“He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.”
Nor have we since had occasion to recall the exclamation, either with regard to men in the Church or out of the Church. And we have yet a more pleasing sight in which to view the character of Dr. Hodgson, namely, as he was seen in the domestic circle. It was a positive treat to see him, with all the pomp and pride of the outer world thrown off, in the bosom of his family. Never was there so kind and affectionate a husband, never so fond, and tender, and indulgent a father. In his home, surrounded by those whom he loved, and who loved him, he seemed to forget at once all things beyond, and to leave behind all the aspirations and longings, pains and pleasures, sweets and bitters of ambition. You had thought him, perhaps, a cold and calculating competitor in the race of intriguing rivals for promotion. You had watched with pleasure his splendid career at college and in the University. You had admired him as a scholar, been dazzled by his literary attainments, or struck by his tact and bearing as a polished and finished courtier, a character on which he laid such stress that it was a frequent saying with him, that, “in his estimation, manner was everything, next to religion.” But it was in the enjoyment of his home, to him not figuratively, but really “home, sweet home,” that you were at once startled and delighted by seeing him in the best and most amiable point of view. Here the exquisite nature of the man was beheld in in all its glory, affectionate, gentle, and earnest, with a heart overflowing with every kindly feeling and domestic virtue. “The most loveable man, perhaps,” as some one has written of the poet Moore, “that ever lived, judging him in the shade of his own home, apart from the artificial glare of society.” All selfishness was there renounced. His happiness was in the happiness of those around, and that those moments, stolen from his active and proud career, were the sweetest and most delicious of his life it was impossible to doubt. He must, like every other public man, often and often have been taught the bitter truth that “all is not gold that glitters.” But, whenever the bubble of popular applause in which he so delighted was grasped, only to burst in his hand, whenever the seemingly gorgeous gems of ambition turned out to be mere trash and tinsel, when they had passed from a dream or a hope into realities, he could dwell upon his home treasures, which were to him his greatest “joys for ever,” far more precious to him than the world’s most approving smiles, and his best and truest consolation if ever it frowned upon him. We respect and honour the name of Dr. Hodgson, when we recollect him as the scholar, the gentleman, and the clergyman; but we love it and fondly dwell upon it when we recall his memory as the husband and the father. How little was he known and how ill understood in his native town! and how few amongst us even remember him or his name at all! And yet Liverpool, and she has been a fruitful parent of worthy children, never had a son of whom she had more cause to be proud than Frodsham Hodgson. We have but feebly sketched a character which, we trust, some stronger pen will undertake to delineate in all its fair proportions and colossal dimensions. Until this is done there will be a gap in biography which certainly ought to be supplied, and the sooner the better.
CHAPTER XXII.
n election was an election, indeed, in those days. It was not merely a rush to the hustings for a few short hours, and then all over. There was no getting the lead by ten o’clock in the morning, and winning at once by making a good start. Votes were then taken by tallies, or tens, each tally marching to the hustings, with a band of music and colours before it, and each party bringing up its tally in its regular turn. The curiosity, and excitement, and suspense, and anxiety were kept up, day after day, until there was a grand smash at last on one side or the other; in other words, until “no tally” forthcoming in its turn betrayed weakness, and proclaimed that it was U P with somebody. An election, then, in those times, was a great and solemn affair with our jolly old freemen, who had the vote-market all to themselves, no intrusive ten-pounders having yet been thrust upon the constituency. How well we recollect the hurly-burly of some of those old elections. There were two sections of the Tory party always in the field, the green, or Tarleton party, and the blue, or Gascoigne and “Townside” party. But, at a pinch, they always coalesced against the pinks or Reformers. Among the greens were the Drinkwaters, Hollinsheads, Harpers, etc. Foremost in the ranks of the blues were the Fosters, Cases, Aspinalls, Gregsons, Branckers, Clarkes, Leylands, etc. And the pinks also numbered a gallant phalanx to do battle for them in every struggle, Earles, Lawrences, Croppers, Rathbones, Roscoes, Curries, Harveys, Mathers, cum multis aliis. And how Jack Backhouse and Corf, the butcher, used to head up the greens on horseback, in Castle-street, both they and their horses bedizened all over with ribbons of their favourite hue! And how popular old Tarleton was with the fishwomen! And then how the Tories would shout for “Negro-slavery, and no Popery!” And the Reformers had “Civil and Religious Liberty!” written on their flags. And how well we remember one, long before the opening of the trade to the East Indies, on which was inscribed, “The China trade for ever.” This was quite beyond the geography of the party who carried it; for, supposing it to be an allusion to a competition between home-made crockery and Dresden china, they had, by way of illustration, or commentary, hung the flagstaff round with all sorts of specimens of plates, and dishes, cups and jugs, and so forth. Many a laugh was raised at their expense, as they marched about in blessed ignorance of their blunder.
On one occasion, as if foreshadowing events which were to happen half-a-century later, a big loaf or Free Trade candidate took the field, to the great delight of all the hungry non-electors. It seems but as yesterday when, patriotically braving all the pains and penalties attached to such an audacious proceeding, we escaped from the nursery to clap our little hands, and set up our little shout, as we followed the music and yellow banners of the champion of cheapness and plenty to his house in Kent-square. His name was Chalmer, and he was the father of the venerable, and worthy, and clever doctor and town councillor of that name. Sir Isaac Coffin, too, once made his appearance here just before an election. It was, of course, suspected that he had a design upon the borough. If he had, the intention died in the egg. No chicken ever was hatched out of it. Richmond, however, instantly fired at him with a squib, which opens in this unceremonious fashion:—
“Sir Isaac Coffin’s come to town, not to please the lasses,
But to gull the Whigs, a set of stupid asses.”
A good story is told against Sir Isaac on the other side of the Atlantic. He once made a bet that he would find a given number of gigantic alderman lobsters of the weight of thirty pounds each. It happened not to be in the lobster season, and the monsters were not forthcoming on the appointed day. Sir Isaac, however, not liking to lose his money, sent in certain depositions to the stakeholders from fishermen on the coast, stating that they had frequently met with lobsters of the required weight; to which this pithy answer was returned, “Depositions are not lobsters.”
The old freemen of those days were worthy grandsires of their present worthy grandsons. Some of them were witty rogues in their generation. One of them, on the eve of an election, when in a state of intoxication, asked one of the Hope family to give him a five pound note for his vote. The demand was indignantly rejected. “Then,” rejoined the incorrigible fellow, “if you will not give it me, lend it me, and you may believe I will return it on any day you fix.” Mr. Hope shook his head with resolute incredulity. “Ah,” said the offended elector, staggering away, “they may call you Hope, but hang me if you have either faith or charity in your composition.”
But we must not pass by, without some remarks, the two soldier representatives who so long sat for Liverpool in the House of Commons. General Tarleton was a fearless old guerrilla of the American war, in which his achievements, successful or otherwise, proved him to be as brave as the sword he wore, and were more like the creations of romance than the realities they were. He was open, frank, and free, with many qualities to recommend him to popular favour, but no more fit to represent the mighty interests of Liverpool, even in those days, than any child of three years old taken out of the street. He had not one point of the statesman in his whole character. He was as capriciously selected as he was capriciously ejected by his friends. He was originally adopted without a single recommendation. He was finally repudiated without a fault or failure in addition to those which had marked his career from the first. We have heard many things laid to the charge of our old freemen, but they never appeared in so bad a light to us as when, at the bidding of their employers, or under some other influence, they almost to a man turned their backs with freezing indifference upon a candidate towards whom, on all previous occasions, they had affected to feel an enthusiasm amounting to positive frenzy. Human nature was never presented to us in so despicable a point of view. Poor old Tarleton. We never felt a sympathy for him except when he was thus suddenly victimised by popular caprice, his former worshippers flying from their idol. And why? Tell it not in Gath, if you like, but we will tell it in Liverpool; because the rich men of his party had set up another image, and he presented himself for their votes in formâ pauperis. Say not, or we shall laugh at you, that he was rejected to make way for the brilliant Canning. Aye, Canning, all honour and glory to his memory, was the most brilliant of all the brilliant stars that ever shone in this lower world of ours. But we never loved brilliancy from our hearts in Liverpool. We have tolerated it at times for the sake of other qualities by which it has been accompanied, but we were always anxious to get rid of it as soon as possible. Liverpool looks upon able and clever men as Athens looked upon Aristides. Mediocrity suits our temper best.