It is a curious thing to watch the changes that have taken place from time to time in different neighbourhoods as to the character of the inhabitants. Where at one time we may have found the aristocracy of the town assembling, we have noticed its respectability gradually fading away, and those who inhabited large mansions removing elsewhere. For instance, Rose-hill, Cazneau-street (called after Mr. Cazneau; at one time a pretty street indeed, with gardens in front of all the houses), and Beau-street, were fashionable suburban localities. St. Anne-street abounded in handsome mansions and was considered the court-end of the town. The courtly tide then set southward; Abercromby-square, and its neighbourhood sprung up, and so surged outward to Aigburth one way and to West Derby another. Everton I have already spoken of. I remember the houses in Faulkner-terrace remaining for years unfinished, and it was at one time called "Faulkner's Folly," from the notion that no one would ever think of living so far out of the town. Mr. Faulkner, however, proved himself to be more long-sighted than those who ridiculed his undertaking.

I remember the present Haymarket a field with a rivulet flowing through the midst of it, and the whole of this neighbourhood fields and gardens. In Cazneau-street there was an archery lodge, a portion of which is still standing.

I remember, too, the erection of Richmond Fair, in 1787. It was projected by a Mr. Dobb, who dwelt in a bay-windowed house still standing in St. Anne-street. He intended it for a Cloth Hall for the Irish factors to sell their linens in, which they brought in great quantities at that time to Liverpool. The Linen Hall at Chester gave him the idea of this undertaking. It took very well at first, but in consequence of complaints being made by the shopkeepers in the town that the dealers in linen, instead of selling wholesale were carrying on an extensive retail trade and injuring their business, the authorities stopped all further traffic in it, and, after remaining some years unoccupied, it has of late been converted into small tenements.



CHAPTER XII.

Thirty years ago Great Charlotte-street, at the Ranelagh-street end, was a narrow, poorly-built thoroughfare. On the left hand side, looking south, between Elliot-street and the present coach-builders' establishment, there was a timber-yard, in which stood a small wooden theatre, known as "Holloway's Sans Pareil," and truly it was Sans Pareil, for surely there was nothing like it, either in this town or anywhere else. Both inside and outside it was dirty and dingy. There were only a pit and gallery, the latter taking the place of boxes in other theatres; and, yet the scenery was excellent, the actors, many of them, very clever, and the getting up of the pieces as good as could be in so small a place. The pantomimes at Christmas were capital. The charges of admission were: to the pit 3d., and to the gallery, 6d. The audiences, whether men or women, boys or girls, were the roughest of the rough. The quantity of copper coin taken at the doors was prodigious; and I am told that it occupied two persons several hours, daily, to put the money up into the usual five-shilling packages. Mr. Holloway used to stand at one door and his wife at the other, to receive the admission money. When the audience was assembled, the former would go into the pit and there pack the people, so that no space should be lost. He would stuff a boy into one, or a little girl into another seat, and leave them to settle down into their proper places; giving one a buffet and another a knock on the head, just to encourage the others to keep order and be obedient to his will and wish. There was no space lost in the pit of Holloway's theatre, whatever there might be anywhere else. A thriving business was carried on in this little bit of a theatre, and if the highest class of performances was not produced, nothing at any time offensive to order and morality was permitted.

I remember a good joke in which a gentlemen whom I knew, connected with one of our newspapers, and a leading actress at the Theatre Royal, were concerned, in connection with a visit to the Sans Pareil. The lady was very desirous to see a piece which was got up with great eclat at the Sans Pareil, and which was attracting crowds of people to see it. I think it was entitled "Maria Martin; or, the Murder at the Red Barn." Having expressed her wish to my friend, he at once offered to escort her any evening on which she was disengaged. Fixing, therefore a night when her services in Williamson-square were not required, my friend and the fair comedienne betook themselves to Great Charlotte-street and presented themselves at the gallery door where the gentleman tendered the price of their admission. Now the lady had a thick veil on that she might, as she hoped, conceal her well-known features. But it seems that Mr. Holloway had at once recognised his fair visitor. On the money being tendered to Mrs. Holloway at the gallery door, Mr. H. called out from his door, "Pass 'em in—all right, missus." Now my friend was well aware that Mr. Holloway knew him, and therefore supposed that as a press man he would not allow him to pay—not supposing for a minute that the muffled up figure of his companion had been recognised.

So in they went and managed to climb up the half ladder, half stair, that led to the "aristocratic" region of the auditory part of the theatre. These stairs were frightfully dirty and steep. A broom had not been near them for months, and the lady, picking up her ample skirts, endeavoured to avoid all contact with both stairs and walls. On emerging from the top landing into the theatre, they found the place in a state of semi-darkness. They could just make out a few rows of benches, and clustering in the middle front were about thirty people. The noise was horrible, and seemed more so through the prevailing darkness. Shoutings, bawlings, whistlings, and screamings were in full swing, and the lady paused for a moment, whispering to her companion, "Oh, let's go back—I can't stand this at any price."

My friend, however, urged his companion to remain, and at length they managed to scramble forward, and secure a front seat at one side. The clamour was now added to by the entrance of the band, who mingled the sounds of tuning instruments with the other discords prevalent. Just at this juncture in came Mr. Holloway, who commenced the packing process, much to the amusement of our lady friend, who now began, in spite of the heat, the offensive smells, and the row, to become curious, and determined to see all that was to be seen. Presently the lights were fully turned on, and the orchestra struck up a lively medley tune, suitable to the taste of the audience. The orchestra, though small, was a good one, and some very clever performers were amongst its members. The play at length commenced, and appeared to create great interest and command attention. The lady admitted that the characters were well represented, and the drama very creditably got up. At length came a very sensational portion of the play. That part where Maria Martin is enticed into the Red Barn by Corder. In this exciting scene, Maria, as if having a presentiment of her fate, stands still and refuses to move. She appears in a state of stupor and Corder endeavours to urge her to accompany him. Now there were seated in the middle of the pit two sweeps, who appeared deeply interested in the performance, and finding that Corder could not induce Maria to go forward, one of them, amidst the silence that the cunning of the scene had commanded, screamed out—"Why don't you give her some snuff, and make her sneeze!" The silence thus broken was broken indeed, and the house roared with laughter. Our two friends were not backward in partaking of the merriment. The lady went almost into hysterics, so violent were her paroxysms of mirth. In the midst of the clamour, Holloway, hearing these loud bursts of laughter at a time when there should be complete silence, rushed on to the stage, fancying something had gone wrong. Darting to the footlights, as well as his little fat figure would let him, he roared out, "What's all this here row about?" and glancing round to see on whom he could heap his vengeance, he caught sight of our two friends, and looking up indignantly at them, he continued—"I von't have no row in my the-a-ter. If you vants to kick up a row you'd better go the The-a-ter R'yal." The audience seeing Mr. Holloway addressing the gallery, all eyes were now turned up to where our friends were seated, and the lady, (who had thrown up her veil in consequence of the intense heat) being recognised, was saluted by some one shouting out "Three cheers for Mrs. —-," whereupon the audience began hurrahing, in the midst of which our two adventurers made off as quickly as they could. They declared that neither of them could tell how they did so, being conscious of nothing until they found themselves breathing the fresh air in Lime-street.

When Stephen Price, the American manager, was in Liverpool beating up recruits, in, I think, 1831, Templeton, the tenor singer, was playing at the Theatre Royal. At that time Madame Malibran had made Templeton famous, by selecting him to enact the part of Elvino to her Amina, and thus a very second-rate singer suddenly jumped into the first place in public opinion, by his association with the gifted woman who enchanted all her hearers. Templeton waited on Price relative to an engagement in America, when the following conversation took place:—"I should like to go to America, Mr. Price, if you and I could agree about terms." "Very good, Mr. Templeton. What would you expect, Mr. Templeton?" "Well, I should just expect my passage out and home, and thirty 'punds' a week, Mr. Price, to begin with." "Very good, Mr. Templeton." "And all my travelling expenses, from toun to toun." "Very good, Mr. Templeton. Anything else, Mr. Templeton?" "My board and lodging in every toun, Mr. Price." "Very good, Mr. Templeton. Any thing else, Mr. Templeton?" "And a clear benefit in every toun, also, Mr. Price." "Very good. Anything else, Mr. Templeton?" "Well—no—I—ah—no!—nothing occurs to me just now, Mr. Price." "Well, then," said Mr. Price, "I'll see you d—-d first, Mr. Templeton."

There was a very good story current in Liverpool, some twenty-five years ago, about Mr. W. J. Hammond, a then great favourite, both as actor and manager, and an acquaintance of mine. About that time a very flashy gentleman went into the Adelphi Hotel, and after making minute inquiry as to the bill of fare, and what he could have for dinner, at length ordered "a mutton chop to be ready for him at five o'clock." Five o'clock came, and also the traveller, who sat down in the coffee room to his banquet. He helped himself to the water at his own table and then emptied the bottles at the next, and at length called on the waiter for a further supply. When the mutton chop was duly finished, the waiter inquired what wine his "lordship" would take. "Oh!—ah!—wine! I'll take—another bottle of—'water.'" "Pray, sir," said the waiter (leaning the tips of his thumbs upon the table) with a most insinuating manner—"Pray, sir, would you like the Bootle or the Harrington water?" Hammond heard this, and agreed, with the friend referred to, to enter the Hotel, one at each door, and severally call out, one for a glass of "Harrington," and the other for a glass of "Bootle" water. "Waiter, some Bootle water!" came from a voice at the Copperas-hill door. "Waiter, some Harrington water!" was the order proceeding from the traveller entering by the front door. These strange orders, breaking upon the stillness that pervades this well-conducted hotel, seemed to excite great surprise in one or two aristocratic guests, who were standing in the lobby, when just at the moment Mr. Radley came out of one of the rooms and recognised the jokers. Taking them into his sanctum, he provided them with something stronger than the stream from the good old red sandstone. After a short time Mr. R. was called out, and the two guests began to get impatient at his non-return. Hammond declared that he must go—so did his friend; but they both thought it would seem unmannerly to leave the hotel without seeing their entertainer. Which should remain? However, Hammond soon cut the matter short by bolting out of the room and locking the door. His friend sat patiently enough for some little time, fully expecting Mr. Radley's return, but, while waiting, fell asleep. When he awoke he found himself in darkness, wondering where he could possibly be. After groping about some time, he discovered that the door was locked. The trick Hammond had played him then flashed across his mind. Hunting about, he at length found the bell which soon brought some one to the door, and on its being opened a rather severe questioning took place, as to how the visitor got there and what was his object. Mr. Radley having in the meantime gone home, he could not be referred to. It was only after sending for some person who knew the gentleman that he was released, and certainly not without some suspicions attaching to his visit and his peculiar position.

I recollect a good anecdote of a favourite actor in Liverpool some twenty years ago, when he was engaged at the Theatre Royal as one of the stock company. Mr. S—- was a constant church-goer, as many actors and actresses are, although those who do not know them fancy they cannot be either good or religious—a great mistake. Mr. S—- was accommodated by a friend, who had a very handsomely fitted up pew in St. A—-'s Church, with the use of it, and Mr. S—- occupied it so long that he quite considered it to be his own; and it was a standing joke amongst his intimates that on all occasions "my pew" was referred to. Being out one night rather late, with some "jolly companions," he and they found, on comparing timepieces, that if they were not quick in getting home unpleasant consequences would ensue amongst their domestic relations. Said one, "I must be off." Said another, "If I don't make haste shall be locked out." "My boy," said S—-, "never mind being locked out, I'll go and get the key of St. A—-'s church, and you shall sleep in my pew!"



CHAPTER XIII.

On turning over my "Recollections" of our theatre, there was one circumstance connected with the drama in Liverpool that I shall not forget. It made a great impression on my mind, as it did no doubt upon all those who, at the time, interested themselves in the success of the movement. I allude to the brilliant demonstration that took place in December, 1816, when an amateur performance was got up in aid of the distress experienced in Liverpool, a distress felt in common with the whole nation. All the leading theatrical and musical amateurs in the town took part in that performance. I dare say that, at this distance of time even, it is well remembered by those who assisted at it, if there be any of them still amongst as. I am quite certain that the patriotic feelings which urged them to unite and give their valuable services at so trying a time must still and ever be a source of gratification to them of the highest order.

At the date I refer to, great commercial distress prevailed. Amongst the working and lower classes the most frightful indigence and destitution were experienced.

After the battle of Waterloo all sorts of property depreciated in value. Everything previously was at a "war price." The amount of taxation which the country had to endure may be judged when I state that for a house rented at forty pounds per annum the following were the taxes levied upon its occupier:—Window tax, 11 pounds 4s. 6d.; inhabited house duty, 2 pounds 18s. 6.; land tax, 1 pounds 16s.; highway and church rates, 2 pounds 13s. 9d.; poor rates, 18 pounds; making a total to be paid of 36 pounds 12s. 9d.! The failure of the harvest that year added also to the general distress so that the nation might have been said to have been on the very eve of bankruptcy. So bad was the flour in 1816, and so scanty the supply, that everybody seemed occupied in hunting up and inventing new modes of preparing it for consumption, as well as appropriating unheard of articles as food. I recollect even "saw-dust" was attempted to be converted into bread, while horse-beans were cooked in all sorts of ways to be made palatable, and were also ground down to a sort of flour as a substitute for wheat. The newspapers teemed with cautions to the public to use the utmost economy, while recipes without end appeared as to how bad flour could be best used and made wholesome. It will scarcely be credited that even a public notice emanated from the Town Hall on this subject, signed by Mr. Statham, the Town Clerk. I have by me a copy of it, which, as it may interest some of my readers, I will give entire. It is headed—

JOHN WRIGHT, MAYOR.

MAKING OF BREAD.

NOTICE TO HOUSEKEEPERS, AND DEALERS IN FLOUR.

Complaints having been made against some of the Flour Dealers in this town for having sold Flour unfit for the making of Bread, the Mayor thinks proper to acquaint the Public that, upon an investigation of such complaints, it appeared that in many instances blame was not imputable to the Flour Dealer, but to the Purchaser of the Flour in not having taken proper precautions in the Making of the Bread, which, owing to the state of the Flour this season, it was necessary to have taken, and which had been pointed out to the party by the Flour Dealer.

From the above circumstance, the Mayor has been induced to recommend to all Dealer's in Flour upon the Sale of any Flour which, although not unsound, may render proper precautions necessary in the use of the same, to apprise their several customers thereof; and the Mayor has been further induced to recommend to all Housekeepers the adoption of the following system in the Making of Bread:—

To boil the water and let it stand till of a proper heat, to knead the Flour well, using as little water as possible, and let it stand a sufficient time to rise; to use fresh Water Barm, and bake the Bread on the oven bottom, in small loaves of not more than 2lb. to 3lb. weight; to use, as much as possible, Cakes or Hard Bread, and not to use the Bread new.

By Order of the Mayor, STATHAM, TOWN CLERK.

22 Nov. 1816.

In London the distress was so great that the people there were full of a rebellious element; at a meeting in Spitalfields, whereat the celebrated, or, if the term be more appropriate, "notorious," Henry Hunt was present, and addressed a numerous assembly, frightful disorders took place. Meetings of large bodies of the people were held in all the leading cities and towns throughout the kingdom to petition the Prince Regent and parliament to do something effectual to stay the tide of calamity that seemed to be setting steadily in to overwhelm the nation.

The petition from Liverpool was most numerously and respectably signed; and I recollect that so determined were the memorialists to ascertain whether their petition had been properly presented that a correspondence took place on the subject and was made public, between his worship the mayor, Sir W. Barton, and General Gascoigne, one of our members, relative to its having reached its destination.

The price of wheat in the month of December, 1816, was 21s. per 70lbs., while the quartern loaf of 4lb. 5oz. cost 1s. 6.75d. The penny loaf only weighed 3oz. 1.25 dr.

To the credit of the working classes in Liverpool, the utmost patience and forbearance was exhibited under intense sufferings. I recollect well the energy exhibited by the gentry of the town, in their endeavours to raise funds for the general relief. The Dock Trustees employed numbers of people at 2s. a day. A large loan was raised to enable them to give unlimited employment. The leading firms in the town were subscribers to this loan, which was headed by the Norwich Union Life and Fire Office with 1000 pounds. In the churches and chapels charity sermons were constantly preached, and the clergy of all denominations urged their flocks to give anything at all, and not to withhold even their mites.

Gentlemen formed themselves into parties to canvass subscriptions for the poor from house to house, while the ladies left no stone unturned to further the cause of charity. It was a most remarkable epoch in the history of this country, and certainly in Liverpool the time was as trying as could possibly be conceived. Merchants and tradesmen were daily failing. Great houses, apparently able to stand any amount of pressure, gave way, and many of the provincial banks succumbed, adding to the horrors of the time. Amongst other schemes afloat to relieve distress in Liverpool was the benefit got up at the Theatre Royal, to which I have referred. The prices of admission were doubled on the occasion. The box tickets were 9s., the upper boxes, 8s., the pit, 6s., and the gallery, 2s.; and the proceeds realised no less a sum than 610 pounds! The performances were the "Poor Gentleman," "A Concert," by musical amateurs, and the burlesque of "Bombastes Furioso." The characters were personated for the most part in each of the pieces by amateurs, amongst whom were several of the leading gentlemen of the town, who spared no pains, study, nor cost to render their exertions successful.

There may be still left amongst us some of those who took part in the glory of that memorable evening of Saturday, December 7, 1816. At this distant time, they may still indulge in a feeling of pride at their successful endeavours to further a good cause, and they will not, I am sure, be offended at an old man recording the amount of talent they exhibited, nor the zeal they manifested in fully carrying out the plan proposed for the public amusement and the welfare of the poor. I recollect there was an admirably written prologue, by Dr. Shepherd, which was as admirably delivered by Mr. J. H. Parr, in the character of Stephen Harrowby, a character which he personated in the play with all the finish of an experienced actor, his exertions drawing forth frequent and loud applause. Dr. Ollapod was personated by Dr. Carter, who excited roars of laughter.

I recollect the names of Messrs. Aldridge, Bartleman, Cooper, Greaves, Halewood, Hime, Jackson (a distinguished violoncello player, by the way), Langhorne, Maybrick, Tayleure (a distinguished double bass), and Vaughan. In "Bombastes Furioso," King Artaxomines was personated by Mr. Richmond; Fusbos by Mr. Clay; General Bombastes by Mr. J. H. Parr, who elicited shouts of laughter by his drollery and admirable acting. Miss Grant, of the Theatre Royal Company, played Distaffina. The house was crowded in every part, the whole town seemed to take an interest in the matter, and every nerve was strained to command success. In fact so well did those who had undertaken the disposal of tickets succeed, that numbers of persons could not gain admission although possessing tickets, while hundreds who in vain crowded round the doors were unable to obtain entrance "for love or money." A more cordial display of goodwill was never known in this town, nor was there ever a more enthusiastic, elegant, or better pleased audience assembled within the walls of the Theatre Royal than on that occasion.

At this time there was considerable ferment in the public mind, relative to, and consequent upon, the escape of Lord Cochrane from the King's Bench prison, and when the gallant and noble lord was re-captured and re-committed with a fine of 100 pounds inflicted upon him, the men of Liverpool were early astir in the noble sailor's behalf—a subscription box was opened instantly the matter became known in Liverpool, and it was resolved that not more than a "penny" should be given by each person towards the fine, and each subscriber should, on payment of his money, sign his name and address. A shop at the corner of John-street and Dale-street, was one place appointed for the reception of pence and names, while another was in Mersey-street opposite the end of Liver-street. Crowds of persons were assembled round these places who loudly and admiringly canvassed the noble lord's conduct. He was quite the hero of his day, and in no place had his lordship more enthusiastic admirers than in Liverpool amongst the liberal party. By the people generally, he was quite idolized. In a very short time 2500 pence and names were obtained, and had 25,000 been wanted, I am sure they would have been as readily subscribed. As it may be interesting to some of my readers to know how the 100 pounds fine was paid, I can give them some particulars thereupon, 85 pounds was paid in bank notes, 5 pounds in silver, and 10 pounds in copper. It was said in a joke, that if the whole amount had been tendered in brass it would have been readily accepted, so glad were authorities to get rid of so troublesome a customer.



CHAPTER XIV.

On Sunday morning, February 11, 1810, I was standing in St. Nicholas churchyard, in company with two old friends. We were waiting the arrival of the congregation, and the commencement of the morning service. The second bells were chiming. We had been looking on the river with that interest which is always felt in gazing upon such a scene. Our conversation had turned upon the benefits which a good sound Christian education must confer upon the lower classes of society. Education at the period to which I refer was then beginning to take hold of the public mind, as an essential to the well-doing of the people. This subject in later years, as is known, has become an absorbing question. Our remarks had been evoked by the neat appearance of the children of the Moorfields Schools, who had just passed near where we stood, as they entered the church. One of us remarked in reference to the Tower close by, that it was the dower of the Lady Blanche, the daughter of John O'Gaunt, who, although occupying so eminently marked a place in history, was a man so narrow-minded that he would not allow any of his vassals to receive the least education as he held that it unfitted them for the duties of their station, and gave them ideas far above their lot in life. A curious speculation was hazarded by one of my friend's that as Water-street was anciently called "Bank-street," whether the word "Bank" ought not to have been "Blanche"-street; a name given to it in honour of the lady to whom the principal building in the street belonged, when, just as he had finished speaking, we heard, as if above us, a smart crack. On looking round to ascertain the cause, a sight burst upon our view, that none who witnessed it could ever forget. The instant we turned, we beheld the church tower give way, on the south-west side, and immediately afterwards the spire fell with a frightful and appalling crash into the body of the building. The spire seemed at first to topple over, and then it dropped perpendicularly like a pack of cards into a solid heap, burying everything, as may be supposed, below it. There were many persons in the churchyard, waiting to enter the sacred edifice, and, like ourselves, were struck dumb with horror and dismay at the frightful catastrophe. We were soon aroused to a state of consciousness, and inaction gave way to exertion. In a very short time, the noise of the crash had brought hundreds of persons into the churchyard to ascertain the cause. Amidst the rising dust were heard the dreadful screams of the poor children who had become involved in the ruins; and not long after, their screams were added to by the frantic exclamations of parents and friends who, in an incredibly short time had hurried to the scene of the disaster. Crowds of people rushed into the churchyard, some hurrying to and fro, scarcely knowing what to fear or what to do. That the children were to be exhumed was an immediate thought, and as immediately carried into execution. Men of all ranks were seen, quite regardless of their Sunday clothes, busily employed in removing the ruins—gentlemen, merchants, tradesmen, shopmen and apprentices, willingly aiding the sturdy labourers in their good work, and, in a short time, first one little sufferer, and then another, was dragged out from the mass of stone and brick and timber that lay in a confused heap. Twenty-eight little ones were at length brought out, of whom twenty-three were dead; five were alive, and were taken to the Infirmary, but of these, only three survived. They were horribly maimed, and so disfigured that they were scarcely recognizable. These twenty-eight poor little bodies were at first laid in rows in the churchyard to be claimed by their parents and friends, many of whom were to be seen running to and fro looking distracted with the great calamity that had befallen them. Of all the pitiable sights I ever beheld, the sight of these little things laid on the grass was the most piteous; and, as, one by one they were claimed and taken away—in some instances parents claiming two, and in one instance, three children—the utmost sympathy was felt for those who had been so suddenly bereft.

It was most fortunate that the accident did not occur half an hour—nay, a quarter of an hour—later, or the calamity might have been such as would have marked the day as one of the darkest in our annals—a frightful spot in our calendar. Beside the children, there were only about twenty people seated in the church, far from the scene of the disaster, and they, on the first indication of danger, had fled and sought safety outside the building. How the bell-ringers escaped, it is impossible to tell, but escape they did, and that unhurt, with the exception of one, who rushed back to get his clothes and was killed. It was to their intense stupidity and obstinacy that this catastrophe may be ascribed. Previous to the accident, they had been told that the tower was unsafe, and on that very morning, they were advised not to ring the bells again, until an examination of the building had taken place: but ring they would, and ring they did, and the result of their ringing was a death-knell unmatched in local history.

Nor were the authorities altogether free from blame. It was said that they were apprised of the insecurity of the tower, and yet did not take steps to avoid the accident. The escapes of people on their way to church were wonderful, and many traced their good fortune to being tardy in getting ready, or from leaving home at an usually late moment. The scene of the disaster was for a long time an attraction to people residing miles from Liverpool, and the country around sent thousands to gaze on the unusual sight presented to their view.

In the same year the sad calamity I have just recorded took place, the Theatre Royal was the scene of a frightful disturbance, which ended in the trial at Lancaster of several highly respectable men, for being partakers in it. I have a distinct recollection of this affair, and a more disgraceful one to all parties concerned in it, cannot be imagined. These riots were termed the H. P. riots.

In the September of the preceding year there had been considerable agitation in the theatrical world of London, and dreadful riots had taken place as to the old prices, and the question was whether new and advanced prices should be charged for admission to the theatres. A number of individuals, as many as forty, were tried for the offence of rioting at Covent Garden, when, to the surprise of everyone, the whole of the party were found "Not guilty."

There is no doubt that this strange verdict in reference to most outrageous and unjustifiable conduct had put it into the heads of many people in Liverpool that similar conduct might be indulged in, with like impunity, respecting the Theatre Royal. There had been frequent attempts made to induce the lessees of the theatre, Messrs. Lewis and Knight, to permit a half-price to be taken. The plea for the request was that numbers of persons who would like occasionally to visit a theatre were debarred doing so from the fact that their hours of employment were so late that they could not get away in time to attend when the performances commenced, and they thought it a hard case that they should be obliged to pay full price for only half the quantity of amusement. The lessees pleaded their expenses were just the same, whether the people came at full price or half-price, and since the Theatre Royal had been established no such arrangement had been attempted, and as it would not pay them to concede a half price they declined to do so. They said their undertaking in the theatre was a private speculation for a public purpose, and they had no right to be compelled to do, what no other tradesmen would be expected to do, that is, prosecute their business at a loss. The play-goers, however, seemed determined to carry things with a high hand, and endeavour to force Messrs. Lewis and Knight to come to their terms. The season was announced to commence on the 11th of May, 1810, when there appeared, a few days previously, on the walls of the town the following placard:—

THE THEATRE OPENS ON MONDAY NEXT, 11TH MAY.

THE MANAGERS Have been requested to permit admission at

HALF-PRICE,

As in London, etc. (and elsewhere), but they still persist in the injustice of demanding FULL PRICES, from those who have it not in their power to attend until a very late hour, when a good and material part of the performance is over! We have even a greater right to the indulgence than the London audiences—

LET US BOLDLY CLAIM IT AND WE MUST SUCCEED!!

This placard was followed by others. An abusive letter also made its appearance, as well as a pamphlet equally offensive, in which the lessees were held up to scorn, ridicule, and opprobrium. In fact, every step was taken to excite the (play-going) public mind on the subject of "half-price or full-price."

When the opening night arrived, crowds of people assembled outside the theatre, and the rush to get in, when the doors opened, was immense. Numbers of places had been previously taken in the boxes, by persons who were seen to be most actively engaged in the riots in the theatre afterwards. No sooner had the curtain rose to the play of "Pizarro" than the row began—shoutings, bawlings, whistlings, hornblowings, turnings of rattles, flappings of clappers, and every noise that could be made by the human voice was indulged in, and the uproar seemed to increase as the night went on—such a scene of confusion can hardly be conceived, and amidst the turbulence that reigned placards were exhibited demanding "half-price." In vain the managers attempted to obtain a hearing—in vain favourite actors came forward, hoping to be heard—the play proceeded, but all in "inexplicable dumb show and noise." These riots were repeated on the nights of the 14th and 16th, when it was found necessary to close the theatre. Each night the same riotous behaviour was exhibited. In fact, to such an extent had it arrived that the Mayor was at length sent for, and read the Riot Act. The mob outside threw brick-bats, stones, and all sorts of missiles at the windows, which they completely smashed, breaking away even the woodwork of the frames. The people outside kept bawling "Half-price!" and when any of the known adherents of the full price attempted to get out of the theatre they were driven back and insulted, while those in favour of "Half-price" were cheered and applauded most vociferously. At length, it was determined by the magistrates that the strong arm of the law should be stretched out, and in consequence, six persons who had been most active in the disturbances were arrested, and brought to trial at the autumn assizes at Lancaster, for conspiracy and riot. These delinquents were all gentlemen of position in the town, and, as may be supposed, the case excited the utmost attention and interest. The case was tried on the 14th September. Sir Robert Graham was the judge. I remember Serjeant Cockle was for the prosecution, assisted by Messrs. Park, Topping, Holroyd, and Clark, nearly all of whom, by the way, I think, have since obtained seats on the judicial bench. The council for the defence were Messrs. Raine, Scarlett (afterwards Sir James Scarlett), Raincock, and Richardson. Sergeant Cockle, in opening the case highly lauded Messrs. Lewis and Banks as actors, men, and citizens, and pointed out to the jury how monstrous the conduct of the prisoners had been, in attempting to force an unprofitable movement upon anyone. I recollect he made use of this remarkable expression, "that every person resorting to a theatre has a right to express his dissatisfaction against any thing he sees, either of the plays performed or the actors, and that he must do this honestly: but if he conspire with others to damn any play or condemn any actor, punishment should follow such conspiracy."

At the trial Mr. Statham, the Town Clerk, gave also evidence for the prosecution. After the court had been occupied some time, and many witnesses had been examined, an attempt was made on the part of the judge to effect a compromise, His Lordship remarking that he thought the ends of justice had been served in the public exposure and annoyance which the defendants had been put to, and that as the temper of the people had subsided, and even a better understanding existed between the public and the lessees than before, he thought it was of no use to carry the case any further. The council for the prosecution, however, would not consent to this; at the same time they assured the judge and the court, that the prosecution was not carried on by the lessees, but by the magistrates of the borough, who were determined to put a stop, by all means in their power, to a recurrence of such disgraceful proceedings, and attempts on the part of an unthinking public to force gentlemen to do what they did not consider right or equitable. The verdict returned was "guilty of riot, but not of conspiracy."



CHAPTER XV.

I have never been much of a play-goer, but have occasionally visited the theatres when remarkable performers have appeared. I recollect many of the leading actors and actresses of the close of the last century, while all the great ones of this I have seen from time to time. Joe Munden, Incledon, Braham, Fawcett, Michael Kelly, Mrs. Crouch, Mrs. Siddons, Madame Catalani Booth, and Cooke, and all the bright stars who have been ennobled—Miss Farrell (Lady Derby), Miss Bolton (Lady Thurlow), Miss Stephens (Countess of Essex), Miss Love (Lady Harboro), Miss Foote (Marchioness Harrington), Miss Mellon (Duchess of St. Alban's), Miss O'Neil (Lady Beecher)—but I must say the old and the new style of acting, appear to be very different. Mrs. Siddons exhibited the highest perfection of acting. I cannot conceive anything that can go beyond it in dramatic art.

I was present when John Kemble bade farewell to the Liverpool audiences. It took place in the summer of 1813. The play was "Coriolanus." The house was crowded to excess, and the utmost enthusiasm was exhibited in favour of the great tragedian; who, although not a townsman, was at any rate a county man, he having been born at Prescot.

Mr. Kemble, when addressing the audience on that occasion, made a very remarkable declaration. He said that "it was on the Liverpool stage he first adapted the play of 'Coriolanus,' and produced it, as they had just seen it performed, and that it was the earnest encouragement he then received that proved a great stimulus to him in after life."

A statement of the sums of money received at benefits amongst the "old stagers" may perhaps interest some of my readers. I am going back a long way, but I do so that those who know or who guess at the receipts of the "moderns" may compare them with those of the "ancients." In 1795 Mrs. Maddocks, a most delightful actress, and an immense favourite in Liverpool, drew 213 pounds; Mrs. Powell, 207 pounds; Mr Banks, 183 pounds; Mr. Whitfield, 135 pounds. Mr. Kelly, the Irish singer, and Mrs. Crouch, a most charming and fascinating woman, with a lovely voice, realised together 136 pounds; Mr. Hollinsworth, 124 pounds; and Mr. Ward 119 pounds. In modern days the Clarkes (the manager and his wife) have received as much as 300 pounds at their benefits. One of the best speculations Mr. Lewis ever made was the engagement of Paganini, shortly after his first appearance in the metropolis, in, I think, 1829 or 1830. This wonderful genius had taken the musical world of London by storm, and struck terror and despair into the hearts of the violinists of his day; one and all of whom declaring, as a friend of mine said of his own playing—although eminent in his profession—"that they were only fiddlers." Paganini's playing was most unearthly and inhuman. I never heard anything like the tones he produced from his violin—the sounds now crashing as if a demoniac was tearing and straining at the strings, now melting away with the softest and tenderest harmonies. He kept his hearers enthralled by his magical music, and astonished by his wonderful execution. I shall never forget hearing him play the "Walpurgis Nacht," when he appeared at the Amphitheatre in 1835 or 1836. It was painting a picture by means of sounds. His descriptive powers were wonderful. Anybody with the least touch of imagination could bring before "his mind's eye" the infernal revel that the artist was depicting. The enchantments of the witches were visible. You could hear their diabolical songs, you could fancy their mad and wild dances; while, when the cock crew (imitated by the way in a most astonishing manner), you would feel that there was a rushing of bodies through the air, which were scattering in all directions. Then the lovely melody succeeding—descriptive of the calm dawn of summer morning—came soothingly on the senses after the strain of excitement that the mind had experienced. In that delicious melody you could fancy you saw the rosy colours of the breaking day and gradually the rising of the sun, giving light and beauty to the world. That performance was the most wonderful I ever listened to, and I feel confident no one but those who did hear this strange man can ever entertain any notion of his style or performance. His first engagement in Liverpool was at the Theatre Royal, and a characteristic anecdote is related of the Signor in this transaction. At the Amphitheatre, Signor De Begnis, the great harp player—the husband of the fascinating Ronzi de Begnis, and who ran away with Lady Bishop, (he was the ugliest man for a Cavaliero I ever saw, being deeply pitted with the smallpox)—had been giving some concerts which were exceedingly unsuccessful. The people engaged got no money, De. Begnis having completely failed in the speculation. The news of this having reached London, Paganini heard of it, and when Mr. Lewis proposed to engage him, he jumped at the conclusion that this was the same as De Begnis's speculation and that there could be only one theatre in Liverpool. He accordingly declined to come to Liverpool, unless the money to be paid to him was first lodged at his bankers (Messrs. Coutts) in London. Mr. Lewis saw through the Signor's error at once, and immediately remitted 1000 pounds to ratify the engagement for ten nights. Paganini played his ten nights and drew on each of them from 280 pounds to 300 pounds, so that, great as the risk was, the speculation was a most advantageous one to the lessee. When Paganini came to the Amphitheatre in 1835 or '36 (I think) with Watson as his manager, and Miss Watson as his Cantatrice, he did not draw as on his first appearance, although the houses were very good. I recollect talking to Mr. Watson on the stage between the parts, when the gods, growing impatient, whistled loudly for a re-commencement of the performance. Paganini, who happened to be near us, seemed rather surprised at the noise, and turning to Watson he inquired qu'est que c'est ces tapageurs ces siffleurs? and on being told, he grinned horribly, and said in a low voice—Bah! betes!

I once was told, by one of the actors employed at the Theatre Royal, a curious anecdote of a remarkable and distinguished lady. I don't recollect the year it happened, but I think it must have been about 1829. In that year a carriage drove up to the Theatre Royal, containing two ladies, attended by a man-servant in green and gold livery. The servant went into the theatre to inquire if Mr. Clarke, the stage-manager, was in. On being answered in the affirmative, the stoutest of the two ladies—for the other lady was quite young—stepped out of the carriage, and without ceremony walked through the lobby straight upon the stage, to the utter surprise of the hall-keeper who, like a masonic tyler, allows no one to pass without a word or sign of recognition that they are of the privileged. The man followed the lady, who, stepping to the footlights, gazed around on that most desolate of all desolate, dreary, dingy places, the inside of a theatre by daylight. On her still handsome countenance alternated emotions of pride, regretful feeling, as well as of deep interest. After looking across the pit for a few moments, she turned to the hall-porter and requested him to announce to Mr. Clarke that a lady wished to see him for a few minutes. The man quickly returned, requesting the lady to follow him, but she, passing him, made her way to the treasury with the air and mien of one who well knew the way to that place of torture when a "ghost does not walk." The lady accosted Mr. Clarke with a winning air, and seeing that she was not recognised, said, "So you don't recollect me?" "No, indeed, I do not." "Well, that is strange, considering the money you have paid me. Why," she continued, "do you not recollect who played Little Pickle at Swansea and Bristol in 18—?" "Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Clarke. "Ah! I see you know me now," said the lady laughing. "And many a week's salary I have had there," continued the buxom visitor, pointing to the pay-place, "and now just let me have something paid to me to remind me of old times." Whereupon she went to the pay-place, when the gallant stage-manager put down a week's salary as of old, which the lady took up, returning it however, and placing at the same time in Mr. Clarke's hand, a note for 20 pounds, which she desired him to distribute amongst the most needy of the company. The lady was the Duchess of St. Alban's. When Miss Mellon, she had been engaged at the Theatre Royal, and the first benefit she had was in Liverpool. I knew a gentleman who exerted himself greatly on her behalf on that occasion, and the success of it was mainly attributable to his efforts. This she always gratefully acknowledged, and I recollect his telling me that once, being in London, this admirable and kind-hearted lady—who so worthily used the wealth at her command, after she was ennobled—recognised him while passing down Pall Mall and beckoned him to the side of her magnificent equipage, and there recalled the old time to his recollection acknowledging the old obligation, assuring him that if she could in any way serve him she would be delighted to do so.

The Theatre Royal, about forty odd years ago was under the lesseeship of Messrs. Lewis and Banks. Mr. Banks was extremely fond of a good and well-dressed dish; he had a person as cook who had been with him some years, and who suited his taste in his most choice dishes. The two had a serious quarrel, which ended in cooky giving her master notice of leaving his service. Mr. Banks took this somewhat to heart as he thought if he parted with his cook—and such a cook as she was—he might not be able to replace her. To put it out of her power to give him notice again, he offered her marriage, and was accepted. Mrs. Banks sometimes used to visit the theatre, and generally took her seat at the wing by the prompter's table, where she could see tolerably well what was going forward on the stage. On one occasion the tragedy of "Venice Preserved" was being performed. Edmund Kean was Jaffier and Miss O'Neil Belvidera. They were playing to a greatly excited house, as may well be supposed when two such artists were upon the stage. Mr. St. A—-, who was then ballet-master at the theatre, and who, by the way, was a most graceful dancer, seeing Mrs. Banks, went up to her to exchange compliments. Having done so, Mr. St. A—- remarked how seldom they had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Banks. "Oh," replied she, "I never come to the theatre—not I. There's no good actors now-a-days—there ain't anybody worth seeing." "Dear me, Mrs, B., how can you say so? Who have we on the stage now? There's Mr. Kean"—"Mr. Kean, indeed," exclaimed Mrs. B., "I can't abide him; he's my abortion." "Well, then, what do you think of Miss O'Neil?" "Miss O'Neil!—Miss O'Neil, indeed; do you call her a hactress?—I can't abide her. There she is—see how she lolls and lollups on the fellows—it's quite disgusting!" Now the fact was that Miss O'Neil who was chastity itself off the stage, and who lead a most blameless life, showed, when performing, such abandon and impressment in her actions as to be quite remarkable, especially in parts where the intensity of passion had to be displayed, and this Mrs. Banks "couldn't abide." "Well, then," continued Mr. St. A—-, "who do you call a good actor?" "Who do I call a good actor! you wait till my dear John Emery comes down, and then you'll see a good actor; and if I live as long, I'll make him such a pudding, please God, as he hasn't had this many a day!" Old Mrs. Banks was about right as to John Emery; he was an actor of the first-class, and has never been replaced in his peculiar line. I have seen Emery play Tyke in the "School of Reform." It was a wonderful impersonation. I have seen nothing like it since.

It has always appeared to me to be a remarkable circumstance that many actors and actresses who have been great favourites in the metropolis, have not stood in the same light with the Liverpool audiences. I have seen, occasionally, some remarkable instances of this. Dowton, a great actor, never drew; James Wallack never attracted large audiences. I have seen the whole Adelphi company—including Frederick Yates, his charming wife, Paul Bedford, John Reeve, O. Smith, and others—fail to draw; in fact at one engagement they played night after night to almost empty benches. This was, I think, in 1838. I recollect, on one occasion, Yates seeing a band-box on the stage, went up to it and gave it a kick, and looking significantly at the state of the house, exclaimed, "Get out of my sight—I hate empty boxes!"

Vandenhoff was always a great favourite with the Liverpool audiences. There was a tremendous row once got up at the Theatre Royal, in which he was concerned. About 1825, I think, Vandenhoff went to try his fortune on the London stage, and there, if he did not altogether fail, he did not succeed commensurate with his great expectations; and after knocking about at several theatres, playing, I believe, at some of the minors—the Surrey, Coburg, and Sadler's Wells—he came back to Liverpool, where a Mr. Salter had taken up the position he had vacated. A strong move by Mr. Vandenhoff's friends was made to reinstate him on the Liverpool Tragic Throne. This Mr. Salter's friends would not allow. The consequence was that several noisy demonstrations took place on both sides, and considerable confusion was created during the time the row was kept up. To show to what length things went, I may just mention that placards were freely exhibited in the theatre bearing the sentiments on them of the particular side which exhibited them. I recollect one caused great fun and laughter. It was headed "Vandenhoff" and "Salter-off."

Kean thought highly of Vandenhoff. I have seen a letter of his in which he highly extols him, considering his style to be the purest acting since the retirement of John Kemble.

In the autumn of 1824, there was a great row at the Theatre Royal, which was excited in favour of Miss Cramer, a most popular and able vocalist. At that time the Music Hall in Bold-street had just been opened, and concerts were being given under the management of Mr. Wilson, the dancing master, whose niece by the way (Miss Bolton) was married to John Braham, il primo tenore d'Europa, as the Italians termed him. Braham has often said that this Music Hall was a finer room for sound than any that ever he was in; and at these morning concerts he frequently sang. It was the custom to enlist the aid of the vocalists, if there were any, at the Theatre Royal, to add to the attractions of these concerts. The manager was always willing to allow his singers to avail themselves of the occasion. However, on Miss Cramer being offered an engagement, the manager refused to allow her to appear. Miss Cramer, feeling the injustice of the case, nevertheless sang at one of the morning concerts, and was consequently dismissed from the Theatre Royal. The young lady instantly issued a handbill stating her case, and the consequence was that the theatre was crowded at night, and calls for "Miss Cramer" were incessant. Mr. Banks came forward to justify himself, hoping that both sides might be heard, but he could not obtain a hearing. At length the audience grew so excited that they tore up the seats, smashed a splendid chandelier that had only just been purchased at a cost of 500 pounds, broke all the windows in the house, and did a great deal of damage. The row was continued on the night but one following, when other damage was effected, and it was only by closing the theatre for a few days that peace could be restored. Some of the rioters were afterwards tried at Lancaster, and, I think, heavily fined.



CHAPTER XVI.

In the year 1816, in consequence of the high price of provisions, as mentioned in a former chapter, many persons rendered desperate by their wants, formed themselves into gangs of robbers, and committed many daring acts of depredation. Travellers were constantly stopped, ill-treated, and robbed on the roads in the vicinity of the town; and scarcely a day passed, without intelligence arriving of some house in the outskirts being attacked and plundered. To such an extent was this carried, that people commenced forming themselves into associations for their mutual protection. In Toxteth Park, this was especially the case, as several very serious robberies had been reported in that neighbourhood. It must be remembered that at that time Toxteth Park was but thinly populated. There were only a few good houses in it, occupied by highly respectable families, for the salubrious air of "the Park," and the beautiful views of the river from many parts of it, gave it attractions to those who could live out of town. It was, amongst other things, proposed, I recollect, to have as protection, large and sonorous bells put up on the tops of the houses, so that on the least alarm of thieves, the bells might be rung to arouse the neighbours. Such precautions will be laughed at now-a-days, but something was necessary to be done at that time, when policemen were unknown, and personal protection was by no means much regarded. It was no uncommon circumstance for persons who had occasion to go out at night, to carry a brace of pistols with them; but whether they would have had courage to use them or not, I cannot say, but the fact of having such things at hand were crumbs of comfort to timid people.

I dare say many of my readers will remember having seen in old carriages and gigs, a sort of round projection at the back, forming a recess from the inside of the vehicle. These boxes were used for the purpose of depositing therein a sword and pistols, so that they might be ready at hand in case of necessity.

The extent to which robbery was committed in Liverpool at this period, may be judged by the following circumstance, which many may still remember. On the particulars being made public people were completely terrified at the state to which things had arrived, and several families living in the suburbs, seriously thought of returning to reside in the town again.

About the month of August, 1816, an old woman was seen prowling constantly about the vicinity of Mr. J. A. Yates' house, in Toxteth Park. She made a great many inquiries about the members of that gentleman's family, whether there were men servants in the house, and whether a dog was kept. In fact, she made herself fully acquainted with Mr. Yates' domestic arrangements. This was thought nothing of at the time, but the old crone's curiosity was recalled to mind after the event took place, which I shall briefly mention.

On the night of Friday, 16th August, 1816, about ten o'clock, six men wearing masks, and armed with pistols, might have been seen approaching Mr. Yates' house. Two of them took their position outside as sentinels to give alarm to their companions, if necessary. The other four approached the back of the premises, and entered the house. Passing through the scullery they went into the kitchen, where they found a servant-maid and a footman. Threatening them with instant death if they gave any alarm, one of the four remained in the kitchen to watch the girl, while the other three compelled the footman to show them over the house. Proceeding up stairs, they encountered Mr. J. B. Yates, who was on a visit to Mr. J. A. Yates. On seeing the men approach, he inquired their business, when one of them aimed a blow at him, which, however, fortunately missed its mark, and only inflicted a slight wound on Mr. Yates's mouth. They then ordered Mr. Yates to give up his money, which he did, fearing further violence. Driving him before them, they next entered a room, in which Mrs. J. B. Yates was sitting. They compelled her also to give up her money, watch, and the jewellery she wore. While this was going on, Mr. J. A. Yates arrived from Liverpool, and was seized by the two rascals stationed outside. They demanded his money, putting pistols to his head. Mr. Yates, however, with a good deal of nerve, rushed past the fellows, threw his watch away, and seized hold of the handle of the door bell, which he rung with considerable force. The men, however, again seized him, and told him his ringing would be of no use, as there were fellows inside who could overmaster any effort of his. But the ringing of the door-bell had seriously alarmed the party within, who were then robbing Mrs. Yates, as just mentioned. Snatching up whatever they could, which was portable and seemed of value, the fellows rushed down stairs, ordering the footman to open the hall-door. This he did, and availed himself of the opportunity of making his escape. He ran across the fields and speedily gave an alarm, but too late to be of any service; for, when assistance arrived, the thieves had decamped, taking with them about 14 pounds in money, and a quantity of valuable plate and jewellery. The man left in the kitchen had contrived to secure the stock of plate. Four of the robbers were captured in September following, and committed to take their trial at Lancaster, where they were found guilty and sentenced to death. They were hung in October following, and it is a rather curious circumstance that the very week these men suffered the extreme penalty of the law for their misdeeds, a daring burglary was committed one night at the mill near Mr. Yates' house, when five sacks of flour were stolen, put into a boat in waiting by the mill dam, and successfully carried off.

The Waterloo Hotel was originally Mr. Gore's house. It was afterwards occupied by Mr. Staniforth, who was in partnership with the present Mr. Laird's father as ropers. The roperies occupied the site of the present Arcades, and extended to Berry-street.

I recollect the Fall Well occupying the site of Mr. Alderman Bennet's warehouse near Rose-street. It was covered over with several arches; access to it was obtained down a flight of steps. A tavern was afterwards built on its site, and was known for many years as the "Fall Well Tavern." It stood at the corner of Rose-street at the back of the Amphitheatre. The Dye-House Well was in Greetham-street. I believe access is still obtained to the water, at least it was a few years ago. The wells on Shaw's brow were all laid open when the alteration took place in that vicinity. One of the wells was used at an emery mill, which was once the cone of a pottery. One of the wells was found where the Library is now erected.



CHAPTER XVII.

As a young boy and an old man I have seen my native town under two very diverse aspects.

As a boy, I have seen it ranked only as a third-rate seaport. Its streets tortuous and narrow, with pavements in the middle, skirted by mud or dirt as the season happened. The sidewalks rough with sharp-pointed stones, that made it misery to walk upon them. I have seen houses, with little low rooms, suffice for the dwelling of the merchant or well-to-do trader—the first being content to live in Water-street or Old Hall-street, while the latter had no idea of leaving his little shop, with its bay or square window, to take care of itself at night. I have seen Liverpool streets with scarcely a coach or vehicle in them, save such as trade required, and the most enlightened of its inhabitants, at that time, could not boast of much intelligence, while those who constituted its lower orders were plunged in the deepest vice, ignorance, and brutality.

But we should not judge too harshly of those who have gone before us. Of the sea-savouring greatly were the friends and acquaintances of my youth. Scarcely a town by the margin of the ocean could be more salt in its people than the men of Liverpool of the last century: so barbarous were they in their amusements, bull-baitings and cock and dog-fightings, and pugilistic encounters. What could we expect when we opened no book to the young, and employed no means of imparting knowledge to the old?—deriving our prosperity from two great sources—the slave-trade and privateering. What could we expect but the results we have witnessed? Swarming with sailor men flushed with prize money, was it not likely that the inhabitants generally would take a tone from what they daily beheld and quietly countenanced? Have we not seen the father investing small sums in some gallant ship fitting out for the West Indies or the Spanish Main, in the names of each of his children, girls and boys? Was it not natural that they should go down to the "Old Dock," or the "Salthouse," or the "New Dock," and there be gratified with a sight of a ship of which they—little as they were—were still part-owners? We took them on deck and showed them where a bloody battle had been fought—on the very deck and spot on which their little feet pattered about. And did we not show them the very guns, and the muskets, the pistols and the cutlasses, the shot-lockers and magazines, and tell them how the lad, scrubbing a brass kettle in the caboose, had been occupied as a powder-monkey and seen blood shed in earnest? And did we not moreover tell them that if the forthcoming voyage was only successful, and if the ships of the enemy were taken—no matter about the streams of blood that might run through the scuppers—how their little ventures would be raised in value many hundredfold—would not young imaginations be excited and the greed for gain be potent in their young hearts? No matter what woman might be widowed—parent made childless, or child left without protector—if the gallant privateer was successful that was all they were taught to look for. And must not such teaching have had effect in after life? I have seen these things, and know them to be true; but I have seen them, I am glad to say, fade away, while other and better prospects have, step by step, presented themselves to view.

As a man, I have seen the old narrow streets widening—the old houses crumbling—and the salty savouring of society evaporate, and the sea influence recede before improvement—education and enlightenment of all sorts. Step by step has that sea-element in my townsmen declined. The three-bottle and punch-drinking man is the exception now, and not the rule of the table. The wide, open street and the ample window is now everywhere to be found, while underneath that street the well-constructed sewer carries off the germs of disease that in other times rose up potently amongst us, and through that window comes streaming the sunlight of heaven, cheering and gladdening every heart. Scarcely can the man of old, who has outlived his generation, believe in the huge edifices that now the merchant occupies, or credit his sight, when he looks at the great shops that display their costly goods of all descriptions, with the best of taste. Nor is there a less remarkable aspect presented in the appearance of the people. Of old one scarcely met a well-dressed man—now scores upon scores. In bye-gone times, we scarcely beheld a carriage, lumbering and uneasy as those things were—now we see elegant equipages of every make, shape, and build, suitable for every style of locomotion. In all things have we progressed; nor are we yet standing still.

We are doubling our trade. We are doubling our imports and exports; we have been doubling them since 1749—about every 16 years. In that year the total tonnage of vessels that entered the port of Liverpool was 28,250 tons. In 1764 it was 56,499 tons, in 1780 it was 112,000 tons, in 1796 it was 224,000 tons, in 1811 it was 611,190 tons, in 1827 it was 1,225,313 tons, in 1841 it was 2,425,461 tons, in 1857 it had reached 4,645,362 tons, so that by the same rule that doubled the tonnage of the port, between 1749 and 1764, the tonnage doubled itself between 1841 and 1857. It occupied 134 years to produce an increase equal to that which had taken place between 1841 and 1857. The value of exports in the whole kingdom in 1857, amounted to 110,000,000 pounds sterling, out of which 55,000,000 pounds passed through Liverpool alone. One hundred and fifty years ago there was not a dock in England. In Liverpool they now extend over five miles in length. An hundred years hence?—and what then?

His tale being told the old man bids his readers farewell. He has chronicled a few odd matters relating to his native town. He has spoken of what it was, and of what it is. If it increase in wealth and extent during the next century as it has done in that which is past, our descendants may be so much in advance of us in wisdom and knowledge as to look slightingly upon us. But if our sons' sons will only emulate our good and graceful actions, and avoid that which in us is wicked and ignoble, they will have better reason to be proud of their ancestors than we have of ours, or even of ourselves.



FOOTNOTES.

{167} This bridge has lately been a subject of remark, it having been laid bare in making some excavations for houses in Oxford-street. But this bridge is not the one alluded to previously which was constructed of wood, and was merely a foot-bridge, whence two paths diverged to Edge-lane and Smithdown lane.

{197} By the way, checkers on ale-house doors originated, I have been told, in a curious circumstance. They are the arms of the De Warrennes, who, at one time, had a right to grant a license to all tipsters for a certain fee. The De Warrennes arms on all house-doors indicated that the house was duly licensed. This grant was given to the De Warrennes by King John who is said to have bestowed it in recompense for breaking the head of one of the family during a game of "check" in which the King was conquered. He, in vexation, struck De Warrenne with the board. Touching these said "checkers," I once heard a good story told of a Scotch lady resident in this town. Checkers in Scotland are called "dam-boards." The lady wanting to purchase some table-cloth with a "check pattern," went into a draper's shop and asked to be shown a few. The assistant brought out several sorts, but none of them were large enough in the pattern; the lady, at length, told the young man that she wanted some of a "dam-board pattern." Not understanding the lady, but supposing she meant a d—-n broad pattern, he meekly replied that they had none so broad as that!

THE END