“Who goes there?” It is Mr. Birch, afterwards Sir Joseph, the father of our late worthy representative. A noble-looking specimen of the merchant prince and the “fine old English gentleman” was Mr. B., and much esteemed and respected by all who knew him. And look at the tall, commanding figure that now approaches. It is Mr. Brooks, the father of the venerable Rector and Archdeacon of that name. And there were the Walkers, who lived in Hanover-street, and who in their day were the very tip-top of the tip-tops, and the head of all the gaiety and fashion of Liverpool. And there were the Gregsons, ever one of our first and leading families; and the Heskeths, and the Midgleys, and the Caldwells. And Arthur Heywood, then a middle-aged man, has a foremost place in our recollections. And there were the Rathbones, Bensons and Croppers, of that generation, as brave-hearted and active and zealous philanthropists as their descendants of the present day. And there was Hugh Mulleneux, who went through a long life marked by deeds of charity, and who to the last of his life, was one of the most guileless and sterling men we ever met with. And there were the other families of the same name, with a different spelling, Thomas Molineux, William Molineux, and other brothers, of whom we can safely say that we never heard any evil, and knew much good. They had hearts exactly in the right place, and with the right feelings in them. They are worthily represented yet amongst us. Nor must we forget to chronicle the name of old Mr. Yates, whose sons still walk worthily in the steps of their respected sire. And there were Hughes and Duncan, and the celebrated world-famous “Tom Lowndes,” who shot like a meteor across the sky of the commercial world, and who, in the magnificence of his speculations, would have thought no more of bidding for the United States for a cabbage garden, or of undertaking to pay off the national debt at a week’s notice, than he would of swallowing his breakfast. A fine fellow comes next, Mr. Nicholson, or Colonel Nicholson, as we used to call him, a title which, we believe, he bore in the Militia. He was a gentleman, out and out, through and through, every inch of him, in look, in bearing, in manner, in feeling. We never saw, to our fancy, a handsomer man than he was in those days, and amiability sat on every feature of his noble countenance. And how he could skate! How we have by turns laughed, and trembled, and shouted, and clapped our young hands as we have watched him darting along on the St. Domingo pit, and then cutting figures of eight and all sorts of fancy forms and hieroglyphics on the ice, and taking the most surprising leaps, and achieving all kinds of dangerous miracles. But, arma cedunt togæ. The soldier subsequently subsided into the citizen. Mr. Nicholson became a member of the Corporation, and was Mayor of Liverpool. He married one of the Miss Roes, in Queen-square. She was a niece of the celebrated Council king, Mr. Shaw; and their son, having dropped his paternal name for that of his maternal great-uncle, now lives at Arrow, in Cheshire. He has a strong look of his father in his features, and seems to have inherited his kindness of heart and manner. And there go the Harveys, fine fellows every one of them. And there is noble old Rushton, who, like his son after him, our late respected and lamented magistrate, had a head upon his shoulders with something in it, and a heart swelling and flowing, aye, and overflowing, not merely with a river, but with an ocean, of “the milk of human kindness.” Shall we ever “look upon his like again?” Selfishness was not in his nature. He felt for the woes and sorrows of his fellow-creatures, without respect to colour, climate, creed, or country. His sympathies were universal. The earth’s limits alone were their limits. He might have taken for his motto the glorious sentiment which, nearly two thousand years ago, called forth such thunders of applause in the theatre of ancient Rome:
Homo sum, humani nil a me alienum puto.
All honour and respect and peace to his memory! But we must go on, although you may say—
“What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet?”
Yes; and one very different from our last-mentioned hero. The next figure upon our canvas was also a character in his way. Look at his bluff, resolute, determined countenance. It is Captain Crowe, as brave a sailor and as odd and eccentric a man as ever walked a quarter-deck. Once, in the good ship Mary, he fell in with two English sloops of war, somewhere in the middle passage, which Liverpool ships were engaged upon in those times. They took his trim-looking vessel for a French cruiser, and he took them for a couple of the same craft. It was, however, nothing to old Crowe that they were two to one. He was like the stout-hearted ancient, who said that he would count his enemies when he had beaten them. Night was coming on, and they could not distinguish each other’s flags. To it they went, and kept at it hammer and tongs until morning showed them the English colours floating on all their masts. The cruisers had, in the dark, made several efforts to board him, and had been repulsed with terrible loss. The firing of course ceased as soon as the light showed them their mistake, and the senior commander of the man-of-war sent an officer on board, with a sulky civil message, to know if they could do anything for him in the way of helping him to repair damages. “I want nothing,” said the old Turk, with a grim smile, which meant that he had given as much as he had taken in the action; “I want nothing, but a certificate to my owner that I have done my duty.”
And who next? That is Taylor the brewer. And there is another of the same trade, jolly old Ackers, great in malt and hops, greater in politics, and greatest of all in the actual bustle and conflict of an election. And there is his friend with him, old Hesketh, the famous tailor, of Paradise-street. Instead of being the ninth part of a man, Hesketh was nine men all in one, the picture of a true Englishman, the very portrait of John Bull himself, a regular old Tory, for men, out of his trade, more than measures, and with such a good-tempered countenance, that it drew customers, better than a thousand advertisements, to his shop.
And there was another character who must not be excluded from the “curiosity shop” of our reminiscences. Every old stager must recollect Peter Tyrer, the coach-builder, and keeper of hackney coaches. A very primitive-looking man was old Peter, but as full of eccentricity and solemn jocularity as an egg is full of meat. Peter’s jests were always uttered with a serious tone, and spoken out of his nose more than through his lips, so that we laughed at the twang when there was nothing else to laugh at. There was occasionally some originality in his humour; but he had one standing joke, a very grave one, which has now passed into a regular Joe Miller with the men of his craft. Whenever any one came to order the funeral cavalcade which he had to let out, he invariably pointed to the plumed hearse, of which he was very proud, and observed, “That is the very thing for you, for of all that have travelled by it none have ever been heard to complain that they had not an easy and pleasant journey by it.” Poor Peter! And when thy turn came, we trust that thy journey, both to the grave and through it, was an easy one! Nor do we doubt it. With all his whims and oddities, Peter was a good man, no idle professor, but a zealous, practical Christian. We could do with more like him.
CHAPTER XIII.
mong the great West Indian merchants of the days we are writing of, we must not forget to place the James and France families. The representative of the latter resides at Bostock Hall, not far from Northwich, in Cheshire. The present Mr. James sat for some years in the House of Commons, and gave evidence of talent far beyond mediocrity. There was also a spice of originality about him which commanded attention whenever he spoke. It was but seldom, however, that he opened his lips. Senatorial honours, we presume, had no attractions for him. We so conclude from his voluntary and premature retreat from their pursuit, much to the regret of all his friends. There was another Mr. James in Liverpool in those days, rather a rough-spun and unhewn kind of person, and very eccentric and amusing in his way, a character, in short, amongst his own circle. Many of our old readers must remember Gabriel James, or, “the Angel Gabriel,” as some of his waggish friends called him. He had a ready tongue and plenty of mother wit, and seldom came off second best in a tilt and tournament with words. Nor must we omit to mention old Mr. Waterhouse, of Everton, a grave and venerable-looking man, whom we always regarded with awe and reverence. There was Mr. Neilson, too, whose sons still uphold the family name amongst us with so much credit and respectability. And there was the lively, gay, agreeable “Jack Backhouse,” who lived in Smithdown-lane; and Mr. Backhouse of Everton, and another family of the same name at Wavertree; and the Colquitts, and the Dawsons of Mossley-hill. And the gay parties in those times used frequently to be enlivened by Lord Henry Murray, who was often a visitor with the Neilsons and Backhouses.