And we had also our circle of wits, whose sharp sayings were passed round, as household words, from mouth to mouth, and so afforded pleasure and amusement, as they spread from set to set, from one extremity of society to the other. First and foremost in this bright and brilliant band, we must place Mr. Silvester Richmond, or “Sil Richmond,” as he was generally called. Next to him was Joe Daltera. And with them we must join Sam Pole, and “Jim Gregson,” who lived in Rodney-street, a man of racy humour, with a fund of originality about him which revelled in the utterance of good things. And here be it observed, that, as Liverpool is still called the town of “Dicky Sams,” so, in those ancient days, its people were all Sils, and Joes, and Sams, and Jims. It was the custom of the place, and equally observable in every rank of society. But, for a time, let us speak of our prince of wits, Sil Richmond, who was one of the most sparkling, agreeable men ever met with in company. Amongst his own set no party was ever thought to be complete without him. He held the post of a searcher in the Customs, and many were the amusing stories, coined, perhaps, to raise a laugh at his expense, of the “diamond cut diamond” warfare carried on between him and persons striving to break the Revenue laws, of which he was a most vigilant guardian. His powers of conversation were immense, and never flagged. He was always the rocket, never the stick; and he was as potent with the pen as he was brilliant with the tongue. We may call him the poet laureate of the Tories, with whom he warmly sided. The encounters, therefore, between him and Dr. Shepherd, who was ever the principal scribe for the liberal party, were frequent, fierce, and savage. His weapons were not quite so keen and polished as the doctor’s, but they would do a great deal of mangling work, and, like Antæus springing from his mother earth, if foiled and thrown in one round, he was always ready for another. No amount of punishment could dishearten him, and he was always in wind, and, what is more, kept his temper unruffled in the thickest of the fray. He was the author of all the election squibs in his day. Out they poured, grave and gay, in prose and verse, and he seemed never to be exhausted. We doubt not that some of our old stagers yet retain many of them among their treasures and curiosities. One line in one of his songs is still as fresh upon our mind as if we had heard it but yesterday for the first time. Mr. Fogg, a butcher, was one of the most zealous and active canvassers in the reform ranks at some election. Richmond instantly had his eye upon him, and, bringing intellect as well as ink to the work, thus impaled him on the point of his wit as he spoke of him as “A FOGG that could never be MIST.”