CHAPTER XV.

A little back from Water-street, between it and St. Nicholas’s Church, stood an ancient Tower in those days. It was one of the remaining antiquities of Liverpool. It had originally belonged to the Lathoms of Lathom, and subsequently passed, by the marriage of the heiress of that family, into the hands of the Stanleys, some generations before the elevation of that illustrious house to the Derby title. At a later period it had become an assembly-room, and, last of all, by one of those strange vicissitudes to which all earthly things are liable, was a prison for debtors. But at the time we speak of there it was, as if frowning in gloomy strength upon the encroachments which modern improvements and the spirit of enterprise were making on every side of it, a grim old giant, the type, and symbol, and representative of other times. As we contemplated its massive walls or walked under its shadow, what reflections it was calculated to awaken within us. We were then too young for our mind to dwell very seriously or very long upon such topics, but we have often since thought within ourselves that, if stone walls had ears, and eyes, and tongues, what strange histories that old Tower could have told. It carried us back to what we call an age of romance, but what, in fact, was an age of stern and iron realities. What associations and recollections did the very sight of it conjure up within us! The monument of many centuries of glory and crime! In its day, although now merely an object of curiosity and a prison for debtors, the palace and fortress of nobles! In its day, perhaps, like other old castles within the land, the living grave, and the grave, when dead, of the guilty and innocent alike, of the ambitious and the victims of ambition, of heroes and saints, of martyrs and traitors, of princes and impostors, of patriots and conspirators! How often has the mailed chivalry of the middle ages rode forth through these gates in all its magnificence, pomp, and pride! How often has chained innocence been dragged through them to its dungeon’s depths, and to the shambles to which, perchance, they were the passage, feeling, as they turned upon their grating hinges and shut it from the world for ever, all the tremendous force of the “Hope no more!” which the Italian poet wrote over the entrance to his Infernal Regions! If, we repeat, its walls had tongues, what wonders could they tell, what secrets reveal, what mysteries unravel! What mighty or memorable names have resided, or been imprisoned and perished here! What strange things have been enacted within these gray old stones now crumbling into ruin, while the wronged and the wrongdoers have together passed to judgment! But the period for indulging such contemplations has long since passed away. The spirit of feudalism, after holding its ground for so many centuries, at last yielded to the genius of commerce, and the gloomy old Tower was sacrificed upon the altars of modern improvement. Carters and porters now shout and swear where stout old knights and ladies fair held high revelry; and sugar hogsheads, and rum puncheons, and cotton bales are now hoisted, and roll, and creak, and clash where prisoners once groaned and chains clanked. It is a new version of _arma cedunt togæ_.

But we are becoming grave; we moralise; we preach; _Vive la bagatelle_. Let us go back for a few moments to the subject of the last chapter, and speak a little more of those mischief-mongers who dignified themselves with the title of “The Committee of Taste.” We therein stated that Daltera was the understood or suspected head of the said Committee. On the same authority, neither better nor worse than the assertion of common report, it was whispered that, amongst its members, were some other dashing spirits of the day, to wit, Mr. William, _alias_ “Billy Graham,” “Young Sutton,” as Mr. William of that ilk was always called, “Bob Pickering,” _cum multis aliis_, the _multis aliis_ including some, we find, who are yet amongst us, and whom, therefore, we would not name for all the world, and so expose them to their children and grandchildren, who look up to them as models of gravity, propriety, and piety. One venerable gentleman, whom, from his confessions, we suspect to have been at least an honorary member, said to us only the other day,—and in such a free and easy and impenitent sort of way, that we verily believe that, with youth restored, and opportunity returned, and policemen and gas-lamps extinguished, he would soon be at his old pranks again,—“Daltera was always pre-eminent for good taste, and was, therefore, elected President of the Committee.” Finding that our friend was inclined to be communicative, we pressed him for more of his reminiscences, when he added, “They were fine fellows, and woe unto anything that came under their waggish displeasure!” They carried on, he told us, a long war, a repetition of that which has been already described between them and Mr. Staniforth, with Mr. Parke, the celebrated surgeon, touching the shape of his knocker. Dr. Solomon, who then lived in the large house at the top of Low-hill, had his grounds studded over with statues, of which he was not a little proud. They were voted to be not classical by the men of taste, and the decree went forth for their removal, and was carried out on the appointed night, when they were all taken from their pedestals, the “old charley” of the beat being either asleep, or feed or frightened into silence. And we must record another of their performances.

Our readers must recollect Mr. William Wallace Currie. He was not himself a man of jokes, and he was about the last man in the world to joke with. Well, he had an office for his business, upon the door of which was inscribed, in the usual way, “WILLIAM WALLACE CURRIE.” One morning, upon his arrival, he was utterly horrified to find into what the men of taste had transmuted or translated him. The introduction of a comma and the addition of a single letter astonished him with this new reading of his name and profession, “WILLIAM WALLACE, CURRIER.” He joined in the laugh, and there was an end of it. Nor is this the only play upon Mr. Currie’s name which we have to record. The late Egerton Smith, to whom be all honour and respect as the father of the Liberal press in this district, and for the honesty and independence and goodness of character which distinguished his long career, once made an admirable hit upon it, which, although it has been in print before, will bear repeating, and is worth preserving. When Mr. John Bourne, as worthy a man as ever lived, was Mayor under the old Corporation, Mr. Currie was one of his bailiffs; and Egerton, being asked on some occasion for a toast or sentiment, following the Lancashire pronunciation of their names, electrified the company by proposing, “_Burn_ the Mayor, and _Curry_ the bailiff.”

And now for one more witticism from Daltera, of whom we have already related so much. It was at the expense of the same Mr. Fogg, whose impalement by Richmond, in an electioneering song, we have immortalised in a former chapter. At a dinner given at Ormskirk by the mess of a regiment of volunteers, or local militia, in which Fogg was a subaltern, Daltera was among the guests. When the cloth was removed, Poor Joe, as was “his custom of an afternoon,” became very lively and exhilarated, and, fancying that the other was somewhat dull, suddenly turned to him, and slapping him on the back, exclaimed, “Come, _Fogg_, _clear up_!” amidst roars of laughter from the party. A veteran officer of the Guards, who happened to be one of the company, still tells this story with the greatest glee and pleasure, and looks back upon the day in question as one of the merriest and most amusing he ever spent.

But we mentioned the name of Mr. William Wallace Currie just now. We must return to him. He was not a man to be casually mentioned and then passed by. He was the eldest son of the great Dr. Currie. His abilities were above mediocrity, and his mind well-cultivated and stored with literature. He may be described as a reading man, in an almost non-reading community. As a speaker, he was ready, but not eloquent. He had more affluence of argument than command of oratory, but he never failed to express himself to the satisfaction of his hearers. In his own circle of society he was much esteemed. As a party leader, he was greatly respected by the public, who regarded him as that _rara avis_, an honest politician. His life confirms the verdict, for, with undoubted influence at his command, he never used it to subserve his own ambition or push his own private interest. That he was never in Parliament may be ascribed to his own modesty. We have heard of more than one borough where the electors would gladly have chosen him to be their representative. Mr. Currie is still remembered with strong affection by his friends, and, when they likewise have passed away, his name will yet survive for many a generation in the title-page of one of the most delightful books which we ever remember to have read. We speak of the _Life of Dr. Currie_, by his son. In reading it, we were charmed and fascinated by the letters and sentiments of the father, and so pleased with the setting in which these jewels were exhibited to us, that our only regret was, that the biographer did not, in executing his task so well, give us more of his own work, but left us to rise from the intellectual treat which he had set before us with an appetite rather whetted than satisfied by the feast which we had been enjoying.

We have said that the reading men in old Liverpool were few. Let us chronicle another of their names, Mr. Alexander Freeland, who still survives amongst us. His inquisitive mind has long since, we may say, made the tour of literature, and the stores of it which he has accumulated are surprising, as he unlocks the treasuries of his mind in the chosen circle before whom “he comes out.” We must also place another veteran, Mr. Henry Lawrence, in the ranks of both well-read and literary men. He always had a good seat in the intellectual tournament, and carried a good lance in the tilting of wit. He was never wanting to contribute his part, when present, at “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” To catalogue all his clever sayings would be an endless work. His conversational powers were brilliant and infinite. His wit was keen and of the purest order. We defy the young stagers of to-day to produce his match out of their ranks.