CHAPTER XIV.

In our last chapter we mentioned the names of some of the wits and illustrious in jest of whom Liverpool could boast a few years since. We now descend the scale, to speak of a class whom we would mildly call “the practical jokers.” The _Spectator_ makes glorious old Sir Roger de Coverley horribly afraid of the club of Mohocks who, many years since, pushed their horse-play in the metropolis into positive ruffianism, and perpetrated the most savage outrages under the name of fun and frolic. But the sports of the Liverpool mischief-mongers at the commencement of the present century were of a much more harmless and innocent character. One young gentleman, who subsequently flourished as a grave old stager amongst us, had a passion for collecting, in a kind of museum, or “curiosity shop,” all the signs and signboards which struck his fancy; and it was said that he had a large muster of black boys, carried off from the different tobacconists’ shops in the town. And sometimes he varied the amusement in the following fashion:—In Pool-lane, now modernised into South Castle-street, was a famous ship-instrument maker’s shop, in the front of which was elevated a wooden figure of a midshipman in full costume, at which we have often gazed with fond delight in ancient days, and which we are now convinced must have been the original of the one which Dickens, in Dombey, makes Captain Cuttle contemplate with so much pride and pleasure. Somewhere in the same locality was one of the tobacconists’ shops of which we have spoken, with the then usual sign of a black boy over the door. Time after time would our funny and facetious friend substitute these signs one for the other, so that, when morning broke, the midshipman would shine forth in all his glory at the door of the snuff and tobacco store, while the black boy would be grinning in front of the ship-instrument maker’s premises. At last the joke wore itself out. The perpetrator of it never was discovered. He preferred to play his “fantastic tricks” alone, and kept his own secret. But there were also associated bodies for the performance of the same kind of mad pranks. One set of them formed themselves into what they dignified with the name of “A Committee of Taste,” although they and their friends called them, over their cups, “The Minions of the Moon.” Their object seemed to be to emulate and imitate the merry doings of Falstaff and his companions. They occasionally, however, pushed their jokes somewhat too far. There was a house in Daulby-street, then a sort of _rus in urbe_, or, rather, country altogether. It had a garden in front, and was ornamented with a verandah. This it appears did not please these fastidious gentlemen, and the owner was served with a notice, signed by “the Chairman of the Committee of Taste,” directing him to alter or remove it by a certain day. To this command he paid no attention. Well, the day arrived;

“‘The ides of March are come.’ ‘Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.’”

The verandah was still there. But that very night, at a few minutes before twelve o’clock, a loud knock at the door called the owner of the house to the window which overlooked it. The moment he appeared, with his head and the nightcap upon it looming through the darkness, a cheer welcomed him from the opposite side of the street. Then came a pull, and smash, crash; the verandah, with all its trellis-work and ornaments, was gone. The rogues had sawed away the supports, made their ropes fast, and then, with wicked waggishness, summoned the gentleman of the house to witness the destruction of his offending property. We will chronicle another of the feats of the “Committee of Taste.” At that period Mr. Samuel Staniforth lived in the large house at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, afterwards converted into the famous Waterloo Hotel. Something about it, either a shutter, or a knocker, or a bell-handle, we have forgotten which, was excommunicated by this tasteful inquisition, and ordered to be removed. Mr. Staniforth was about the last man in the world to obey such a lawless mandate, being one of that class who, “if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, would not give one on compulsion.” He therefore treated the notice served on him with contempt. And now the battle began in good earnest.

“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.”

the thing denounced, whatever it was, was removed, then restored, and again removed, to be once more restored, and still in the original offending form, without an atom of alteration. And so the struggle went on, until Mr. Staniforth became highly exasperated, as well as extremely indignant at the persevering annoyance. Of this, the jokers, who met him with grave and sympathising faces every day in society, were fully aware, and only made thereby more resolute in their fun. In the extremity of his vexation he consulted George Rowe, the attorney, of whom we have made honourable mention in a former chapter. We speak from authority, for we had the story from Mr. Rowe himself, who used often to tell it with great glee. When the offended alderman had unbosomed all his griefs to the solicitor, and had urged him to exert all his vigilance to discover the offenders, and then to put in force all the terrors and pains and penalties of the law against them, the latter met the history of his sorrows with one of his good-natured and hearty laughs, to the great astonishment of his client, who certainly did not belong to the laughing portion of the creation. When he had settled himself into seriousness, he said, “Well, Mr. Staniforth, I suppose, after all, your object is to abate the nuisance, rather than trounce the sinners.” Staniforth, however, was not so sure that he would not like to do both, and “kill two birds with one stone.” But at last, after a long and serious confabulation, he was persuaded to leave the whole affair in the hands of the lawyer, who, indeed, would only undertake it on that condition. Now Mr. Rowe, although he had no guilty knowledge of the offenders, had a shrewd guess in his own mind, and, acting upon the impulse, wrote a note, desiring to have a conference with the chief captain of the knocker and bell banditti. They met, and on the next day glorious old George, sending for Mr. Staniforth, laid the result before him. The latter was exceedingly angry at first when he heard that the bold rogues, instead of being overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, still took up very high ground, being determined to make him capitulate on the immediate point at issue, but with a promise on their part that he should never more be annoyed by them on any other. At first he would listen to no such terms, regarding any treaty with the parties as little better than compounding for a felony. Gradually, however, he yielded to the reasonings of his adviser, and the agreement, without being duly signed and sealed, was honourably carried out on both sides. “And to whom,” we said to George Rowe, when sitting one day with him after dinner, with our legs under his mahogany, “to whom did you address your note when you wanted to have this celebrated interview with the Chairman of the Committee of Taste?’” “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure,” he answered, with a very thunder-clap of laughter, which almost made me tremble lest a blood vessel should burst or apoplexy ensue; “Why, to Joe Daltera, to be sure, who else could it be?”

But alas, alas! for the flight and power of time! Of the actors in this amusing scene, all have passed from the arena of busy life. We marvel whether any of the aforesaid “Committee of Taste” yet survive, to sigh or to smile over the wild pranks of their youth! But how is it that such follies are only remembered, not perpetrated, now? As Mr. Pickwick observed, when prosecuted for a breach of promise, men are very much the victims and tools of circumstances. When we look at the class to which the parties of whom we have been speaking belonged, we can find many reasons, without any boast of merit and improvement, which will explain why young gentlemen in these times should not roam through the streets by night, bent upon fun and mischief, for hours and hours. Forty or fifty years ago, men met together to dine about three o’clock. They had, consequently, not only a longer time to devote to the bottle, but also, when they broke up, excited by wine, some hours to get through as best they could, before they retired to bed. This would have a wonderful influence upon their conduct. Moreover we had only a few old watchmen in those days, who were as much alarmed at the approach of our “bucks,” as the travellers by an Eastern caravan at the appearance of the wild Arabs of the desert. Again, the introduction of gas for lighting the streets, instead of the old oil lamps which, “few and far between,” used to twinkle in the distance and just to “make darkness visible,” had a wonderful influence upon the habits of our young men. Some great authority on such matters in the metropolis calculated that, for enforcing order, one gas-lamp was equal, at least, to three policemen. There are many persons over whom the fear of being found out exerts a strong power. What they would do under the veil of darkness they strenuously avoid when its shelter is removed. The temptation may be strong, the will may be present, but the opportunity is wanting. These remarks, however, only apply to one class of society. But, when we make our survey more general, we must also take into account the march of knowledge, the increase of mechanics’ and literary institutes, and the spread of cheap and useful books among the masses. To the printing-press we doubtless owe much for our improved tastes and habits. Who, indeed, can calculate the might, the magnitude, and extent of its diversified influences and powers? It is our schoolmaster, our instructor, our guide, our guardian, our police, all in one. Praise and honour to those who wield the pen, so long as they use it for the benefit and advantage of their fellow-creatures. Ill-disposed persons may pervert it to be an instrument of evil. But who can tell the amount of its well-doing when directed to good? Truly did the wit observe, that the greatest stand ever yet made for the improvement and civilisation of mankind was the inkstand.