Daniel K Longman

Visiting town on the weekend can sometimes seem a somewhat perilous journey. Our city is famous, maybe even slightly infamous, for its multitude of bars and clubs making Liverpool a popular destination for coach parties of revellers from all across the country. Our council representatives are very much aware of the importance of finding a balance between a welcoming and accepting destination and a city of decadent pandemonium.

At the start of 2012 local media outlets reported that the number of licensed premises in the city centre had risen from 498 in 2007 to 683 just five years later. Merseyside Police warned that the awarding of any more licences could “see a rise” in alcohol-related crime, but just how do you manage a small fishing village that has grown to effectively become a 24 hour party capital? This balance is key to the success of any major city’s tourist industry, but is nothing new. It may surprise readers to discover that Liverpool nightlife has been the subject of close review for many years.

“The exceeding number of ale houses and tippling houses within this town is thought not only to be a great nourishment of idleness, but also a great occasion to many other disorders and inconveniences.”

This scathing critique was recorded by officials in 1580 who were keen to bring order and sobriety to the neighbourhood. Yet the ale houses lived on, with the Master of Ceremonies of Bath penning his thoughts on his favourite trio of taverns on his visit much later, in 1760:

“There are at Liverpool three good inns. For ten pence a man dines elegantly at an ordinary, consisting of ten or a dozen dishes. Indeed, it must be said both of Cheshire and Lancashire that they have plenty of the best and most luxurious foods at a very cheap rate; their mutton is small and juicy; their fowl, whether wild or tame, brought in fine order to market, and of fish they have great variety in the utmost perfection.”

As for the alcohol, he added:

“I drank some ale of superior quality with Mr. Mears, a merchant in the Portuguese trade; his malt was brought at Derby, his hops in Kent and his water brought by express order from Lisbon. It was indeed excellent liquor!”

Society has perpetually sought to find harmony between the thrill-seekers and the day-to-day living and our present day concerns have been debated for centuries. It is undoubtedly a contentious issue that shall forever be with us.

At the last census 2.1% of local residents described their health as ‘very bad’. Worryingly this is somewhat higher than the national average which stands at 1.3%. The health of our region has been of interest to statisticians for many years with mortality rates a key influence on local government policy.

A report by Dr Matthew Dobson in 1774 describes that, “the dryness of the soil, the purity of the waters, the mildness of the air, the anti-septic effluvia of pitch and tar, the acid exhalations from the sea, the frequent brisk gales of wind and the daily visitation of the tides” helped make towns around the Mersey some of the healthiest in the United Kingdom.  However as Liverpool grew in size and number, the state of the region‘s health declined rapidly.

Through the 1840s Dr Duncan took a far more detrimental view and asserted that Liverpool was now the unhealthiest town in all of England. He put forward the following unwholesome statistics.

The average age of death for a Liverpudlian in the mid-19th century was a youthful 17, whereas in Manchester it was slightly better at 19 with Londoners living until a distinctly venerable 26.5.

His view applied to all classes. The doctor’s research suggested that the Scouse gentry died on average aged 35, compared to their tradesmen who perished aged 22 and labourers still very much in childhood, aged only 15.

In older parts of the town the population included some 160,000 working class people of whom over a third crammed themselves into the 2000 courts that could be found rotting about the neighbourhoods. Of Liverpool’s 32,000 houses, each had seven inhabitants. Compared to a court these were positively spacious; these somehow contained 15 bodies.

By way of reasoning Dr Duncan stated, “if it is considered that each individual requires a daily supply of upwards of 600 cubic feet of pure air to maintain the healthy composition of his blood, there will be no difficulty in understanding why, if 600 feet of tainted air be supplied to him instead, and that not for one day only, or occasionally, but constantly and habitually, the chance, or rather the certainty, is that he must die before his time.

Thankfully such unpleasant court dwellings are now long gone, but with our health still worse than the norm Merseyside has some way to go to enjoy the well-being and longevity 21st century living can offer.

As any readers of the Echo’s letters page will know, we Merseysiders are not afraid to speak our mind. Through the years countless numbers of disgruntled locals have written to the press to air their niggling irritations. Here is a selection of Liverpool’s civic upsets across the ages:

One anonymous writer known only as C.R took issue with nocturnal goings-on at the corner of Bold Street and Hanover Street way back in 1830:

“C.R protests against the noise in which disorderly females are permitted to make in many parts of the town, and in Bold Street especially. Our correspondent says that the respectable and orderly inhabitants of the neighbourhood of this nuisance are disturbed in their beds until a late hour every morning, the incessant noise and disorderly conduct of these unfortunate women and their associates.”

One Parker Street resident, Mr Saunders, penned an irksome letter in 1875 highlighting an issue with public health:

 “May I call your attention to a most abominable nuisance which is existing in our principle thoroughfares and which is a source of unpleasantness to the neighbours, besides being detrimental to health; namely the obnoxious gas penetrating from a sewer in the middle of the road through a small grid situated at the corner of Parker Street and Leigh Street. The place has been almost unbearable through the stench.”

Later in 1884, Mr. Newcome of Westminster Road bemoaned his experiences of what we would today describe as anti-social behaviour.

“I wish to draw your attention to boys from 10 to 17 who will give you a sharp cut with their top lashes, and if spoken to will use some imprudent or filthy expression in reply, and then runaway. On Saturday last in Scotland Road for instance, a lady was hit with a whip, and on remonstrating with the boys was called a foul name and told to get out of the road!” 

Mr Russell of Bedford Street made known his views on fireworks in a letter from 1893:

“Is there a law to prevent street vagabonds discharging fireworks in the public thoroughfare? Today this neighbourhood is noisy with fireworks and some ladies were seriously alarmed by having some of these abominations discharged in their path. Surely some kind of ought to be placed on these nuisances.”

It has been said that if one wishes to learn about any period in time, look to the literature. Letters of complaint offer honest and frank testaments to this advice and prove that life has never been easy or carefree. On the contrary, it has been full of maddening, disheartening and downright enraging problems humankind always had, and likely always will have, to deal with.

The April of 1876 saw an inquest take place examining the circumstances of Alice Dickman’s death. The nine year old had been the daughter of a fishmonger’s widow who lived in a house on Kirkdale Road. On the Sunday morning of April 12 the youngster complained of a headache and asked her mother for some whiskey to alleviate the pain. The time being only 9am, her mother was still in bed. “The bottle is in the drawer” she told her sleepily, and Alice went off to fetch the alcohol. Shortly afterwards the girl began to vomit and it was discovered that she had drunk far more than a medical drop. Alice had taken about half a gill of the spirit – the equivalent of ¼ pint.  She appeared to doze off but her health had actually taken a turn for the worse. At 2pm a doctor was called but his remedies had little effect. Alice died the next morning from apoplexy brought on excessive whiskey. A verdict was returned in accordance with the medical evidence.

On an otherwise ordinary morning almost a century ago, pandemonium broke out in one Stanley Street saleroom all thanks the arrival of a humble piece of fruit. There were strident cries and veracious jeering, peppy jumping and passionate stick-waving as a crowd of over three hundred merchants vied for the attention of the deafened auctioneer. The raucous event was unparalleled in living memory, and the reason? This day was the first time in four years that a consignment of American and Canadian apples had been available to buy on UK shores. Imports had been cancelled near the start of World War One leaving apple-lovers longing for the return of the crunch. Liverpool being a chief port was an early beneficiary in the reappearance of the long-lost fruit and the room that day was crowded full of eager salesman keen to get their hands on the produce. Sellers from all over the country descended upon the city and despite the shipment being rather on the large side, a number still returned to their businesses empty handed. However hungry local householders could still expect a moderate supply on the shelves at their local grocer selling at a retail price of no more than 9d per pound (appx £1.70) During the week of December 19, 1918 the American steamer Alsatian delivered 6,000 barrels of apples, the Bohemian brought over 9,700 barrels as well as 8,600 boxes, and the Belgic carried a whopping 28,000 boxes.  A barrel was three times as full as a box but some had been set aside by the Government for the soldiering stomachs of the army.

We are fortunate today to live in an age where the home is now very rarely a danger. We have smoke detectors helping us avoid outbreaks of fatal fires.  We have burglar alarms to protect us and our property from would-be thieves. For those who need it, we have stair-lifts to conquer a potentially life-threatening climb. Technological advancements such as these allow us to feel happy and safe to dwell inside our twenty-first century havens of domestic space. However things have never always been so sans souci.

In my years of research I have come across many cases where the house has turned against its inhabitants through very unfortunate twists of fate. More often than not it is the children of those households who fall victim to these disastrous mishaps. Who would have thought the simple wash tub would be a common killer bringing sadness and despair to many families in Liverpool’s and indeed the country’s, now long gone communities?

On April 12, 1897 two year old Eva Bentley had wandered off into the back yard of her home at No. 37 Clare Road, Bootle. This was the beginning of a very dire set of circumstances.  Her father, a grocer and provision dealer, had headed out to work earlier that morning and her mother had just left the room to answer a knock at the door. Worse still, the servant girl the family employed was busy elsewhere in the house. This unfortunate turn of events gave the naïve toddler the unadulterated freedom to explore the wash house, and in particular a wash tub which contained just nine inches of water. To such a tiny figure this meagre puddle must have seemed like an overwhelming ocean and on peering in, the poor girl tumbled over the brim headfirst. Minutes later Mrs Bentley discovered the child dead, her lungs utterly saturated.

A further heart-rending case of note occurred in 1925, when four year old George Reeves of Felton Grove, Stoneycroft was listening to the wireless. The little lad had been seated upon a chair by the radio, headphones on, when he became tired of the disembodied tones. He stepped down from his seat and began to remove the device from his petite ears. In doing so he had the bad luck to stumble over the family cat. This in itself would have resulted in a rather nasty plummet, but the reality of the situation was far more serious. That afternoon Mrs Reeves had been preparing a bath for her boy by the fireplace. She had only just finished pouring another pan of boiling water into the tub and had left for the scullery to fetch some much needed cold to bring it down to a more comfortable and safe temperature. It was into this blistering liquid that baby George found himself splashing about in unimaginable pain.  When his distraught mother rushed back to rescue the youngster from the searing heat, his burns had already inflicted critical damage upon his vital organs. George died from scalding later that day with doctors unable to save him.

With the Echo’s enthralling behind the scenes look at the changes taking place at the city’s Central Library recently, today’s feature takes us back to when it all began.

In the mid Victorian Era it was agreed that a new location was needed to house the Earl of Derby’s collections which were overwhelming the museum which had then been housing them. This building had at that time been located at the corner of Duke Street and Colquitt Street but a new location was sorely needed. With this clear realisation local architect and historian Joseph Picton led the charge in convincing the council to spring into action.

In 1853 it was announced that wealthy merchant and M.P William Brown had heard of the community’s cultural plight and had come forward with an offer of £6,000 to build a library and museum, if the council would provide the site. After much debate in the council chamber, a plot was finally chosen.

Three years later, the philanthropic Irishman laid the foundation stone of the brand new museum and library amid great public intrigue. The day began with a ‘breakfast party’ during which local dignitaries met with learned members of the city’s educational institutions in celebration of the day’s upcoming scholastic events.

At midday the party arrived at the new site of the museum and a crater in the foundation stone was cut open. It was packed full of coins and newspapers of the day along with a medal commemorating of the Treaty of Paris, itself marking the end of the Crimean War the previous year. The stone was soon laid followed by a series of speeches and a grand banquet in the recently opened St. George’s Hall across the cobbles.

When construction work was officially complete it was generously described as, “a gift to the inhabitants of Liverpool.” It was on the Thursday of 18 October 1860 when William Brown himself presented the new Free Public Library and Museum to the Mayor of Liverpool. All shops, banks and markets closed for the day and bunting was hung about the streets and ships in port. A jovial procession was organised to march around from the Town Hall up to the new library and museum, where the splendid ceremonial hand-over took place.

It still boasts the pleasant honour of being the only street in Britain to consist of pure cultural buildings; libraries, museums and galleries stand alone on the site. The cost of the creation exceeded all expectations prompting Brown to personally donate £41,000 of his own funds to finish the mammoth project. His benevolence led to the street to be rechristened (formerly known as Shaws Brow) in his honour, the name it still holds to this day.

Liverpool Central library is due to open once again this May when its £50m refurbishment is over with many original features restored and plenty of new gadgets installed to educate and captivate future generations of learners.