both sides.  I recollect there was a small gardener’s cottage where the Friends’ Institute now stands; and there was a lane alongside.  That lane is now called “King-street-lane, Soho.”  I remember my mother, one Sunday, buying me a lot of apples for a penny, which were set out on a table at the gate.  There were a great many apple, pear, and damson trees in the garden.  When the Friends’ Institute was building I heard of the discovery of an old cottage, which had been hidden from view as it were for many years.  I went to see it—the sight of it brought tears in my old eyes, for I recognised the place at once, and thought of my good and kind mother, and her friendly and loving ways.  Where the timber-yard was once in Norton-street, there used to be a farm-house.  The Moss-lake Stream ran by it on its way to Byrom-street.  I can very well remember Norton-street and the streets thereabout being formed.  At the top of Stafford-street, laid out at the same time, there was a smithy and forge; the machinery of the bellows was turned by the water from the Moss-lake Brook,

which ran just behind the present Mill Tavern.  There the water was collected in an extensive dam, in shape like a “Ruperts’ Drop,” the overflow turned some of the mill machinery.  Many and many a fish have I caught out of that mill-dam.  The fields at the back, near Folly-lane, were flooded one winter, and frozen over, when I and many other boys went to slide on them.

The Folly Gardens were very tastefully laid out.  Mr. Gibson was a spirited person, and spared no expense to keep the place in order.  There were two bowling-greens in it, and a skittle-alley.  There was a cockpit once, outside the gardens; but that was many years before my time.  It was laid bare when they were excavating for Islington Market.  When I was a boy its whereabouts was not known; it was supposed to have been of great antiquity.  How time brings things to light!  The gardens were full of beautiful flowers and noble shrubs.  There was a large fish-pond in the middle of a fine lawn, and around it were benches for the guests, who, on fine summer evenings, used to sit and smoke, and drink a sort of compound called “braggart,” which was made of ale, sugar, spices, and eggs, I believe.  I used to sail a little ship in that pond, made for me by the mate of the Mary Ellen.  I one day fell in, and was pulled out by Mr. Gibson himself, who fortunately happened to be passing near at hand.  He took

me in his arms dripping as I was, into the tavern and I was put to bed, while a man was sent down to Church-street, to acquaint my parents with my disaster, and for dry clothes.  My mother came up in a terrible fright, but my father only laughed heartily at the accident, saying he had been overboard three times before he was my age.  He must have had a charmed life, if he spoke true, for I don’t think I could have been above eight years old then.  My father was well acquainted with Mr. Gibson, and after I had got on my dry clothes, he took us up to the top of the Gazebo, or look-out tower.  It was a beautiful evening, and the air was quite calm and clear.  The view was magnificent.  We could see Beeston Castle quite plainly, and Halton Castle also, as well as the Cheshire shore and the Welsh mountains.  The view out seaward was truly fine.  Young as I was, I was greatly struck with the whole scene.  It was just at the time when the Folly Fair was held, and the many objects at our feet made the whole view one of intense interest.  The rooms in the tower were then filled with company.  Folly Fair was held on the open space of ground afterwards used as Islington Market.  Booths were erected opposite the Infirmary and in Folly Lane.  It was like all such assemblages—a great deal of noise, drunkenness, debauchery, and foolishness.  But fairs were certainly different then from what they

have been of late years.  They are now conducted in a far more orderly manner than they were formerly.  I went to a large one some years ago, in Manchester, and, on comparing it with those of my young days, I could hardly believe it was a fair.  It seemed to be only the ghost of one, so grim and ghastly were the proceedings.

I recollect the celebrated Mr. John Howard, “the philanthropist,” coming to Liverpool in 1787.  He had a letter of introduction to my father, and was frequently at our house.  He was a thin, spare man, with an expressive eye and a determined look.  He used to go every day to the Tower Prison at the bottom of Water-street; and he exerted himself greatly to obtain a reform in the atrocious abuses which then existed in prison discipline.  In the present half-century there has been great progress made in the improvement of prison discipline, health, and economy.  Where formerly existed notorious and disgraceful abuses, the most abject misery, and the very depth of dirt, we find good management, cleanliness, reformatory measures, and firm steps taken to reclaim both the bodies and souls of the erring.  It is a most strange circumstance that the once gross and frightful abuses of the prison system did not force themselves upon the notice of government—did not attract the attention of local rulers, and cry out themselves for change.  Still more strange is it that, although

Mr Howard in 1787, and again in 1795, and Mr. James Nield (whose acquaintance I also made in 1803), pointed out so distinctly the abuses that existed in our prisons, the progress of reform therein was strangely slow, and moved with most apathetic steps.  Howard lifted up the veil and exposed to light the iniquities prevalent within our prison walls; but no rapid change was noticeable in consequence of his appalling revelations.  To show how careless the authorities were about these matters, we can see what Mr. Nield said eight years after Mr. Howard’s second visit, in 1795, in his celebrated letters to Dr. Lettsom, who, by the way, resided in Camberwell Grove, Surrey, in the house said to have belonged to the uncle of George Barnwell.  Now, it should be borne in mind that Mr. Howard actually received the freedom of the borough, with many compliments upon his exertions in the cause of the poor inmates of the gaol, and yet few or no important steps were taken to remedy the glaring evils which he pointed out.  Some feeble reforms certainly did take place immediately after his first and second visits to Liverpool, but a retrograde movement succeeded, and things relapsed into their usual jog-trot way of dirt and disorder.  When Mr. Howard received the freedom of the borough an immense fuss was made about him; people used to follow him in the street, and he was feted and invited to dinners and

parties; and there was no end of speechifying.  But what did it all come to?  Why, nothing, except a little cleaning out of passages and whitewashing of walls.  I went with Mr. Howard several times, over the Tower Prison, and also with Mr. Nield, in 1803.  As it then appeared I will try to describe it.

The keeper of the Tower or Borough Gaol, which stood at the bottom of Water-street in 1803, was Mr. Edward Frodsham, who was also sergeant-at-mace.  His salary was £130 per annum.  His fees were 4s. for criminal prisoners, and 4s. 6d. for debtors.  The Rev. Edward Monk was the chaplain.  His salary was £31 10s. per annum; but his ministrations did not appear to be very efficacious, as, on one occasion, when Mr. Nield went to the prison chapel in company with two of the borough magistrates, he found, out of one hundred and nine prisoners, only six present at service.