But it is time that we should speak of the clergymen attached to St. George’s Church, in the days we are writing of. They were rather a superior lot. Archdeacon Brooks was one of them, and already looked upon as a very promising young man. The Rev. T. Blundell was another. He used to bring out occasionally, in preaching, very odd things in a very odd manner, and sometimes very original things in a very original manner. The Rev. Jas. Hamer was another of the preachers at St. George’s, and very admirable sermons he gave. He was a sedate, grave, serious looking man, a fair scholar, and had a good place in society. He was a fellow of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and, according to the universal anticipation, would have been its next head, had he lived. But he was cut off in the prime of his days, when all the toils and difficulties of his career were surmounted, and, to human judgment, “The world was all before him, where to choose His place of rest.” But here we must make room on our canvas for the portrait, if we can draw it, of one of the most remarkable men whom Liverpool has ever produced. We speak of Dr. Frodsham Hodgson, who, in our young days, was also among the St. George’s preachers. His manner was pompous, and he had a catch in his voice which may still be traced among Oxford men of the old school, some having adopted it from admiration, and others having mimicked it until they could not get rid of it. Never was the truism, that “a prophet is not a prophet in his own country,” more wonderfully illustrated than in the case of Dr. Hodgson. Here, in Liverpool, he was neither known, valued, nor appreciated. He visited chiefly, when amongst us, with the corporation, and those who met him came away with the impression that they had spent their time with a very agreeable and pleasant person, a jovial companion, with great conversational powers, and, for a book-worm, wonderfully at home on every subject started and spoken of on every occasion. This was the opinion generally formed of him, this and nothing more. Our municipal magnificos, while condescendingly patronising and listening to their chaplain, never seemed for a moment to feel that Jupiter himself was among them in disguise.