and deserves to be told. He called at
Hoo-green one day to return a bad five pound note which he had received
from the innkeeper at his last visit. “I hope,” he said, “that it will
be no loss to you, and that you know from whom you received it?” “Oh
yes! Sir Harry, it’s all right; I took it from Mr. —,” he answered,
naming a poor curate in the neighbourhood. They were standing by the
fire, and Sir Harry had still the note in his hand. In an instant it was
torn to fragments and in the flames, while he said, “Poor fellow! I can
stand the loss of it better than he can; and see that you don’t make him
uncomfortable by telling him anything about it. He might feel uneasy at
being in any way obliged to me;” and in another moment he was on
horseback and galloping down the lane. Honour to the memory of this
brave old baronet! In this one act, so beautifully done, there was a
combination of pure benevolence and true delicacy of feeling which could
not possibly be surpassed. It could not have been done more kindly; it
could not have been done more gracefully. The heart of the wild huntsman
was in its right place.