Liverpool a few years since: by an old stager

by James Aspinall

iverpool society, like that of every other place, has always been divided into sets; how formed, by what mysterious line separated into divisions and sub-divisions, and sections, and cliques and coteries, we can no more tell than we can explain the causes at work to produce the eddies of the tide. There they are, and we must take them as we find them. It is so, always was so, and ever will be so. But, in enumerating the old stagers of half-a-century ago, more or less, we have passed them in review “promiscuously, as it were,” without undertaking the invidious task of cataloguing the particular set to which they individually belonged. Generally speaking, however, they may be placed under three heads: the fashionable set, the wealthy and commercial set, and the Corporation set. But many of those who have been named belonged to all of these sets. There was, moreover, a literary set; but it was numerically very small. Its three principal ornaments were Dr. Currie, Dr. Shepherd and Mr. Roscoe. The latter, who became so world famous at once, and so deservedly, was a remarkable and striking instance of the proverbially small estimation in which prophets are generally held in their own country. It is true that, by a momentary enthusiasm, he was sent to parliament to represent his native town. But it was transient and evanescent, and as speedily burnt out as a fire of stubble. Liverpool never appreciated Roscoe as the rest of the world appreciated him, nor does it now appreciate him as the rest of the world appreciates him, in spite of its feeble talk about his immortal memory, and its weak and mocking attempts to support Roscoe clubs. In any other place, his name would have been what Shakespeare’s is to Stratford, “a household word,” familiar in the mouth of age, manhood and childhood. But it is not so here, and with him. He has a small and decreasing circle of friends, who remember him when alive, and still treasure every word of wisdom which they ever heard from his lips. He has a somewhat wider circle of admirers, who read his works, and find a giant’s hand impressed upon them all. And there are others who profess to read and admire, because they have learned that no badge of ignorance would be thought greater in the literary world than a confession that they have not studied the writings of Roscoe.

But when all these are counted, we still remain convinced that the general public of Liverpool, beginning from the topmost pinnacle of its society, possess a marvellously small knowledge, and as small an appreciation, of the literary remains of this illustrious man. We can give a remarkable instance of this, of which probably the generality of our readers have never heard. Not many years ago, a Liverpool lady, whose literary attainments are of the highest order, was, when in London, asked to meet a very select party combining some of the most intellectual, as well as the most aristocratic, persons of the west end of the metropolis. She was delighted with the company, and they were equally delighted with her, with her stores of information, her lively conversation, her brilliant wit, her sparkling repartee, the tout ensemble which made her the lion, or, speaking of a lady, the star of the day. But at last, unhappily for the moment, the name of Roscoe was mentioned, and she became astonished, confused, and silent as she heard him spoken of with an awe, an admiration, and a reverence due and paid only to minds of the most magnificent calibre. “Take any shape but that,” she might have said, “and I can talk with the best here present.” On this topic, however, she was mute, and her perplexity and annoyance were dreadfully increased when, at every pause, the rest of the party seemed to wait for her opinions and sentiments. “He was a Lancashire man. He was a Liverpool man. She must have visited, as the Mahommedan does his Mecca, with the steps of a pilgrim, every locality hallowed and consecrated by his presence and footsteps. She must have treasured and embalmed in her memory anecdotes of his sayings and doings which had not yet appeared in print; stories of his habits, and customs, and daily life, which enthusiasm had cherished and tradition handed down.” But they laboured under a huge delusion. She was no Boswell, to read from her diary the hourly records of the life of another Dr. Johnson. In fact, she was ignorant on this point, and knew nothing of the man of whom they were speaking.

It may be explained. She was of an ultra-Tory family, with large estates in the West Indies, of which past generations had run passenger ships for involuntary black emigrants from Africa to the other side of the Atlantic. In her home circle, then, as a child, a girl, she had always heard Roscoe spoken of, not as a great philanthropist, not as a first-rate scholar, not as a writer whose books will be read and referred to until the world’s last blaze, but as a busy-body, as a meddler, as a mischief-monger, whose wish and object were to injure and destroy the town and trade of Liverpool. We may not wonder then that her amazement was great, and her perplexity not less, when now, for the first time in her life, she heard what was the public estimation in which her world-celebrated and world-appreciated townsman was held. The mists of local prejudice were at once scattered from before her eyes. She honestly and candidly took refuge in a confession of the truth, and so dissipated the half sneer, half smile of wonder which was gathering on the lips of some of the company. We recollect the circumstance well, and were not more amused than pleased with the avidity with which the very next day our fair friend provided herself with everything written by or of Roscoe, and with the keenness of appetite with which she set to work to devour them as speedily as possible. He is now one of the Dii Majores in her intellectual Pantheon. But we also mentioned Dr. Shepherd, clarum et venerabile nomen, as one of the literary giants of our locality some years since. He was, indeed, and no mistake about it.

We have frequently in our time heard him compared by turns with Theodore Hook and Sidney Smith. But he was, in our opinion, infinitely superior to either of those luminaries in the Metropolitan world of wit; and, had he shone in the same sky, our belief is that their lesser rays would have paled before his greater brilliancy, as the stars go out and tapers glow dull and dim when the sun is up and dazzling us with his glory. Dr. Shepherd was a thorough and solid scholar; an advantage not possessed by either of his rivals. Hook’s education was notoriously deficient. Smith had not accumulated equal stores of learning from his. Hook, when not running riot as a roué, a debauchee, mad with dissipation, and intoxicated with the flattery of the circle in which he moved, never soared to anything beyond the character of a first class Jack Pudding. His practical jokes were those of a boy blackguard. His jokes uttered were almost invariably of the coarsest kind, which derived a momentary zest and relish, not from their own intrinsic value, but from the political excitement which then prevailed, and which they were generally intended to subserve. Friendship has indeed sought, in more than one biography, to rescue him from such a character. But friendship would have been more friendly, so to speak, if it would have allowed him to be forgotten. There is no advocate so eloquent as oblivion for some reputations. With Sidney Smith, again, it was “Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro everywhere.” His whole life was one long, enduring, universal jest.

He never seems to have been serious. In all his conversations, and most of his writings, puns and points, often not soaring to sparkling antithesis or dazzling epigram, beset you, like “man traps and spring guns,” at every turn in the road, until you become weary and exhausted. Man cannot always be laughing. A perpetual joker must sometimes excite a yawn. But we never found Dr. Shepherd guilty on this head, and in this fashion. He was witty in season, but not out of season. He could be the man of business. He could bring gravity to the discussion of grave affairs, and treat things serious with seriousness. But when in the social circle, and amongst his friends, it was the season for relaxing, then came forth the mighty stream of his wit, rolling like another Mississippi, in its glorious, resistless course, and sweeping all before it, and as remarkable for its point, polish and elegance, as for its strength and poignancy. There were few who could keep the saddle in the intellectual tournament with him. Before that terrible lance, adversary after adversary went down, like chaff before the wind. Nor do we recollect any greater treat than a perusal of the correspondence with which the Doctor used, from time to time, to season our newspaper reading. Upon whatever controversy he entered, he was sure to come off victorious. The very opposite to Mrs. Chick, whose maxim was to carry everything by “an effort,” he never seemed to make any effort at all. It was the very ease with which he crushed the most daring of his foes which was so annoying to them, and so amusing to the spectators. How he would bowl down a whole string of sophistries, which had been boldly set up before the world as so many philosophical conclusions not to be overturned! How he would turn a fallacy inside out! How he would scatter every kind of mystification, and expose every attempt at falsehood and imposition! How he would strip every jackdaw of his borrowed plumes, and raise the laugh against every presuming quack! Yes! He was wit, scholar, philosopher, author, controversialist, all in one, and good in all. But he was something more. We believe Dr. Shepherd’s charity, for his means, to have been something wonderful. We have heard of acts of kindness on his part which would have been pronounced noble had they been performed by the wealthiest of our merchant princes, or the highest in the land. What, then, were they, when done by one of his limited income and resources? His heart was a bank, upon which misery had only to draw, and its drafts were sure to be accepted and honoured. All respect to his name and memory! We know few men who have lived more esteemed; we know of none who have done more good in their time. Let his surviving friends join with us in offering this tribute to one of the giants of the past.

CHAPTER XII.

ome people have very strange notions of the duties of the historian and the biographer. They fancy that our part is to suppress or distort the truth, and to substitute flattery for it; that we should deal in sickening and nauseous eulogy only,—

“In sugar and spice,
And all that’s nice,”—

and exert our energies in the vain effort to extract sunbeams from cucumbers, or to make deal boards out of sawdust. The child, walking in the churchyard, and reading the epitaphs, exclaimed, “Mother, where do they bury the bad people, for I can only find the good ones here?” But we are not epitaph-mongers, we are not flattery-spinners, we are not eulogy-penners. We are not, we never were, a society of angels, and we take men as we find them. We are not making a collection of fancy sketches, to be all beauties. We are forming a cabinet of likenesses. We took up our pen with this end in view, and we shall continue to work it out. We shall tell “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” We shall “nothing extenuate, and nought set down in malice,” but state facts as facts, call a spade a spade, and describe men as they were, not as they ought to have been. We have, of course, an object in these prefatory remarks. We have. It seems that certain, it may be well-intentioned, or it may be over squeamish, censors and critics are bombarding us with good advice, to the effect that we ought in chronicling the past to praise everybody; in other words, as we have already hinted, to write epitaphs, not history. But, once for all, we beg leave to state that we are not going to take this advice. We have, however, two propositions to make in answer to it. The first is, that those amiable persons who are shocked by our plain speaking, should just skip our effusions; or, if that does not satisfy them, we will surrender our task and pen and inkstand altogether to them, and allow them to begin with the next chapter, and carry our work to a conclusion in their own fashion, which we doubt not will be infinitely superior to our way of putting our rough notes together, and stating our homely thoughts in homely language. We trust that this offer will be accepted. We would rather be learners than teachers, and shall be delighted to be convinced that every common councilman of the last generation was a Chesterfield and an Adonis, and every merchant a Lindley Murray and an Admirable Crichton, miracles of wit, literature and learning. But we, at all events, are not the Plutarch to record the mythology, not the history, of these impossible prodigies and inconceivable wonders. And now we proceed, until our critics volunteer to supersede us. But, verily, as we return to our work, vires acquirit eundo, it grows upon our hands. When first we undertook it, we had a notion that we could in a brace of chapters dot down all our reminiscences of the times we speak of. But here we are now, in Chapter XII, with as yet no port in view, and scudding along with all sail set over the interminable ocean of garrulity, and with our catalogue of worthies growing into a far greater magnitude than that of Homer’s ships.