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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 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 7½. 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 6th, 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

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