One of my great-grandsons—a fine young fellow, has joined the Volunteers: and seems determined to work his way to a commission. I cannot help smiling when I see him in his uniform, for he reminds me of my young days, when I was a full private in Pudsey Dawson’s Liverpool Volunteers. I don’t think the volunteers of this day are so smart-looking as they were of olden time, when they wore blue coats, white breeches, gaiters and pig-tails, and used pipe-clay in abundance. When we were reviewed on Moss-Lake Fields we made a gallant show. There are fine young fellows now, but somehow the dark rifle-dress looks sombre and dull. Pudsey Dawson’s regiment consisted of eight companies of infantry, and mustered 1200 strong.

The mettle of the Liverpool men was shown in 1797, for some time about the end of February or the beginning of March, in that year the whole town was put into the utmost fright, confusion and excitement. Two French frigates having landed in Cardigan Bay upwards of 2,000 men, it was reported in Liverpool (the report being traced to the master of a little Welsh coasting smack, who had come from Cardigan) that the French were marching on to Liverpool to burn, sack and plunder it, in revenge for the frigates which had been launched from her yards, and the immense losses sustained by the French mercantile marine through the privateers that hailed from this port. Owing to the low state of education then prevalent amongst the lower—and, indeed, in the middle classes—very few knew where Cardigan Bay was situated and I very much question whether, if a map of Europe, or of England and Wales, had been shown, nine people out of ten could, without much difficulty, have pointed out the place. But that the French had landed in Cardigan Bay was a known fact; and it was firmly believed that they were on their way to Liverpool, destroying every thing on their march. It was fully believed also that the privateers which swarmed out of our docks were the cause of this exhibition of ill-feeling towards us. It may be fairly stated that the enormous sums obtained by captures from the enemy by Liverpool privateers proved the main foundation-stone of the present great prosperity of the port. I must say I was and am proud of my fellow townsmen’s spirit in ’97, and their show of pluck. No sooner was the report current that the French might be expected, than meetings took place at which his Worship the Mayor and the authorities generally, exhibited the most lively feeling towards supporting their fellow citizens in their intention of defending the port, their homes, and hearths, from the ruthless invaders. Men, money, and arms, came forth freely, and even boys—mere lads—urgently begged to be allowed to join the ranks of England’s bold defenders. But I must not conceal the fact that, in many cases, great cowardice was exhibited; as, when the report got current and the cry was rife that “the French were coming”—a cry that used to frighten naughty children to the verge of terror—numbers of the inhabitants became panic-struck, and actually packed up their furniture and valuables, and commenced a hasty exodus believing that they would be safer inland than by the seaboard. I saw cartload after cartload of goods, toiling up Prescot-road, Brownlow-hill, Mount Pleasant, Oldhall-street, and Preston-road, accompanied by weeping and terrified women and children, with the deepest anxiety exhibited on their countenances. The outskirt roads were like a fair. It will scarcely be believed that the price of cartage rose so high while the panic lasted, that fabulous sums were asked and obtained for transporting goods out of town. It at length became impossible to obtain a vehicle of any description. Hundreds of persons might be seen camping along the high roads at some distance from the town, anxiously awaiting the expected sound of cannon, the clash of arms, and the cry of contending men. I laugh at this now—but it was no laughing matter then. I recollect one day passing down Dale-street (then a narrow, inconvenient thoroughfare) to muster, when the Warrington and Manchester coach was about to start: numbers of frightened people besieged it and attempted to turn out and off those who had obtained possession of its lumbering inside and its miserable basket behind. In it I remember was seated a tremendous man, a town councillor, who fairly roared and cried like a child because the driver would not hasten his departure—the cry of “the French” annihilated him, and I had half a mind to let off my fire-lock and see what the result would have been. We were not much addicted to punctuality in those good old times; so that half an hour’s delay in the starting of a coach was held as nothing very important—the delay however seemed a year to the worthy magnate.

In the town the utmost excitement prevailed. At the Pier Heads, at the Fort, and in St. Nicholas’s churchyard (in the lower part of which there was a battery of six guns) might have been seen hundreds of stalwart fellows strengthening the fortifications; men in and out of uniform were marching through the town with drum and fife, some armed and some unarmed, coming and going from or to the rendezvous. The jolly sailors in the port mustered strong, and hearty were their demonstrations of enthusiasm. The shops were shut in many of the streets, while barricades were prepared at the street ends leading out of town, ready to be put up at any moment. Information was then so slow in its journeyings that falsehood became as strong-looking as truth, and it was easy to keep up a ferment for some time. Any atom of news became a mountain, until the fresh air of truth melted it away. We were therefore kept for days in a state of great excitement, and it certainly was some time before our warlike spirit subsided, and I must say that although we were somewhat laughed at for our extraordinary haste in coming to the conclusions we did, we had nothing to be ashamed of. We Liverpool men showed our pluck on that and many other occasions during the French war. I fear we were a little too much alive. We had too much pugnacity about us if anything. I recollect some poor simple looking French fishermen in that year put into Liverpool, in order to sell some oysters, when it was all once taken for granted that they were spies, sent to ascertain what we were doing. The mayor at a meeting held to consider the state of the harbour-defences, actually alluded to these poor fishermen as having in their possession the soundings and bearings of the harbour and river-entrance. I, for one, did not believe in their being spies, never having seen such a lot of harmless, stupid-looking men.

About this period the press-gang was very actively engaged in taking men for the navy. These gangs were made up of the very worst and most violent men in the service. They were by no means particular whom they took: to them a man was a man, and that was a sufficient reason for securing him. Cases of horrible cruelty and great hardship frequently occurred to individuals. Men were constantly torn from their homes, wives, and families, without a moment’s warning. They disappeared and were not heard of for years, or perhaps not at all. There was a man I knew who was seized in Pool-lane and hurried off to the tender, and was not heard of for four years, when he returned suddenly as his wife was about to be married for the third time since his departure. His arrival, with a good store of pay, and prize-money, was ample compensation for the loss of the new husband. Terrible rows took place between the press-gangs and the sailor-men—the latter resisted to the very death any attempt to capture them. Blood was frequently shed, and loss of life was not uncommon. I recollect one murderous business with which I should have been mixed up if I had not made my escape by running into a house in Atherton-street. The men used to get across the water to Cheshire to hide until their ships were ready to sail. Near Egremont, on the shore, there used to be a little low public-house, known as “Mother Redcap’s,” from the fact of the owner always wearing a red hood or cap. This public-house is still standing. I have often been in it. At that time there were no inner walls to divide the room on the upper floor; but only a few screens put up of about seven or eight feet in height to form apartments. The roof was not latted or plastered. When I last saw it, some twenty-five years or more ago, the joists and timbers were all open to view. Mother Redcap was a great favourite with the sailor-men and had their entire confidence. She had hiding-places for any number, and the men used, on returning from their voyages, to deposit with her their pay and prize-money, until they wanted it. It was known, or at least, very commonly believed, that Mother Redcap had in her possession enormous (for her) sums of money, hidden or put away somewhere; but where that somewhere was, it was never known; for, at her death, very little property was found in her possession, although only a few days before she was taken ill and died, a rich prize was brought into Liverpool which yielded every sailor on board at least a thousand pounds. Mother Redcap’s was swarming with sailors belonging to the privateer, directly after the vessel had come into port, and it was known that the old lady had received a good deal of the prize-money on their account, yet none of it was ever discovered. It is a very remarkable circumstance that some few years ago, I think about ten or twelve, but I forget exactly when, a quantity of money in spade-ace guineas was found in a cavity by the shore, not far from Mother Redcap’s. It has always been a firm belief with me that some day a rich harvest will be in store for somebody—a case of treasure trove like that which some years ago was known as “the Cuerdly Find.” Mother Redcap’s was the resort of many a rough, hard-hunted fellow, and many a strange story has been told, and scene enacted, under the old roof.

The passage of the river then and at the beginning of the last century, until steam-boats were introduced, was a complete and serious voyage, which few undertook. The boatmen used to run their boats at one time on the beach opposite the end of Water-street and ply for hire. After the piers were ran out they hooked on at the steps calling aloud, “Woodside, ahoy!” “Seacombe, ahoy!” and so on. It is a fact that thousands of Liverpool people at that time never were in Cheshire in their lives. We used to cross in open or half-decked boats, and sometimes we have been almost as many hours in crossing as we are now minutes. I recollect once wanting to go to Woodside on a stormy day, to see a man who lived in a small house between the Ferry-house and Wallasey Pool, and which, by the way, was the only house then standing thereabout. The tide was running very strong and the wind blowing hard, and, after nearly four hours hard work, we managed to land near the Rock Perch, thankful for our lives being spared. The Rock Perch was a pole with a sort of beacon or basket at the top of it, implanted in the rocks on which the lighthouse now stands. There were no houses then anywhere about what is now called New Brighton. The country was sandy and barren, and the only trees that existed grew close to the mouth of the river near the shore. There was scarcely a house between the Rock and Wallasey. Wirrall at that time and the middle of the last century was a desperate region. The inhabitants were nearly all wreckers or smugglers—they ostensibly carried on the trade and calling of fishermen, farm-labourers, and small farmers; but they were deeply saturated with the sin of covetousness, and many a fierce fire has been lighted on the Wirrall shore on stormy nights to lure the good ship on the Burbo or Hoyle Banks, there to beat, and strain, and throb, until her timbers parted, and her planks were floating in confusion on the stormy waves. Fine times, then, for the Cheshire men. On stormy days and nights, crowds might have been seen hurrying to the shore with carts, barrows, horses, asses, and oxen even, which were made to draw timber, bales, boxes, or anything that the raging waters might have cast up. Many a half-drowned sailor has had a knock on the sconce whilst trying to obtain a footing, that has sent him reeling back into the seething water, and many a house has been suddenly replenished with eatables and drinkables, and furniture and garniture, where previously bare walls and wretched accommodation only were visible. Then for smuggling—fine times the runners used to have in my young days. Scarcely a house in north Wirral that could not provide a guest with a good stiff glass of brandy or Hollands. The fishermen used to pretend to cast their nets to take the fish that then abounded on our coasts, but their fishing was of a far different sort. Formby, on this side, was a great place for smugglers and smuggling. I don’t think they wrecked as the Cheshire people did—these latter were very fiends. The Formby fishermen were pretty honest and hardworking, and could always make a good living by their calling, so that the smuggling they did was nothing to be compared to their Cheshire compatriots. Strings upon strings of ponies have I seen coming along the road from Formby, laden with the finny spoil. The ponies had panniers slung over their backs, while sometimes the fisherman’s wife or child, if the horse could bear the double burden, was seated between them. These were called “Formby Trotters.” There were good fish caught in the river at that time; and I have heard say that herrings used to be taken in great profusion in our vicinity until the people fought at the Fish Stones by St. Nicholas’s Church wall, and blood was shed on the occasion. Many a fisherman steadfastly believed that the herrings then left the coast, and never returned in consequence. Wallasey was certainly, at one period, a great place for the curing of herrings, as can be proved by tradition as well as written history.

How well I recollect the Woodside Ferry when I was a boy. There was a long causeway at it, which ran into the river, formed of logs of wood and large boulder stones. Up this causeway you walked until you came to the overhanging shore which on the left hand was cut away to admit the causeway continuing up into the land. There was a small thicket of trees on the rock-top and a patch of garden which belonged to the ferryman. The only house visible was a farm-house which stood on the spot where the (Gough’s) Woodside Hotel may now be found. It had a garden enclosed by a hedge round it. The road to Bidston was a rough, rutted way, and the land was for the most part marshy between Woodside and Bidston, and the country looked very desolate, wild, and rugged. There were some pretty walks over the fields. There was one from Holt Hill to Oxton which I was very fond of. When the weather was fine I have had many and many a pleasant ramble over land where now houses show themselves in hundreds, nay, thousands, and where I have gone bird-nesting, and picking wild flowers, and mushrooming in their season. Lord! what changes I have seen and yet live to see; and I am very thankful for His mercies, which have been manifold and abundant. Wallasey Pool was a glorious piece of water once, and many a good fish I have taken out of it in the upper waters. The view of Birkenhead Priory was at one time very picturesque, before they built the church near it and the houses round it. I recollect when there was not a dwelling near it. It seemed to stand out well in the landscape, and certainly looked very pretty. It was a great shame that persons should have been permitted to carry away the stones for building or any other purpose. Had not a stop at last been put to this sort of work there would not in time have been a vestige of the old Abbey left. I recollect that there was a belief that a tunnel or subterraneous passage ran under the Mersey to Liverpool from the Priory, and that the entrance in 1818, when the church was built, had been found and a good way traversed. That passage was commonly spoken of as being in existence when I was a boy, and I often vowed I would try to find it. I have been up the tunnels or caves at the Red and White Noses many a time for great distances. I was once fishing for codling at the Perch, and with two young companions went up the caves for at least a mile, and could have gone further only we became frightened as our lights went out. It was thought these caves ran up to Chester Cathedral—but that was all stuff. I believe they were excavated by smugglers in part, and partly natural cavities of the earth. We knew little then of archaeology or geology, or any other “ology,” or I might be able to tell a good deal about these caves, for I saw them more than once, but I now forget what their size and height was. The floor, I recollect, was very uneven and strewed about with big stones, while the roof was arched over in the red sand-stone. The encroachment of the sea upon the Wirral shore has been very gradual, but regular, for many years. Within the memory of man the sea has made an inroad of nearly, if not quite, a mile from its former high-water mark. It was not until the erection of the Wallasey embankment that a stop was put to its ravages.

When I stand on the Pier-head, or take my daily walk on the Landing-Stage, I often pause and revolve in my mind the wonderful changes that have taken place in my time in this native town of mine. The other day, soon after the completion of the large Landing-Stage, I sat down and thought would any man then making use of the old baths, swimming inside the palisade, have not considered me, some eighty years ago, a mad fool to have predicted that before I died I should sit on a long floating stage two or three hundred yards from where we were swimming, that would be about a quarter of a mile in length, and that between it and the shore there would be most wonderful docks built, in which the ships of all nations would display their colours, and discharge their precious freights? As I sat there the other day, I thought of the one bath and the old houses by the river’s brink, and the Bath-street, along which came, in the summer-time, such strings of country “dowkers.” Beyond the baths there were no houses, all was open shore consisting of boulder stones, sand, and pools, such as may be seen on any sea-beach. There was hot as well as cold water bathing in the baths, and a palisade ran out into the river, within which, at high-water, persons could swim, as in a plunge-bath. These baths were erected originally by Mr. Wright, who sold them to the corporation in 1774, by which body they were enlarged and greatly improved.

I recollect the bath-woman sold a sort of parliament cake, covered over with coloured sugar plums, and also some sweet things which in appearance resembled slugs. I never see these caraway-cakes and confections in the low shops in which they are now only sold, without thinking of the fat old bath-woman, who was a terror to me and others of my size and age. In 1816 these baths were discontinued and pulled down on the opening of George’s Pier-head baths. For a mile or more there was good bathing on the shore. The bathing machines were introduced about the end of the last century. The keeper of the “Wishing Gate-house” had several, and an old man who lived in a low hut near the mill (the remains of which still stand in the Waterloo-road) had two or three, and made money by them. At that time Bootle and Bootle Marshes were wild places, the roads execrable, and as for frogs (Bootle organs), the noise they made at night was wonderful. I recollect all the docks and streets from Bath-street downwards being sand-hills and salt-marshes. New Quay, of which Bath-street was a continuation, was a sort of haven, into which small vessels, at certain times of the tide, ran to discharge their cargoes. On the tide receding the vessels were left high and dry upon the bank. Bathers used to be seen in any number on the shore. Decency was so frequently outraged that the authorities were at last compelled to take steps to redress the grievance. Not far from the baths was once a pleasant public walk of which I have often heard my father and mother speak. It was called the “Ladies Walk,” and extended from the site of the present Canal bridge by Old Hall-street, down to the river. It was a sort of a terraced gravel walk, having four rows of fine Lombardy poplars, and seats underneath. On fine evenings all the gay and fashionable world of Liverpool used to take the air and show off their hoops and high heels, and the gentlemen their brocaded silk coats, and three-cornered hats. The sword was often drawn by the gallants for some fancied affront, and occasionally a little blood was spilt, a matter of no moment in those days. Great was the grief when it was announced that the Leeds and Liverpool Canal Company had resolved on the destruction of the Ladies Walk.

There was another Ladies Walk in Duke-street, which extended from opposite the present York-street (then called Great George-street) to Berry-street. This was afterwards converted into a ropery and succeeded by Parr-street. By the way, Duke-street, which occupies a portion of its site, has been famous for notable persons residing in it. In the third house from Colquitt-street Felicia Hemans was born, and she wrote some of her early poetry there. In the yard of the next house was once a tree, the last remnant of the Ladies Walk, which had two rows of trees down the sides and centre as in the other Ladies Walk previously mentioned. Mrs. Hemans apostrophizes this tree in one of her early poems. I recollect her very well, for she was intimate with my friends, the Nicholsons, who lived at the top of Richmond-row some forty years ago. Miss Browne received much advice and encouragement from Mr. Nicholson, and she was a most pleasing person. As Mrs. Hemans, her life was not happy. She resided at one time at Wavertree, in one of those cottages on the left hand side of the road just beyond Orford-street. The present “Loggerheads Tavern Revived” was Mr. Nicholson’s house. It was a public-house, called “The Loggerheads” before he converted it into a private dwelling. Where Soho-street now begins there was a dyer’s pond and yard; over it was a fine weeping-willow. In Duke-street also lodged at one time Thomas Campbell, the poet. He occupied part of the house now converted into a cabinet-maker’s shop by Messrs. Abbot. I visited Mr. Campbell several times when he was preparing “The Pleasures of Hope” for publication. He was a very handsome young man, with a fine face and bright eyes. Mr. John Howard lodged in Duke-street in the house directly facing Cornwallis-street, then newly built. At this time his “Report on Prisons” was passing through the Warrington Press; and he used to journey backwards and forwards to correct the proofs. The Rev. Gilbert Wakefield lodged in Duke-street, near the bottom, when he was first appointed curate to St. Paul’s church, then just erected. Dr. Henderson was the first incumbent of that church. Strangely enough, he seceded from the Dissenting body, while Mr. Wakefield joined it from the Church. Curious stories were told of Dr. Henderson’s ministration. Mr. Wakefield complained bitterly of the unkindness and inhospitality of the Liverpool clergy. He said he never was invited but by one brother clergyman to visit him during his stay in Liverpool.

In 1812, Bellingham, who shot Mr. Percival in the House of Commons, on the 11th of May, also lived in Duke-street, about the sixth house above Slater-street. His wife was a dressmaker and milliner. She was a very nice person, and after Bellingham’s execution the ladies of Liverpool raised a subscription for, and greatly patronized her. Bellingham was born at St. Neot’s, in Huntingdonshire, about 1771. His father was a land-surveyor and miniature-painter. Becoming insane, he was for some time confined in St. Luke’s Hospital, London; but being found incurable he was taken home, where he died soon afterwards. Bellingham, at the age of fourteen, was apprenticed to a jeweller in Whitechapel, named Love, from whom, after giving much trouble and annoyance, he ran away. In 1786 his mother’s sister’s husband, a Mr. Daw, yielding to the solicitations of his wife and Mrs. Bellingham, fitted the young man out for India, whither he sailed in the ship Hartwell, in the Company’s service. This vessel was wrecked off one of the Cape de Verd Islands, and young Bellingham managed to get home again, penniless—having lost everything he possessed. Still influenced by his female relatives, Mr. Daw next took a shop in the tinware trade for Bellingham. This shop was in Oxford-street; but a fire occurring in it, Bellingham asserted that he had a large number of bank-notes destroyed. It was suspected he was cognizant of the origin of this fire; but nothing could be proved against him. In 1794 he became bankrupt; but his creditors were so disgusted with the statement of his affairs, that they would not grant him his certificate, and he never obtained it. We next find him obtaining employment in a merchant’s counting-house; and after being with them some time he was sent out by them to Archangel. He remained there about three years, and then entered into partnership with a firm there. He then came to Hull where he entered into contracts for the delivery of £12,000 worth of timber, but only £4,000 worth was ever delivered upon the bills drawn, accepted, and paid. Upon this transaction Bellingham was arrested and imprisoned in Hull, where he remained seven months. On his release he went back to Archangel, where he had no sooner arrived than he was again thrown into prison. He appealed vehemently against this arrest to the English Consul, and also to the British Ambassador at St. Petersburg, Lord Levison Gower; but they both declined interfering, as they considered his arrest legal and justifiable. On his release he came to Liverpool, whence he went to Dublin, where he met his future wife, Miss Neville, a native of Newry. Having become possessed of a legacy of £400, left him by his aunt, Mrs. Daw, he returned to Liverpool, where he commenced business as an Insurance and General Broker. He now began memorializing the government on the subject of his claims upon Russia. General Gascoigne presented his petitions. All he got was a constant refusal of interference. There is no doubt that some of the wrongs he complained of were partly imaginary, and that he perhaps inherited his father’s malady. Finding his appeals of no avail he determined upon being revenged in some way or other upon somebody. On the 11th May, 1812, he posted himself, soon after five o’clock, near the door of the lobby of the House of Commons, and as Mr. Spencer Percival approached, he drew a pistol from his breast pocket, and fired at the right honourable gentleman. The shot took effect, and Mr. Percival died almost immediately afterwards. General Gascoigne, one of the members for Liverpool, was one of the first to recognize the assassin, and, in fact, seized him and took from him his pistols. It was not thought he had any particular enmity against Mr. Percival, but that he would have assassinated any other of His Majesty’s Ministers had they fallen in his way at the time. He said he had been a fortnight making up his mind to this bloody deed. He bought his pistols from a well-known gunmaker in Fleet-street, and so desirous was he that they could be depended upon, that he went to Primrose Hill, in the outskirts of London, to try them. It was said that he had his coat altered, and a capacious and readily accessible pocket made in it; in which pocket, in fact, the discharged pistol was found. Bellingham to the last maintained his contumacious and determined character. He justified his frightful deed, and expressed himself resigned to his fate and prepared to meet it. His atrocious act caused a great sensation in the town. The news that it had been perpetrated, had, however, scarcely reached us in Liverpool before we heard of his trial and execution. He was tried on the 16th of May and executed on the 18th. Short shriving was then the mode!

In Suffolk-street, which runs out of Duke-street, there once dwelt a droll person named Peter Tyrer. He let out coaches and horses for hire. Many funny stories were current about him. I recollect one to the effect that a customer of his, a gentleman residing in Duke-street, complained several times that Peter had supplied him with a coach so stiff in the springs as to be quite unpleasant to ride in it. The next time a coach was sent for by this gentleman, Peter sent him a hearse! On being asked his reason for so doing, his reply was that “so many people had ridden in that vehicle and never made any complaint, that he supposed it must be a very comfortable conveyance.”