CHAPTER XIII.

Among 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.

And we had also our circle of wits, whose sharp sayings were passed round, as household words, from mouth to mouth, and so afforded pleasure and amusement, as they spread from set to set, from one extremity of society to the other. First and foremost in this bright and brilliant band, we must place Mr. Silvester Richmond, or “Sil Richmond,” as he was generally called. Next to him was Joe Daltera. And with them we must join Sam Pole, and “Jim Gregson,” who lived in Rodney-street, a man of racy humour, with a fund of originality about him which revelled in the utterance of good things. And here be it observed, that, as Liverpool is still called the town of “Dicky Sams,” so, in those ancient days, its people were all Sils, and Joes, and Sams, and Jims. It was the custom of the place, and equally observable in every rank of society. But, for a time, let us speak of our prince of wits, Sil Richmond, who was one of the most sparkling, agreeable men ever met with in company. Amongst his own set no party was ever thought to be complete without him. He held the post of a searcher in the Customs, and many were the amusing stories, coined, perhaps, to raise a laugh at his expense, of the “diamond cut diamond” warfare carried on between him and persons striving to break the Revenue laws, of which he was a most vigilant guardian. His powers of conversation were immense, and never flagged. He was always the rocket, never the stick; and he was as potent with the pen as he was brilliant with the tongue. We may call him the poet laureate of the Tories, with whom he warmly sided. The encounters, therefore, between him and Dr. Shepherd, who was ever the principal scribe for the liberal party, were frequent, fierce, and savage. His weapons were not quite so keen and polished as the doctor’s, but they would do a great deal of mangling work, and, like Antæus springing from his mother earth, if foiled and thrown in one round, he was always ready for another. No amount of punishment could dishearten him, and he was always in wind, and, what is more, kept his temper unruffled in the thickest of the fray. He was the author of all the election squibs in his day. Out they poured, grave and gay, in prose and verse, and he seemed never to be exhausted. We doubt not that some of our old stagers yet retain many of them among their treasures and curiosities. One line in one of his songs is still as fresh upon our mind as if we had heard it but yesterday for the first time. Mr. Fogg, a butcher, was one of the most zealous and active canvassers in the reform ranks at some election. Richmond instantly had his eye upon him, and, bringing intellect as well as ink to the work, thus impaled him on the point of his wit as he spoke of him as

“A FOGG that could never be MIST.”

This, of course, told better in the midst of political excitement; but still, at all times, we must admire it as a specimen of our friend’s ready wit. We used often to look up at him in boyish wonder and admiration, as he cracked his jokes, and his filberts, and his bottle all at the same time. And one thing particularly struck us. He never led the laugh at his own jests, but looked as grave as a judge, and far more knowing, through his spectacles, while “setting the table in a roar.” O, for another Hamlet! to say for us, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,” etc. Of Mr. Richmond’s family, one went into the navy, and another into the army. They were both fine young fellows. The soldier, called after his father, distinguished himself and was wounded in the last, we hope that it will always be the last, American war.

But we spoke of Mr., _alias_ “Joe,” Daltera just now, as one of the circle of wits in the former days which are slipping from our memory. He was a regular character in his day and in his way. He was brought up to be a solicitor, and at one time was in partnership with the late Mr. Topham. He had abilities to have raised himself to the greatest eminence in his profession, but he wanted business habits. He had no application, no attention, no steadiness of purpose. In short, he was of a jovial, convivial turn of mind, full of fun and frolic and glee, was fond of company, and greatly preferred shining in society to poring over parchments. He was a terrible sitter at a party. He never sung, “We’ll not go home till morning,” but practically it was impossible to get rid of him until long after the short hours had set in; and, in truth, he was such a pleasant companion, so overflowing with sparkling conversation, “full of mirth and full of glee,” as we said before, that no one ever made the attempt. Steady old fellows at whose houses he used to visit would say, before he arrived, “We will be rude to that Daltera to-night, and give him a hint that shall send him home in decent time.” But when the appointed hour had struck, and long after, these same steady old boys, fascinated by Joe’s wonderful powers of jest and anecdote, were the loudest in pressing him to keep his seat, a pressure which he never resisted. He thought, with Dibdin’s famous song, that there was “nothing like grog,” or, as he and his familiars called it, “rosin.” Often, when you thought that at last he was really going, he would suddenly exclaim, instead of “one glass more,” “Now, lads, rosin again, and then we’ll positively go.” He could not use his pen like Richmond, but he was quite his match in wit and repartee. Countless were the stories told of his sayings and doings. Once the watchman found him in the street quite unequal to steer his course home. This friend in need wished to place him in a wheelbarrow, and to carry him to his house in this kind of triumphal car, when Daltera, steadying himself for a moment, and throwing himself into a theatrical attitude, astonished “poor old Charley” as he addressed him, _a la_ John Kemble, whom he had seen performing the character that night, “Villain, stand back; the gods take care of Cato!” We ourselves remember crossing the river with him, in one of the old-fashioned ferry-boats, before the invention of steamers. There was a stiff breeze, next door to a gale of wind, blowing, and we were in momentary peril from the rash attempt of the boatmen to head a ship at anchor. The sailors themselves were alarmed, while most of the passengers were in an agony of terror. One poor market-woman, in the excess of her fright, threw herself upon her knees in the middle of the boat, and burst out into the exclamation, “Lord have mercy upon us!” when the inveterate punster, alluding to the name of the river, thus cried out to her, “No, no, my good woman; do not say, ‘The Lord have _Mersey_ upon us’ this time!” We were both vexed and shocked at the moment, as the jest out of season jarred upon our ears, while the crew and the passengers looked inclined to _extemporise_ poor Joe into a Jonah at the instant. But we have often smiled at it since. Poor fellow, he could not help it. He could no more have kept it in than the effervescence will remain quiet in a ginger-beer bottle when the cork is drawn. It was the ruling passion strong in death, or in the face of death. Like Sheridan, “he had it in him, and it would come out.” On another occasion, it was said that, upon landing from the boat at Runcorn, or some village between here and Chester, he was seized upon by several persons, who supposed him, from his dress of sober black, to be some celebrated preacher whom they expected, and were on the look out for. Joe, having made himself safe and certain on two points, namely, in the first place, that none of the villagers had ever seen the anticipated star; and, secondly, that he could not possibly arrive that day by any conveyance, humoured the mistake, was carried in triumph to the chapel, preached the most brilliant sermon ever heard, and delighted and won the hearts of the elders, by whom he was entertained, withal taking care to disappear from the scene the next morning before the real Simon Pure arrived. We do not, recollect, vouch for the accuracy of all the details connected with this episode. We only relate it as we have heard it related by Daltera himself a hundred times. Poor Joe! He had many friends and only one enemy, and that was himself. He wasted talents, energy, wit, brilliancy, which would have made an intellectual capital for a hundred shining characters. But who is faultless? Let us look at the beam in our own eye.