As I sit by my fire-side with two or three old friends--friends, indeed, for I have known them all for fifty, sixty, and seventy years--we talk over old times, faces, scenes and places, in a way that calls up the ghosts of the past to our dim eyes. If my readers could listen to our stories of the old town they would hear more about it in a night than my little amanuensis could write down in a day. Many curious anecdotes and circumstances are called to remembrance by us, and I must say we talk of old times with a regretful yet pleasant feeling. I know I often startle some of my young friends by telling them of scenes I have witnessed in the last century, and I have often noticed them in their minds putting one year and another together, or subtracting one from another so that they might ascertain whether I was telling the truth or not. I don't believe there is another man in Liverpool alive at this time who saw the Town Hall on fire in 1795. I saw it, I may say, almost break out, for I was in Castle-street in ten minutes after the alarm had spread through the town, and that was soon done, for Liverpool was not of the extent it is now. I believe half the inhabitants turned out into the streets to witness that awful sight, although it was at five o'clock on a frosty Sunday morning in January. For my part, I was aroused by the continuous springing of rattles by the watchmen, and the rushing sounds of people running along the street. I was soon out of bed and joined the throng of people who were hurrying to the scene of disaster. When I arrived there, a crowd had already assembled. Castle-street was then very narrow. It was quite choked up with people. Dale-street was beginning to be crowded while High-street and Water-street were quite impassable. From the windows of all the houses the terrified inmates were to be observed _en dishabille_, and the large inn in Water-street, the Talbot, which was nearly opposite the Town Hall, had people looking out at every window.