s 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, wit