As they entered, we were sure that we had seen the countenance of one of them before. We looked at him, and he looked at us. The recognition was mutual, and at the same instant. “By Jove, Brackenbury,” said we. “Ah, —!” exclaimed he, not less warmly, but less profanely; and in an instant, after a hearty hand-shaking, we went back at rattling railway pace to the old times, the old people, and the old memories, to the bewilderment of both of our friends, but clearly to the utter horror of his grave companion. But we could not stop till we had it all out, nor till then could we proceed to business. He died soon afterwards. Poor fellow! he was a good soldier in his soldier days. And his closing career was that of a good Christian. Peace to his memory! And when we go, may those who survive us be able to say the same of us. But to return to our story. In Duke-street, from which he subsequently removed to Walton Hall, at that time likewise lived Thomas Leyland, the eminent banker, who, from small beginnings, worked his way, by energy, industry, and perseverance, to the possession of immense wealth. He was a man of amazing shrewdness, sagacity, and prudence. When the north countryman was asked for the receipt of his ale, which was always good, he answered, “There’s just a way of doing it, man.” And so it was with Mr. Leyland. He had “just the way of doing things.” We will not compare him to the animals which are said “to see the wind,” but, by some intuition, instinct, or presentiment, call it what you will, he seemed always to have a warning of any coming storm in the money market, and trimmed and steered the ship, and took in sail accordingly. He was a fine-looking man, with what some thought a stern and forbidding, but what we should call a firm and decided look. We remember him with favour and gratitude. We received many civilities, and not a few substantial kindnesses, from him in his day. We omitted to state that what is now the Waterloo hotel, {38} at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, was then the mansion of the Staniforth family. The son, Samuel, lived to be an old man amongst us, and was once the mayor of Liverpool, and afterwards sunk down into being the stamp distributor of the district. He was a gentlemanly kind of person in society, but of a strangely austere and forbidding aspect, the most vinegar-visaged man we ever beheld. And the index was a correct representative of the inner man. When the election poet wrote of him “Sulky Sam Staniforth,” he drew his character in those three words. By his marriage with a most estimable lady, he was closely connected with the Case, Littledale, and Bolton families. His son came in for the great bulk of Colonel Bolton’s wealth, to the exclusion of his own relations; one of the happily rare instances in which a north countryman forgets his own blood in the disposal of his property.