I was very sorry when the Ranelagh Gardens were broken up. The owner,
Mr. Gibson, was the brother of the Mr. Gibson who kept the Folly Gardens
at the bottom of Folly-lane (now Islington) and top of Shaw's Brow
(called after Mr. Alderman Shaw, the great potter, who lived in
Dale-street, at the corner of Fontenoy-street--whose house is still
standing). Many a time have I played in the Folly Tea Gardens. It was a
pretty place, and great was the regret of the inhabitants of Liverpool
when it was resolved to build upon it. The Folly was closed in 1785.
Mr. Philip Christian built his house, now standing at the corner of
Christian-street, of the bricks of which the Tavern was constructed. The
Folly was a long two-storied house, with a tower or gazebo at one end.
Gibson, it was said, was refused permission to extend the size of his
house, so "he built it upright," as he said "he could not build it
along." The entrance to the Gardens was from Folly-lane, up a rather
narrow passage. I rather think the little passage at the back of the
first house in Christian-street was a part of it. You entered through a
wooden door and went along a shrubberied path which led to the Tavern.
Folly-lane (now Islington) was a narrow country lane, with fields and
gardens on 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 pounds 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 pounds 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. The sick were attended by a surgeon from
the Dispensary, in consideration of 12 guineas per annum, contributed by
the corporation to that most praiseworthy institution. There was a sort
of sick ward in the Tower, but it was a wretched place, being badly
ventilated and extremely dirty. When Mr. Nield and I visited the prison
in 1803, we did not find the slightest order or regulation. The
prisoners were not classed, nor indeed, separated; men and women, boys
and girls, debtor and felon, young and old, were all herded together,
meeting daily in the courtyards of the prison. The debtors certainly had
a yard to themselves, but they had free access to the felon's yard, and
mixed unrestrainedly with them. The prison allowance was a three-penny
loaf of 1lb. 3oz. to each prisoner daily. Convicts were allowed 6d. per
day. The mayor gave a dinner at Christmas to all the inmates. Firing
was found by the corporation throughout the building. There were
seventy-one debtors and thirty-nine felons confined on the occasion of
our visit. In one of the Towers there were seven rooms allotted to
debtors, and three in another tower, in what was called "the masters
side." The poorer debtors were allowed loose straw to lie upon. Those
who could afford to do so, paid ls. per week for the use of a bed
provided by the gaoler. The detaining creditor of debtors had to pay
"groating money," that is to say, 4d. per day for their maintenance. In
the chapel there was a gallery, close to which were five sleeping-rooms
for male debtors. The size of these cells was six feet by seven. Over
the Pilot Office in Water-street were two rooms appropriated to the use
of female debtors. One of these rooms contained three beds, the other
only one. This latter room had glazed windows, and a fire-place, and
was, comparatively speaking, comfortable. The same charge was made for
the beds in these rooms as in other parts of the prison. The debtors
were also accommodated with rooms in a house adjoining the gaol, from
which, by the way, an escape of many of the prisoners, felon and debtor,
took place in 1807--a circumstance which created immense public interest.
When the prisoners were discovered, they stood at bay, and it was not
until they were fired upon, that they surrendered. The criminals were
lodged in seven close dungeons 6.5 feet by 5 feet 9 inches. These cells
were ranged in a passage 11 feet wide, under ground, and were approached
by ten steps. Over each cell door was an aperture which admitted such
light and air as could be found in such a place. Some improvement took
place in this respect after Mr. Howard's visit. There was also a large
dungeon or cell which looked upon the street, in which twelve prisoners
were confined. This dungeon was not considered safe, so that only
deserters were put into it. As many as forty persons have been
incarcerated in it at one time. In five of the cells there were four
prisoners; in the other two, there were only three.
The court-yards (one of which was 20 yards by 30, the other 20 yards by
10) were kept in a most filthy state, although a fine pump of good water
was readily accessible. The yards were brick-paved. In one yard I
noticed a large dung-heap, which, I was informed, was only removed once a
month. There were numbers of fowls about the yard, belonging to the
prison officials and to the prisoners. In these yards, as may readily be
supposed, scenes of great disorder took place. The utmost licentiousness
was prevalent in the prison throughout. Spirits and malt liquors were
freely introduced without let, hindrance, or concealment, though against
the prison rules--not one of which, by the way, (except the feeing
portion) was kept. The felons' "garnish," as it was called, was
abolished previous to 1809, but the debtors' fee remained. The prison
was dirty in the extreme; the mud almost ankle deep in some parts in the
passages, and the walls black and grimy. There seemed to be no system
whatever tending towards cleanliness, and as to health that was utterly
disregarded. Low typhoid fever was frequently prevalent, and numbers
were swept off by it. The strong prisoners used to tyrannise over the
weak, and the most frightful cases of extortion and cruelty were
practised amongst them, while the conduct of the officials was culpable
in the highest degree. At one time the chapel was let as an assembly
room. The prisoners used to get up, on public ball nights, dances of
their own, as the band could be plainly heard throughout the prison. The
debtors used to let down a glove or bag by means of a stick, from their
tower into the street, dangling it up and down to attract the notice of
passengers, who dropped in pieces of money for the use of the "poor
debtors," which money was invariably spent in feasting and debauchery.
The town boys used to put stones into the bags, and highly relished the
disappointment of the "poor debtors," on discovery of their "treasure."
I recollect an execution taking place in front of the Tower, which
created an immense sensation throughout the country. In March 1789, two
men named Burns and Dowling, suffered the extreme penalty of the law for
robbing the house of Mrs. Graham, which stood on Rose Hill. They broke
into the lady's dwelling, and acted with great ferocity. It was on the
23rd December previous; they entered the house, with two others, about
seven o'clock in the morning. One stayed below, while the others went
into the different rooms armed with pistols and knives, threatening the
various members of the family with death if they made any alarm. They
robbed some guests in the house of nineteen guineas, and some silver; and
from Mrs. Graham they took bills to a large amount. On the 7th January,
following, Burns and Dowling were arrested at Bristol, in consequence of
an anonymous letter sent to the mayor of that city, giving information of
their being in the neighbourhood. They were on the point of embarking
for Dublin, having several packages containing Mrs. Graham's property on
board the vessel, besides 1000 pounds in Bills of Exchange. Dowling made
a fierce resistance, and would have escaped, but was held by the leg by a
dog belonging to one of the constables. Rose Hill at that time was quite
in the suburbs, and was a very fashionable locality. The town was
crowded with strangers from all parts to witness the execution of these
villains. Men of the present day would be horror-struck at the number of
executions that took place at that time in England. I recollect once
when in London (I was only three days going there) seeing three men
hanging at Newgate, while the coal waggoners were letting off their
waggons as stages for spectators at twopence per head.
The various prisoners in the Tower were all removed to the new gaol, or
French prison, as it was called, on the French being released from
custody, at the peace of 1812. This prison, which stood in Great
Howard-street--I little thought I should live to see it swept away--was
designed by Mr. Howard. Great Howard-street was called after him. The
Frenchmen did so much damage to the gaol, that it cost 2000 pounds to put
it in order after their departure. These people maintained themselves by
making fancy articles, and carved bone and ivory work. I once saw a ship
made by one of them--an exquisite specimen of ingenuity and
craftsmanship. The ropes, which were all spun to the proper sizes, were
made of the prisoner's wife's hair. I had in my possession for many
years, two cabinets, with drawers, &c., made of straw, and most
beautifully inlaid.
I went with Mr. Nield, in one of his visits to Liverpool, to inspect the
Bridewell which stood on the Fort. The building was intended for a
powder magazine; but being found damp, it was not long used for that
purpose. The keeper was Robert Walton, who was paid one guinea per week
wages. There were no perquisites attached to this place, neither in
"fees" nor "garnish." In fact, the prisoners confined within its dreary,
damp walls had nothing to pay for, nor expect. There were no
accommodations of any sort. The corporation certainly found "firing,"
but nothing else, either in beds or food, not even water. There was no
yard to it, nor convenience of any kind. Under ground were two dreary,
damp, dark vaults, approached by eight steps. One of them was 18 feet by
12, the other 12 feet by 7.5. They received little light through
iron-barred windows. Above were two rooms. One was 18 feet by 10, the
other 10 feet by 9. Adjoining these two rooms, devoid of fire-grate or
windows, were two cells, each 5 feet by 6 feet high. The prisoners in
this dreadful place, were herded together, unemployed in any way, and
dependent entirely upon their friends for food. It was a disgrace to
humanity. It was damp, dirty, and in a most miserable condition.
An interesting circumstance connected with the Tower I find detailed in a
book of my father's, which he called "_The Family Log_." It relates to
the escape of some prisoners-of-war confined in the Tower. My father in
this "Log," used to enter up at the week's end any little circumstance of
interest that might have come under his notice. At the date of Sunday,
_May_ 6_th_, 1759, I find "That fifteen French prisoners escaped from the
Tower, Durand amongst the number"; and then follows a narrative which I
shall presently transcribe. I may say, incidentally, that the
prisoners-of-war in the Tower were principally Frenchmen, who had been
captured during some of our naval engagements with them. They employed
their time in making many curious and tasteful articles, and displayed
great ingenuity in many ways. Discipline in the Tower was not very
stringent, so that escapes of prisoners frequently occurred. From the
want of energy displayed by the authorities in recapturing those that did
escape, it was thought that government was not sorry to get rid of some
of these persons at so easy a rate, for they were a great burden on the
nation. The reason why Durand's name was mentioned as one of those who
had fled, was this:--my mother had a very curiously-constructed foreign
box, which had been broken, and which the tradesmen in the town had one
and all declined even to attempt to repair. As "the Frenchmen" in the
Tower were noted for their ingenuity, my father made some inquiry as to
whether any of them would undertake the restoration of this box. Amongst
others to whom it was shown was one Felix Durand, who at once said he
would try to put it in order if my father was in no hurry for it, as it
would be a tedious task in consequence of having so many separate pieces
to join together, and it would be necessary to wait the fast binding of
each cemented piece to its corresponding fragment.
My father often went to see Durand, and was much pleased with his
conversation, amusing stories, and natural abilities. My father spoke
French well, so that they got on capitally together, and the consequence
was that my father obtained several little favours for him, and even
interceded with some friends in the government to obtain his release.
Durand knew of this, and, therefore, when my father found he had escaped
with the others, he was much annoyed as it completely frustrated his good
intentions towards him. My father used to tell us that according to
agreement he went for his box on a certain day when it was to be
finished. On reaching the gaol he was told of the escape of the party,
and that some of them had already been recaptured. It seems that as soon
as they got into the street the party dispersed, either singly or in twos
and threes; but having neither food nor money, and being quite ignorant
of the English language or the localities round Liverpool, they were
quite helpless and everywhere betrayed who they were, what they were, and
where they came from. Some fell in with the town watchmen; others struck
out into the country, and after wandering about in a starved, hungry, and
miserable state, were very glad to get back to their old shelter, bad as
they thought it, and hardly as they considered they had been treated.
They admitted that their party was too large, that they had no friends to
co-operate with them outside, and no plan of action which was possibly or
likely to be carried out successfully. The lot of these, however, was
not shared by all, for Durand, as will be seen by his recital, had not
done amiss, thanks to his wit, ingenuity, and cleverness.
The following is Durand's narrative:--
"As you know, Monsieur Le Capitaine (he always called my father so), I am
a Frenchman, fond of liberty and change, and this detestable prison
became so very irksome to me, with its scanty food and straw beds on the
floor, that I had for some time determined to make my escape and go to
Ireland, where I believe sympathies are strong towards the French nation.
I am, as you know, acquainted with Monsieur P---, who resides in
Dale-street; I have done some work for him. He has a niece who is _toute
a faite charmante_. She has been a constant ambassador between us, and
has brought me work frequently, and taken charge of my money when I have
received any, to deposit with her uncle on my account. I hold that young
lady in the highest consideration. This place is bad for anyone to have
property in, although we are in misery alike. Some of us do not know the
difference between my own and thy own. We have strange communist ideas
in this building. Now "Monsieur Le Capitaine" you want to know how I got
away, where I went, and how I came back. I will tell you. I could not
help it. I have had a pleasing three months' holiday, and must be
content to wait for peace or death, to release me from this _sacre_
place. The niece of Monsieur P--- is very engaging, and when I have had
conversation with her in the hall where we are permitted to see our
friends, I obtained from her the information that on the east side of our
prison there were two houses which opened into a short narrow street.
One of these houses had been lately only partly tenanted, while the lower
portion of it had been under repair. Mademoiselle is very complacent and
kind. She took the trouble to go for me to the house and examine it, and
reported that there was an open yard under the eastern prison-wall, and
if anybody could get through that wall he might easily continue his route
through the house and into the street. My mind was soon made up. I
imparted my intention to my companions. There were fifteen of us,
altogether, penned up at night in a vile cell or vault, and, of course,
the intended escape could not be kept a secret; what was known by one,
must be known by all. We all resolved to escape. Our cell was dirty and
miserable. We obtained light and air from the street as well as from a
grating over the door. Choosing a somewhat stormy night, we commenced by
loosening the stonework in the east wall. Now we knew that after we were
locked up for the night we should not be disturbed, and if we could not
effect the removal of the stones in one night, there would be no fear of
discovery during the next day, as we were seldom molested by any of the
gaolers. We could walk about the prison just as we liked and mix with
the other prisoners, whether felons or debtors. In fact your Liverpool
Tower contains a large family party. We worked all night at the wall,
and just before daybreak contrived to remove a large stone and soon
succeeded in displacing another, but light having at length broken, we
gathered up all the mortar and rubbish we had made, stuffing some of it
into our beds, and covering the rest with them in the best way we could.
To aid us in preventing the gaoler discovering what we had been about,
one of our party remained in bed when the doors were unlocked, and we
curtained the window grating with a blanket, stating that our
_compatriote_ was very ill and that he could not bear the light. We had
no dread of a doctor coming to visit him, for unless special application
was made for medical attendance on the sick nobody seemed to care whether
we lived or died. The day passed over without any suspicions arising
from our preparations. The afternoon set in stormy, as the preceding
evening had done, and in the course of the night of our escape we had a
complete hurricane of rain and wind, which eventually greatly favoured us
by clearing the streets of any stragglers who might be prowling about.
No sooner were we locked in at night than we recommenced our work at the
wall, and were not long in making a hole sufficient to allow a man to
creep through, which one of us did. He reported himself to be in an open
yard, that it was raining very heavily, and that the night was
_affreuse_; we all then crept through. We found ourselves in a dark
yard, with a house before us. We obtained a light in a shed on one side
of the yard, and then looked about. We found a sort of cellar door by
the side of a window. We tried to open it: to our surprise it yielded.
Screening our light we proceeded into a passage, taking off our shoes and
stockings first (some of us had none to take off, poor fellows!) so that
we should make no noise. The house was quite still; we scarcely dared to
breathe. We went forward and entered a kitchen in which were the remains
of a supper. We took possession of all that was eatable on the table.
It was wonderful that nobody heard us, for one of us let fall a knife
after cutting up a piece of beef into pieces, so that each man might have
a share. Although there were people in the house no one heard us; truly
you Englishmen sleep well! Before us was a door--we opened it. It was
only a closet. We next thought of the window, for we dared not climb up
stairs to the principal entrance. We tried the shutters which we easily
took down and, fortunately without noise, opened the window, through
which one of us crept to reconnoitre. He was only absent about a minute
or two, returning to tell us that not a soul was to be seen anywhere;
that the wind was rushing up the main street from the sea, and that the
rain was coming down in absolute torrents. Just as the neighbouring
church clock struck two we were assembled under an archway together. We
determined to disperse, and let every man take care of himself. Bidding
my friends good bye I struck out into the street. At first I thought of
going to the river, but suddenly decided to go inland. I therefore went
straight on, passed the Exchange, and down a narrow street facing it
(Dale-street) in which I knew mademoiselle dwelt. I thought of her, but
had no hope of seeing her as I did not know the house wherein she
resided. I pushed on, therefore, until I came to the foot of a hill; I
thought I would turn to the left, but shutting my eyes with superstitious
feelings I left myself to fate, and determined to go forward with my eyes
closed until I had by chance selected one of the four cross roads [Old
Haymarket, Townsend-lane (now Byrom-street), Dale-street, and
Shaw's-brow] which presented themselves for my choice.
"I soon found I was ascending a hill, and on opening my eyes I discovered
that I was pursuing my route in an easterly direction. I passed up a
narrow street with low dirty-looking houses on each side, and from the
broken mugs and earthenware my feet encountered in the darkness, I felt
sure I was passing through the outskirts of Liverpool--famous for its
earthenware manufactures. During all this time I had not seen a living
thing; in fact it was scarcely possible for anything to withstand the
storm that raged so vehemently. In this, however, rested my safety. I
sped on, and soon mounting the hill paused by the side of a large
windmill (Townsend mill) which stood at the top of London-road. Having
gained breath, I pushed forward, taking the road to the right hand which
ran before me (then called the road to Prescot). I began now to breathe
freely and feel some hope in my endeavour to escape. My limbs, which,
from long confinement in prison, were stiff at first, now felt elastic
and nimble and I pushed on at a quick pace, the wind blowing at my back
the whole time; still onward I went until I got into a country lane and
had another steep hill to mount. The roads were very heavy. The
sidewalk was badly kept, and the rain made it ankle-deep with mud. On
surmounting the hill, which I afterwards learned was called Edge-hill, I
still kept on to the right hand road, which was lined on both sides with
high trees. I at length arrived at a little village (Wavertree) as a
clock was striking three; still not a soul was visible. I might have
been passing through a world of the dead. After traversing this village
I saw, on my left hand, a large pond, at which I drew some water in my
cap. I was completely parched with my unusual exertions. Resting under
a large tree which proved some shelter, I ate up the bread and meat I had
procured from the kitchen of the house through which we had escaped.
Having rested about half-an-hour I again started forward. I now began to
turn over in my mind what I should do. I felt that if I could get to
Ireland I could find friends who would assist me. I knew a French priest
in Dublin on whom I could rely for some aid. I at length hit upon a
course of action which I determined to pursue. Through narrow lanes I
went, still keeping to the right, and after walking for more than an hour
I found myself in a quaint little village (Hale) in which there was a
church then building. The houses were constructed principally of timber,
lath, and plaster and were apparently of great antiquity. Onward still I
went, the rain beating down heavily and the wind blowing. In about a
quarter of an hour I gained a sight of the river or the sea, I know not
which, but I still continued my road until I came up to a little cottage,
the door of which opened just as I was passing it. An old woman came out
and began to take down the shutters. Now, as I came along the road I had
made up my mind to personate a deaf and dumb person, which would preclude
the necessity of my speaking. I felt I could do this well and
successfully. I determined to try the experiment upon this old lady. I
walked quietly up to her, took the shutters out of her hands and laid
them in their proper places. I then took a broom and began sweeping away
the water which had accumulated in front of her cottage, and seeing a
kettle inside the door, I walked gravely into the house, took it, and
filled it at a pump close by. The old woman was dumb-struck. Not a word
did she say, but stood looking on with mute amazement, which was still
more intensely exhibited when I went to the fire-place, raked out the
cinders, took up some sticks and commenced making a fire. Not a word
passed between us. It was with great difficulty I could keep my
countenance. We must have looked a curious couple. The woman standing
staring at me, I sitting on a three-legged stool, with my elbows on my
knees looking steadfastly at her. At length she broke this unnatural
silence. Speaking in her broad Lancashire dialect I could scarcely make
her out. My own deficiency in not understanding much English increased
my difficulty, but I understood her to ask "Who I was, and whither I was
going." This she repeated until, having sufficiently excited her
curiosity, I opened my mouth very wide, kept my tongue quite close so
that it might seem as if I had none, and with my fingers to my ears made
a gesture that I was deaf and dumb. She then said, "Poor man, poor man,"
with great feeling and gave me a welcome. So I sat before the fire, and
commenced drying my clothes, which were saturated during my walk. I
suppose I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I noticed was a
substantial meal laid on the table, consisting of bread, cold bacon, and
beer. Pointing to the food the old woman motioned to me to partake, and
this I was not loath to do. I made a hearty meal. I should tell you,
before we sat down to the table I had pulled out my pockets to show her I
had no money. The woman made a sign that she did not want payment for
her kindness. When we had finished our meal I looked about me, and
seeing that several things wanted putting to rights, such as emptying a
bucket, getting in some coals, and cleaning down the front pavement of
the house, I commenced working hard as some repayment for the hospitality
I had received. We Frenchmen can turn our hands to almost anything, and
my dexterity quite pleased the old lady. While I was busily sweeping the
hearth, I heard the sound of a horse's feet coming swiftly onward.
Terror-struck, I did a foolish thing. Fancying it must be some one in
pursuit of me, I dropped the little broom I was using, seized my cap from
one of the chairs, opened the back door of the cottage, and fled along
the garden walk, over-leaped a hedge, crossed a brook, and was off like a
hunted hare across the open fields. This was a silly proceeding, because
if the horseman had been any one in pursuit, the chances were that,
should he have entered the cottage, I might not have been recognized; and
if I had simply hid myself in some of the outbuildings that were near I
might have escaped notice altogether, while by running across the fields
I exposed myself to observation, and to be taken. When half over a field
I found there a small clump of trees, and a little pond. Down the side
of this pond I slipped and hid myself amongst the rushes; but I need not
have given myself any anxiety or trouble, for I saw the horseman,
whatever might have been his errand, flying along the winding road in the
distance.
"Having satisfied myself of my security, I started off and soon found
myself on the highroad again, and after a time I came near a fine old
mansion which presented a most venerable appearance. I could not stop,
however, to look at it, for I found I had taken a wrong turn and was
going back to Liverpool. I therefore retraced my steps and passed on,
going I know not whither. After walking for about an hour in a southerly
direction, feeling tired and seeing a barn open I went to it and found
two men therein threshing wheat. I made signs to them that I was deaf
and dumb, and asked leave to lie in the straw. They stared at me very
much, whispered amongst themselves, and at length, made a sign of assent.
I fell asleep. When I awoke the sun was up and bright, while all trace
of the night-storm had disappeared. I wondered at first where I was.
Seeing the fresh straw lying about, an idea struck me that I could earn a
few pence by a little handiwork. I thereupon commenced making some straw
baskets, the like of which you have often seen myself and
fellow-prisoners manufacture. By the time I had completed two or three
the men came again into the barn and began to work with their flails. I
stepped forward with my baskets, which seemed to surprise them. The like
they had evidently never seen before--they examined them with the
greatest attention. One of the men, pulling some copper money out of his
pocket, offered it for one of them. Grateful for the shelter I had
received, I pushed back the man's hand which contained the money and
offered him the basket as a present, pointing to my bed of straw. The
honest fellow would not accept it, saying I must have his money. I
therefore sold him one of the baskets, and another was also purchased by
one of the other men. They seemed astonishingly pleased with their
bargains. Just as they had concluded their dealings with me a big man
came into the barn, who I found out was the master. The men showed him
the baskets and pointed to me, telling the farmer that I was a "dumby and
deafy." The big farmer hereupon bawled in my ear the question, "who was
I, and where had I come from?" I put on a perfectly stolid look although
the drum of my ears was almost split by his roaring. The farmer had a
soft heart, however, in his big and burly frame. Leaving the barn, he
beckoned me to follow him. This I did. He went into the farm-house,
and, calling his wife, bade her get dinner ready. A capital piece of
beef, bread, and boiled greens or cabbages were soon on the table, to
which I sat down with the farmer and his wife. Their daughter, soon
after we had commenced eating, came in. Her attention was immediately
attracted by my remaining basket, which I had placed by them. I got up
from the table and presented it to her. Her father then told her of my
supposed infirmities. I could scarcely help laughing while I heard them
canvass my personal appearance, my merits and demerits. Pity, however,
seemed to be the predominant feeling. When the dinner was over, I
happened to look up at an old clock and saw that it had stopped. I went
up to it, and took it from the nail. I saw it wanted but very little to
make it go again. I therefore quietly, but without taking notice of my
companions, set to work to take off the face and do the needful repairs.
A pair of pincers on the window-ledge and some iron wire, in fact, an old
skewer, were all the tools necessary; and very soon, to the satisfaction
of my host, his wife, and his fair daughter, the clock was set going as
well as it ever had done. The farmer slapped me on the back and gave me
great encouragement. I then cast my eyes about to see what I could do
next. I mended a chair, repaired a china image, cleaned an old picture,
and taking a lock from a door repaired it, altering the key so that it
became useful. In fact, I so busied myself, and with such earnestness
that by night-time I had done the farmer a good pound's worth of
repairing. I then had my supper, and was made to understand I might
sleep in the barn, if I liked. On the next morning the farmer's daughter
found me very busy in the yard with the pigs, which I was feeding; in
fact, the whole of that day I worked hard, because I thought if I could
remain where I was until the wonder of our escapade was over, I might
eventually get away altogether from England by some unforeseen piece of
good fortune. For some time I worked at this farm, for, as if by mutual
consent of the farmer and myself, I remained, getting only my food for my
work; however, at the end of each week the farmer's wife gave me quietly
some money. I made several little fancy articles for Mademoiselle which
she seemed highly to prize; but it was through her that I left my snug
quarters. The principal labourer on the farm was courting, on the sly,
this young woman, and I noticed he became sulky with me, as Miss Mary on
several occasions selected me to perform some little service for her.
From an expression I heard him make use of to one of the other men I felt
sure he was about to do me some act of treachery and unkindness, and, as
I was no match for the great Hercules he seemed to be, I thought it best
to leave the place, as any disturbance might draw down attention upon me
too closely. I therefore put up my spare clothes, some of which had been
given to me by the farmer's wife--a kindly, Christian woman she was--and
hiding my little store of money securely in my breeches' waistband, very
early one fine morning I set off with a heart by no means light, from the
place where I had been so well-treated, not knowing where on earth to go
or what next to do. Before I went, however, to show I was grateful for
their kindness, I made up a little parcel which I addressed to the
farmer's wife, in which I put a tobacco-box for Mr. John Bull, a
bodkin-case for herself, and a little ring for Miss Mary, all of which I
had made in my leisure time. I dare say they were sorry to part with me.
I am sure Miss Mary was, for I fancied she suspected I was not what I
seemed, and had begun to take an evident liking to me. I had taught her
some French modes of cooking, which excited surprise, as well as
gratification to their palates, and I taught her also two or three little
ways of making fancy articles that pleased her exceedingly. It was
through her manifesting a preference for me that, as I have told you,
Monsieur le Capitaine, I felt obliged to absent myself from her father's
employment. It was most difficult at first to restrain myself from
talking. But I soon got over that, for when I was about to speak I made
an uncertain sort of noise, which turned off suspicion. That the head
labourer had some doubt about me, I verily believe. I thought at first I
would try to get to London, but the roads thereto, I learnt, were so bad
and travelling so insecure, even for the poorest, that I considered it
best to remain in this neighbourhood, as I wanted to see Mademoiselle
P--- once more, and settle with her uncle for the money of mine in his
hands. I thought if I could only communicate with him he would befriend
me, so I went on my way.
"I travelled all that day until I got into a place called Warrington, by
the side of a river. It is a town full of old quaint houses built of
timber and plaster. I was very tired when I arrived there at nightfall,
but obtained shelter in an old house near the bridge, and as I had the
money my mistress gave me I bought some food at a little shop; a
Frenchman does not want very heavy meals, so that I did pretty well. The
next day I went to a baker's and got some more bread. I interested the
baker's wife, and when she found I was deaf and dumb, she not only would
not take money for her bread, but also gave me some meat and potatoes.
It seemed she had a relation affected as I was supposed to be. I then
went out to a farm-yard, and having begged some straw I turned to my
never-failing fountain of help--basket making. I made a number of
baskets and other little things, all of which on taking into the town I
sold readily. I begged some more straw of a man at a stable, and set to
work again. I sold off my baskets and fancy articles much quicker than I
could make them. I soon got so well known that I excited some attention;
but one day being at a public tavern, where I had gone to deliver a
basket ordered, the word 'Liverpool' fell upon my ears and caused me to
tremble. Near me sat two men who looked like drovers. They were talking
about Liverpool affairs: one of them told the other that there had been
lately a great fire near the dock, where a quantity of provisions had
been burnt, and much property destroyed besides. They then spoke of the
escape of my companions and myself, and for the first time I heard of
their fate, and how, one by one, they had been recaptured or willingly
returned. I then heard of their trials and the miseries they had
encountered. The drovers also spoke of one prisoner who had disappeared
and got away completely, but that there was a hot search after him, as
he, it was supposed, was the ringleader in the late outbreak, and that it
was planned and carried out by him. I felt that they alluded to myself,
and that this place would grow too warm for me, as I knew that I was
already an object of public remark, owing to my supposed infirmities and
the extraordinary dexterity of my fingers. It will be recollected that I
bought some bread at a little shop near the market-place. Passing there
the day after I arrived, I saw a bill in the window bearing the words
"_lodgings to let_." I, therefore, by signs made the woman of the shop
comprehend that I wanted such accommodation. I took the bill out of the
window, pointed to the words, and the to myself; then I laid my hand on
my head as if in the attitude of sleep. The good woman quite
comprehended me, and nodding her head to my dumb proposition led the way
up a small flight of stairs, and at once installed me in the vacant room.
It was small and poorly furnished, but very clean. I soon made myself at
home; and never wanted anything doing for me, so that the widow's
intercourse with me was very limited. I knew I could not write without
betraying my foreign origin, so the way I did first was to get a book and
pick out words signifying what I wanted, and from these words the good
woman made out a sentence. I wanted so little that we had no difficulty
in making out a dialogue. After hearing the talk of the drovers I
determined to leave the town without delay, for my fears of recapture
quite unmanned me, making me needlessly dread any intercourse with
strangers. Having thus resolved to leave Warrington I bade goodbye to my
kind landlady, giving her a trifle over her demand, and then shaped my
way to the northward. I went to several towns, large and small, and
stayed in Manchester a week, where I sold what I made very readily. My
supposed infirmities excited general commiseration everywhere, and
numerous little acts of kindness did I receive. I wandered about the
neighbouring towns in the vicinity for a long time, being loth to leave
it for several reasons; in fact I quite established a connection amongst
the farmers and gentry, who employed me in fabricating little articles of
fancy work and repairing all sorts of things most diverse in their
natures and uses. At one farm-house I mended a tea-pot and a
ploughshare, and at a gentleman's house, near St. Helen's, repaired a
cart, and almost re-built a boat, which was used on his fish-pond. I
turned my hand to any and everything. I do not say I did everything
well, but I did it satisfactorily to those who employed me. I now began
to be troubled about my money which was accumulating, being obliged to
carry it about with me, as I feared being pillaged of it. I therefore
resolved on coming back to Liverpool and finding out Monsieur P--- at all
hazards, trusting to chance that I should not be recognised. Who could
do so? Who would know me in the town save the Tower gaolers who would
scarcely be out at night; even they would not recollect me in the dark
streets of the town? When this resolve came upon me I was at a place
called Upholland where I had been living three or four days, repairing
some weaver's looms--for there are a good many weavers in that little
town. I had nearly finished the work I had undertaken, and was intending
to come to Liverpool direct at the end of the following week, when my
design was frustrated by a curious and most unexpected circumstance.
About three miles from Upholland there is a very high hill called
Ashurst. On the top of this is a beacon tower which looks at a distance
like a church steeple rising over the top of the hill, just as if the
body of the church were on the other side of the crest. This beacon is
intended to communicate alarm to the neighbouring country in war time, it
being one of a line of beacons to and from different places. I had once
or twice walked to this high place to enjoy the fine prospect. On Sunday
last I had gone there and extended my walk down the hill to a place where
the road, after passing a pretty old entrance-gateway, moat, and old
hall, dips very prettily down to bridge over a small stream. This bridge
(Cobb's Brow Bridge) is covered with ivy, and is very picturesque. Just
before the road rather abruptly descends there are, on the right hand
side of it, a number of remarkably old and noble oak trees, quite giants.
Some are hollowed out, and one is so large that it will accommodate
several persons. This tree has been used by what you call gipsies--and
shows that fire has been made in it.
"Well, on Sunday, in the afternoon, I was sitting under one of these fine
old trees, when I saw a cavalcade coming down the road, consisting of two
ladies and a gentleman mounted on fine horses, and attended by two
serving-men or grooms. When the party had arrived opposite the trees
they stopped to examine them, when one of the ladies, struck with the
wonderful size of the largest tree, expressed her admiration of it in
very purely-pronounced French. I was so surprised that I became
completely unnerved, was thrown off my guard, and, in the excitement of
the moment, at hearing my native tongue so beautifully pronounced, sprang
up, and rushing forward echoed in my own tongue the lady's commendation
of those grand old trees. I immediately found out my error, for, to my
grief, the other young lady, whom I at once recognized, exclaimed--"Why
this is the dumb man who was at the Hall the other day repairing the
broken glass vases!" I at first denied that such was the case, but on
the grooms coming up they both identified me. In fact, I knew both from
having applied to the younger of the two, only a few days previously, to
obtain for me employment in the house of his master, in any way my
services could be made available. Thus I had through him obtained
permission to repair the vases which had been much injured, and which I
had most successfully put in order. The gentleman then asked me who I
was, called me an impostor, and ordered his servants to seize me. This
they did, when I at once admitted who I was and where I came from. The
gentleman, although entreated most earnestly by the ladies to allow me to
go away, would not consent to his servants releasing me, but ordered them
to take me to Ormschurch (Ormskirk), about five miles distant, and have
me put into the little prison there, which you call the cage. The
ladies, with tears in their eyes, on seeing me thus seized by the
servant-men, bade them not use me roughly, and one of them slipped a gold
piece into my hand, bidding me in French to be of good cheer, for there
was a talk of immediate peace, when I should be released. The gentleman
rode away calling the young ladies to follow him without delay, bidding,
at the same time, the servants to see that I was delivered over to the
proper authorities at Ormschurch, so that I might be transmitted to
Liverpool. As soon as the master and the ladies were out of sight, one
of the men, who rode a stout horse, bade me get up behind him, which I
did, and in about an hour we arrived in the town. It was full of people
in their Sunday clothes. My appearance attracted some notice, I was
pitied by some, execrated by others, and followed by crowds of boys.
After waiting in the street some time I was taken before a stout,
growling old gentleman, who ordered me to be locked up until the next
morning, and to have meat and drink given me. I was then to be taken to
Liverpool and delivered over to my gaoler again. In accordance with this
order I was put into a small square room, on the floor of which was a
quantity of straw. There were benches fixed in the walls. There was no
fire-place and it was sadly uncomfortable. However, soon after I was
locked up, I received a good supply of bread, meat, and beer; and, as the
straw was tolerably fresh and clean, I did not fare so badly. I
therefore lay down, covered myself up with the straw, and was soon fast
asleep. I awoke once, but as everything was dark, I composed myself to
sleep again and did not awake until morning. About six o'clock, as I
knew by the church-clock hard by, I was aroused and told to be ready to
start for Liverpool, whereupon I presented myself at the door, and found
an open cart in waiting. Into this I was put, and, after a tiresome
journey over some of the worst roads I had ever seen in my life, I
arrived here last night, having enjoyed a three months' holiday to my
great satisfaction. Here, then, I am, waiting for death or peace to
release me. I shall now finish your box if you are not too offended with
me for neglecting your commission so long. I may tell you that
Mademoiselle P--- was here this morning; tears were in her lovely eyes,
and she seemed very glad to see me back, at which I somewhat wondered,
especially if she esteemed me. I should have thought she would rather
have relished my escaping altogether, than being again caught."
Here ends Durand's narrative.
My father appends a note to the effect that, through the intervention of
Sir Edward Cunliffe, one of the members for Liverpool, Durand was
released from the Tower, and went to reside with Mr. P--- in Dale-street.
At the date of September following there is a memorandum to the effect
that M. Durand and Miss P--- had become man and wife, so that, as my
father quaintly adds, he supposes M. Durand had by that time found out
why it was that old P---'s niece was so glad to see him again in prison.
The House of Correction stood at the back of the present Fever Hospital,
the entrance being in Mount Pleasant. It was in Mr. Howard's time a most
miserably managed place. In 1790 it was a vile hole of iniquity. There
was a whipping-post, for instance, in the yard, at which females were
weekly in the receipt of punishment. There was also "a cuckstool," or
ducking tub, where refractory prisoners were brought to their senses, and
in which persons on their first admission into the gaol were ducked, if
they refused or could not pay "a garnish." This barbarous mode of
punishment was common in Lancashire, and Cheshire. This prison was in
the course of the following years much improved, as it was found by Mr.
Neild very clean and orderly through the exertions of Mrs. Widdows, the
keeper. Mrs. Widdow's salary was 63 pounds per annum. She had
resolutely put down the cuckstool, and the whipping-post was becoming in
a complete state of desuetude. A pump in the men's yard was used as a
place of occasional punishment for the stubborn and refractory. The
prisoners were without any instruction, secular or religious. No
chaplain attended. The allowance to each prisoner was a two-penny loaf,
two pounds of potatoes, and salt daily. I believe, from all I could
learn, that the Liverpool prisons, bad as they undoubtedly were at the
close of the last and the beginning of the present century, were in
better condition than others elsewhere.