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CHAPTER XXV—A VISIT TO NEWGATE

‘The force of habit’ is a trite phrase in everybody’s mouth; and it is not a little

remarkable that those who use it most as applied to others, unconsciously afford in

their own persons singular examples of the power which habit and custom exercise

over the minds of men, and of the little reflection they are apt to bestow on subjects

with which every day’s experience has rendered them familiar. If Bedlam could be

suddenly removed like another Aladdin’s palace, and set down on the space now

occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out of a hundred, whose road to business

every morning lies through Newgate-street, or the Old Bailey, would pass the building

without bestowing a hasty glance on its small, grated windows, and a transient

thought upon the condition of the unhappy beings immured in its dismal cells; and yet

these same men, day by day, and hour by hour, pass and repass this gloomy

depository of the guilt and misery of London, in one perpetual stream of life and

bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up within it—nay,

not even knowing, or if they do, not heeding, the fact, that as they pass one particular

angle of the massive wall with a light laugh or a merry whistle, they stand within one

yard of a fellow-creature, bound and helpless, whose hours are numbered, from whom

the last feeble ray of hope has fled for ever, and whose miserable career will shortly

terminate in a violent and shameful death. Contact with death even in its least terrible

shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more awful is it to reflect on this near

vicinity to the dying—to men in full health and vigour, in the flower of youth or the

prime of life, with all their faculties and perceptions as acute and perfect as your own;

but dying, nevertheless—dying as surely—with the hand of death imprinted upon

them as indelibly—as if mortal disease had wasted their frames to shadows, and

corruption had already begun!

It was with some such thoughts as these that we determined, not many weeks since,

to visit the interior of Newgate—in an amateur capacity, of course; and, having

carried our intention into effect, we proceed to lay its results before our readers, in the

hope—founded more upon the nature of the subject, than on any presumptuous

confidence in our own descriptive powers—that this paper may not be found wholly

devoid of interest. We have only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the

reader with any statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found at length in

numerous reports of numerous committees, and a variety of authorities of equal

weight. We took no notes, made no memoranda, measured none of the yards,

ascertained the exact number of inches in no particular room: are unable even to

report of how many apartments the gaol is composed.

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and what we

thought, we will tell at once in our own way.

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who answered our knock at the door

of the governor’s house, we were ushered into the ‘office;’ a little room, on the right-

hand side as you enter, with two windows looking into the Old Bailey: fitted up like

an ordinary attorney’s office, or merchant’s counting-house, with the usual fixtures—

a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an

almanack, a clock, and a few maps. After a little delay, occasioned by sending into the

interior of the prison for the officer whose duty it was to conduct us, that functionary

arrived; a respectable-looking man of about two or three and fifty, in a broad-

brimmed hat, and full suit of black, who, but for his keys, would have looked quite as

much like a clergyman as a turnkey. We were disappointed; he had not even top-boots

on. Following our conductor by a door opposite to that at which we had entered, we

arrived at a small room, without any other furniture than a little desk, with a book for
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visitors’ autographs, and a shelf, on which were a few boxes for papers, and casts of

the heads and faces of the two notorious murderers, Bishop and Williams; the former,

in particular, exhibiting a style of head and set of features, which might have afforded

sufficient moral grounds for his instant execution at any time, even had there been no

other evidence against him. Leaving this room also, by an opposite door, we found

ourself in the lodge which opens on the Old Bailey; one side of which is plentifully

garnished with a choice collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the

redoubtable Jack Sheppard—genuine; and those said to have been graced by the

sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin—doubtful. From this lodge, a

heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded with nails of the same material, and

guarded by another turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, which

terminate in a narrow and dismal stone passage, running parallel with the Old Bailey,

and leading to the different yards, through a number of tortuous and intricate

windings, guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is

sufficient to dispel at once the slightest hope of escape that any new-comer may have

entertained; and the very recollection of which, on eventually traversing the place

again, involves one in a maze of confusion.

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in the prison, or in other words the

different wards—form a square, of which the four sides abut respectively on the Old

Bailey, the old College of Physicians (now forming a part of Newgate-market), the

Sessions-house, and Newgate-street. The intermediate space is divided into several

paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and exercise as can be had in such a

place. These yards, with the exception of that in which prisoners under sentence of

death are confined (of which we shall presently give a more detailed description), run

parallel with Newgate-street, and consequently from the Old Bailey, as it were, to
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Newgate-market. The women’s side is in the right wing of the prison nearest the

Sessions-house. As we were introduced into this part of the building first, we will

adopt the same order, and introduce our readers to it also.

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which we just now adverted,

omitting any mention of intervening gates—for if we noticed every gate that was

unlocked for us to pass through, and locked again as soon as we had passed, we

should require a gate at every comma—we came to a door composed of thick bars of

wood, through which were discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow yard, some

twenty women: the majority of whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the

presence of strangers, retreated to their wards. One side of this yard is railed off at a

considerable distance, and formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet ten inches

in height, roofed at the top, and defended in front by iron bars, from which the friends

of the female prisoners communicate with them. In one corner of this singular-looking

den, was a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that had once

been black, and the remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded ribbon of the same

hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl—a prisoner, of course—of about two-

and-twenty. It is impossible to imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature

so borne down in soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old

woman. The girl was a good-looking, robust female, with a profusion of hair

streaming about in the wind—for she had no bonnet on—and a man’s silk pocket-

handkerchief loosely thrown over a most ample pair of shoulders. The old woman was

talking in that low, stifled tone of voice which tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and

every now and then burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most

distressing sound that ears can hear. The girl was perfectly unmoved. Hardened

beyond all hope of redemption, she listened doggedly to her mother’s entreaties,
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whatever they were: and, beyond inquiring after ‘Jem,’ and eagerly catching at the

few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her, took no more apparent interest in

the conversation than the most unconcerned spectators. Heaven knows there were

enough of them, in the persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who were no more

concerned by what was passing before their eyes, and within their hearing, than if

they were blind and deaf. Why should they be? Inside the prison, and out, such scenes

were too familiar to them, to excite even a passing thought, unless of ridicule or

contempt for feelings which they had long since forgotten.

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slovenly, thick-bordered cap, with

her arms muffled in a large red shawl, the fringed ends of which straggled nearly to

the bottom of a dirty white apron, was communicating some instructions to her visitor

—her daughter evidently. The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with the cold. Some

ordinary word of recognition passed between her and her mother when she appeared

at the grating, but neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was expressed on

either side. The mother whispered her instructions, and the girl received them with her

pinched-up, half-starved features twisted into an expression of careful cunning. It was

some scheme for the woman’s defence that she was disclosing, perhaps; and a sullen

smile came over the girl’s face for an instant, as if she were pleased: not so much at

the probability of her mother’s liberation, as at the chance of her ‘getting off’ in spite

of her prosecutors. The dialogue was soon concluded; and with the same careless

indifference with which they had approached each other, the mother turned towards

the inner end of the yard, and the girl to the gate at which she had entered.

The girl belonged to a class—unhappily but too extensive—the very existence of

which, should make men’s hearts bleed. Barely past her childhood, it required but a

glance to discover that she was one of those children, born and bred in neglect and
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vice, who have never known what childhood is: who have never been taught to love

and court a parent’s smile, or to dread a parent’s frown. The thousand nameless

endearments of childhood, its gaiety and its innocence, are alike unknown to them.

They have entered at once upon the stern realities and miseries of life, and to their

better nature it is almost hopeless to appeal in after-times, by any of the references

which will awaken, if it be only for a moment, some good feeling in ordinary bosoms,

however corrupt they may have become. Talk to them of parental solicitude, the

happy days of childhood, and the merry games of infancy! Tell them of hunger and

the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the pawnbroker’s,

and they will understand you.

Two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating, conversing with

their friends, but a very large proportion of the prisoners appeared to have no friends

at all, beyond such of their old companions as might happen to be within the walls.

So, passing hastily down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice the little

incidents we have just recorded, we were conducted up a clean and well-lighted flight

of stone stairs to one of the wards. There are several in this part of the building, but a

description of one is a description of the whole.

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course, by windows

looking into the interior of the prison, but far more light and airy than one could

reasonably expect to find in such a situation. There was a large fire with a deal table

before it, round which ten or a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner.

Along both sides of the room ran a shelf; below it, at regular intervals, a row of large

hooks were fixed in the wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping mat of a

prisoner: her rug and blanket being folded up, and placed on the shelf above. At night,

these mats are placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which it hangs during the
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day; and the ward is thus made to answer the purposes both of a day-room and

sleeping apartment. Over the fireplace, was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which

were displayed a variety of texts from Scripture, which were also scattered about the

room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy-slips which are used in schools.

On the table was a sufficient provision of a kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in

pewter dishes, which are kept perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order

and regularity when they are not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried manner to either

side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly—many of them decently—attired, and

there was nothing peculiar, either in their appearance or demeanour. One or two

resumed the needlework which they had probably laid aside at the commencement of

their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless curiosity; and a few retired behind

their companions to the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even the casual

observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in this and other wards, to

whom the thing was no novelty, appeared perfectly indifferent to our presence, and

remained standing close to the seats from which they had just risen; but the general

feeling among the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the period of our

stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word was uttered during the time of

our remaining, unless, indeed, by the wardswoman in reply to some question which

we put to the turnkey who accompanied us. In every ward on the female side, a

wardswoman is appointed to preserve order, and a similar regulation is adopted

among the males. The wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners, selected for good

conduct. They alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small stump

bedstead being placed in every ward for that purpose. On both sides of the gaol, is a

small receiving-room, to which prisoners are conducted on their first reception, and
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whence they cannot be removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the

prison. [161]

Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found ourselves at first (and

which, by-the-bye, contains three or four dark cells for the accommodation of

refractory prisoners), we were led through a narrow yard to the ‘school’—a portion of

the prison set apart for boys under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-sized room, in

which were writing-materials and some copy-books, was the schoolmaster, with a

couple of his pupils; the remainder having been fetched from an adjoining apartment,

the whole were drawn up in line for our inspection. There were fourteen of them in

all, some with shoes, some without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in

jackets without pinafores, and one in scarce anything at all. The whole number,

without an exception we believe, had been committed for trial on charges of pocket-

picking; and fourteen such terrible little faces we never beheld.—There was not one

redeeming feature among them—not a glance of honesty—not a wink expressive of

anything but the gallows and the hulks, in the whole collection. As to anything like

shame or contrition, that was entirely out of the question. They were evidently quite

gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their idea appeared to be,

that we had come to see Newgate as a grand affair, and that they were an

indispensable part of the show; and every boy as he ‘fell in’ to the line, actually

seemed as pleased and important as if he had done something excessively meritorious

in getting there at all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable sight, because we

never saw fourteen such hopeless creatures of neglect, before.

On either side of the school-yard is a yard for men, in one of which—that towards

Newgate-street—prisoners of the more respectable class are confined. Of the other,

we have little description to offer, as the different wards necessarily partake of the
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same character. They are provided, like the wards on the women’s side, with mats and

rugs, which are disposed of in the same manner during the day; the only very striking

difference between their appearance and that of the wards inhabited by the females, is

the utter absence of any employment. Huddled together on two opposite forms, by the

fireside, sit twenty men perhaps; here, a boy in livery; there, a man in a rough great-

coat and top-boots; farther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt-sleeves, with an

old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall ruffian, in a smock-frock;

next to him, a miserable being of distressed appearance, with his head resting on his

hand;—all alike in one respect, all idle and listless. When they do leave the fire,

sauntering moodily about, lounging in the window, or leaning against the wall,

vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. With the exception of a man reading an old

newspaper, in two or three instances, this was the case in every ward we entered.

The only communication these men have with their friends, is through two close

iron gratings, with an intermediate space of about a yard in width between the two, so

that nothing can be handed across, nor can the prisoner have any communication by

touch with the person who visits him. The married men have a separate grating, at

which to see their wives, but its construction is the same.

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the governor’s house: the latter having

no windows looking into the interior of the prison. Whether the associations

connected with the place—the knowledge that here a portion of the burial service is,

on some dreadful occasions, performed over the quick and not upon the dead—cast

over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than art has imparted to it, we know not,

but its appearance is very striking. There is something in a silent and deserted place of

worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the very dissimilarity of this one

from any we have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. The meanness
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of its appointments—the bare and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on

either side—the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain—the men’s with its

unpainted benches and dingy front—the tottering little table at the altar, with the

commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of paint, and dust

and damp—so unlike the velvet and gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern

church—are strange and striking. There is one object, too, which rivets the attention

and fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the

recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a long time afterwards.

Immediately below the reading-desk, on the floor of the chapel, and forming the most

conspicuous object in its little area, is the condemned pew; a huge black pen, in which

the wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the Sunday

preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow-prisoners, from many of whom

they may have been separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their own souls,

to join in the responses of their own burial service, and to listen to an address,

warning their recent companions to take example by their fate, and urging themselves,

while there is yet time—nearly four-and-twenty hours—to ‘turn, and flee from the

wrath to come!’ Imagine what have been the feelings of the men whom that fearful

pew has enclosed, and of whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal

remnant may now remain! Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the

wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself, by which they have

heard the certainty of their speedy transmission to another world, with all their crimes

upon their heads, rung into their ears by the officiating clergyman!

At one time—and at no distant period either—the coffins of the men about to be

executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by their side, during the whole

service. It may seem incredible, but it is true. Let us hope that the increased spirit of
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civilisation and humanity which abolished this frightful and degrading custom, may

extend itself to other usages equally barbarous; usages which have not even the plea

of utility in their defence, as every year’s experience has shown them to be more and

more inefficacious.

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so frequently alluded to, and crossing

the yard before noticed as being allotted to prisoners of a more respectable description

than the generality of men confined here, the visitor arrives at a thick iron gate of

great size and strength. Having been admitted through it by the turnkey on duty, he

turns sharp round to the left, and pauses before another gate; and, having passed this

last barrier, he stands in the most terrible part of this gloomy building—the

condemned ward.

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper readers, from its frequent

mention in accounts of executions, is at the corner of the building, and next to the

ordinary’s house, in Newgate-street: running from Newgate-street, towards the centre

of the prison, parallel with Newgate-market. It is a long, narrow court, of which a

portion of the wall in Newgate-street forms one end, and the gate the other. At the

upper end, on the left hand—that is, adjoining the wall in Newgate-street—is a cistern

of water, and at the bottom a double grating (of which the gate itself forms a part)

similar to that before described. Through these grates the prisoners are allowed to see

their friends; a turnkey always remaining in the vacant space between, during the

whole interview. Immediately on the right as you enter, is a building containing the

press-room, day-room, and cells; the yard is on every side surrounded by lofty walls

guarded by chevaux de frise; and the whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant

and experienced turnkeys.

In the first apartment into which we were conducted—which was at the top of a

staircase, and immediately over the press-room—were five-and-twenty or thirty

prisoners, all under sentence of death, awaiting the result of the recorder’s report—

men of all ages and appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and

grizzly beard of three days’ growth, to a handsome boy, not fourteen years old, and of

singularly youthful appearance even for that age, who had been condemned for

burglary. There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of these prisoners. One or

two decently-dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the fire; several

little groups of two or three had been engaged in conversation at the upper end of the

room, or in the windows; and the remainder were crowded round a young man seated

at a table, who appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. The

room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little anxiety or mental suffering

depicted in the countenance of any of the men;—they had all been sentenced to death,

it is true, and the recorder’s report had not yet been made; but, we question whether

there was a man among them, notwithstanding, who did not know that although he

had undergone the ceremony, it never was intended that his life should be sacrificed.

On the table lay a Testament, but there were no tokens of its having been in recent

use.

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature of whose offence rendered it

necessary to separate them, even from their companions in guilt. It is a long, sombre

room, with two windows sunk into the stone wall, and here the wretched men are

pinioned on the morning of their execution, before moving towards the scaffold. The

fate of one of these prisoners was uncertain; some mitigatory circumstances having

come to light since his trial, which had been humanely represented in the proper

quarter. The other two had nothing to expect from the mercy of the crown; their doom
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was sealed; no plea could be urged in extenuation of their crime, and they well knew

that for them there was no hope in this world. ‘The two short ones,’ the turnkey

whispered, ‘were dead men.’

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of escape, was

lounging, at the greatest distance he could place between himself and his companions,

in the window nearest to the door. He was probably aware of our approach, and had

assumed an air of courageous indifference; his face was purposely averted towards the

window, and he stirred not an inch while we were present. The other two men were at

the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the dim light,

had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the

mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other was leaning on the sill of the

farthest window. The light fell full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard

face, and disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly. His

cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes wildly

staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent on counting the chinks in the

opposite wall. We passed this room again afterwards. The first man was pacing up

and down the court with a firm military step—he had been a soldier in the foot-guards

—and a cloth cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed respectfully to

our conductor, and the salute was returned. The other two still remained in the

positions we have described, and were as motionless as statues. [165]

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation of the building, in which are

the two rooms we have just quitted, lie the condemned cells. The entrance is by a

narrow and obscure stair-case leading to a dark passage, in which a charcoal stove

casts a lurid tint over the objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something like

warmth around. From the left-hand side of this passage, the massive door of every cell
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on the story opens; and from it alone can they be approached. There are three of these

passages, and three of these ranges of cells, one above the other; but in size, furniture

and appearance, they are all precisely alike. Prior to the recorder’s report being made,

all the prisoners under sentence of death are removed from the day-room at five

o’clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where they are allowed a candle

until ten o’clock; and here they remain until seven next morning. When the warrant

for a prisoner’s execution arrives, he is removed to the cells and confined in one of

them until he leaves it for the scaffold. He is at liberty to walk in the yard; but, both in

his walks and in his cell, he is constantly attended by a turnkey who never leaves him

on any pretence.

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long by six wide, with a

bench at the upper end, under which were a common rug, a bible, and prayer-book.

An iron candlestick was fixed into the wall at the side; and a small high window in the

back admitted as much air and light as could struggle in between a double row of

heavy, crossed iron bars. It contained no other furniture of any description.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth in this cell. Buoyed

up with some vague and undefined hope of reprieve, he knew not why—indulging in

some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he knew not how—hour after hour of the

three preceding days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed which no man

living would deem possible, for none but this dying man can know. He has wearied

his friends with entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in

his feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his spiritual consoler; and, now that

the illusion is at last dispelled, now that eternity is before him and guilt behind, now

that his fears of death amount almost to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his

helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and has neither
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thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he

can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repentance can alone avail.

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with folded arms,

heedless alike of the fast decreasing time before him, and the urgent entreaties of the

good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting gradually, and the deathlike stillness

of the street without, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which

echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning fast

away. The deep bell of St. Paul’s strikes—one! He heard it; it has roused him. Seven

hours left! He paces the narrow limits of his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of

terror starting on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quivering with agony.

Seven hours! He suffers himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible

which is placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No: his thoughts will wander.

The book is torn and soiled by use—and like the book he read his lessons in, at

school, just forty years ago! He has never bestowed a thought upon it, perhaps, since

he left it as a child: and yet the place, the time, the room—nay, the very boys he

played with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday; and

some forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo of one

uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to himself. He is

reading from the sacred book its solemn promises of pardon for repentance, and its

awful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to

pray. Hush! what sound was that? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark!

Two quarters have struck;—the third—the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Tell him not of

repentance! Six hours’ repentance for eight times six years of guilt and sin! He buries

his face in his hands, and throws himself on the bench.

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled state of

mind pursues him in his dreams. An insupportable load is taken from his breast; he is

walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the bright sky above them, and a fresh

and boundless prospect on every side—how different from the stone walls of

Newgate! She is looking—not as she did when he saw her for the last time in that

dreadful place, but as she used when he loved her—long, long ago, before misery and

ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature, and she is leaning

upon his arm, and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection—and he

does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her from him. And oh! how glad he is to tell

her all he had forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees before

her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and cruelty that wasted

her form and broke her heart! The scene suddenly changes. He is on his trial again:

there are the judge and jury, and prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before.

How full the court is—what a sea of heads—with a gallows, too, and a scaffold—and

how all those people stare at him! Verdict, ‘Guilty.’ No matter; he will escape.

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an instant he is in

the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets are

cleared, the open fields are gained and the broad, wide country lies before him.

Onward he dashes in the midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and

pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and lightness, astonishing even to

himself. At length he pauses; he must be safe from pursuit now; he will stretch

himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise.

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The dull, gray

light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant

turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from his uneasy bed in momentary
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uncertainty. It is but momentary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real

to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and despairing;

and in two hours more will be dead