 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood by Charles Peralt. Read by Rebecca Snyder, Faith Christian School, April 2007. Once there was a royal couple who grieved excessively because they had no children. When at last, after long waiting, the queen presented her husband with a little daughter, his majesty showed his joy by giving a christening feast so grand that the like of it was never known. He invited all the fairies in the land, there were seven altogether, to stand godmothers to the little princess, hoping that each might bestow on her some good gift as was the custom of good fairies in those days. After the ceremony, all the guests returned to the palace where there was placed before each fairy godmother a magnificent covered dish with an embroidered table napkin and a knife and fork of pure gold studded with diamonds and rubies. But alas, as they placed themselves at table, there entered an old fairy who had never been invited. Because more than 50 years since, she had left the king's dominion on a tour of pleasure, had had not been heard of until this day. His majesty much trouble desired a cover to be placed for her, but it was of common delft for he had ordered from his jeweler only seven gold dishes for the seven fairies aforesaid. The old fairy thought herself neglected and muttered angry threats which were overheard by one of the younger fairies who chanced to sit beside her. This good godmother, afraid of harm to the pretty baby, hastened to hide herself behind the hangings in the hall. She did this because she wished all the others to speak first so that if any ill gift were bestowed on the child, she could counteract it. The six now offered their good wishes, which, unlike most wishes, were sure to come true. The fortunate little princess was to grow up the fairest woman in the world to have a temper, sweet as an angel, to be perfectly graceful and gracious, to sing like a nightingale, to dance like a leaf on a tree, and to possess every accomplishment under the sun. Then the old fairy's turn came. Shaking her head spitefully, she uttered the wish that when the baby grew up into a young lady and learned to spin, she might prick her finger with the spindle and die of the wound. At this terrible prophecy, all the guests shuddered, and some of the more tender-hearted began to weep. The lately happy parents were almost out of their wits with grief, upon which the wise young fairy appeared from behind the tapestry, saying cheerfully, your majesties may comfort themselves. The princess shall not die. I have no power to alter the ill fortune just wished her by my ancient sister. Her finger must be pierced, and she shall then sink, not into the sleep of death, but into a sleep that will last a hundred years. After that time has ended, the son of a king shall come and awake her. Then all the fairies vanished. The king, in the hope of avoiding his daughter's doom, issued an edict forbidding all persons to spin, and even to have spinning wheels in their houses on pain of instant death. But it was in vain. One day, when she was just fifteen years of age, the king and queen left their daughter alone in one of their castles, where, wondering about at her will, she came to an ancient dungeon tower, climbed to the top of it, and there found a very old woman, so old and deaf that she had never heard of the king's edict, busy with her wheel. What are you doing, good old woman? said the princess. I'm spinning my pretty child. Ah, how charming! Let me try if I can spin also. She had no sooner taken up the spindle than, being lively and obstinate, she handled it so awkwardly and carelessly that the point pierced her finger. Though it was so small a wound, she fainted away at once and dropped silently down on the floor. The poor old woman called for help. Shortly came the ladies in waiting, who tried every means to restore their young mistress. But all their care was useless. She lay beautiful as an angel, the color still lingering in her lips and cheeks, her fair bosom softly stirred with her breath, only her eyes were fast closed. When the king, her father, and the queen, her mother beheld her thus, they knew regret was idle. All had happened as the cruel fairy meant, but they also knew that their daughter would not sleep forever, though after one hundred years it was not likely that they would either of them behold her awakening. Until that happy hour should arrive, they determined to leave her in repose. They sent away all the physicians and attendants, and themselves sorrowfully laid her upon a bed of embroidery in the most elegant apartment in the palace. There she slept, and looked like a sleeping angel still. When the misfortune happened, the kindly young fairy, who had saved the princess by changing her sleep of death into the sleep of a hundred years, was twelve thousand weeks away in the kingdom of Maticwen. But being informed of everything, she arrived speedily in a chariot of fire drawn by dragons. The king was somewhat startled by the sight, but nevertheless went to the door of his palace and, with a mournful countenance, presented her his hand to descend. The fairy condoled with his majesty and approved of all he had done. Then, being a fairy of great common sense and foresight, she suggested that the princess, awakening after a hundred years in this old castle, might be a good deal embarrassed, especially with the young prince by her side, to find herself alone. Accordingly, without asking anyone's leave, she touched with her magic wand the entire population of the palace, except the king and queen. Governesses, ladies of honor, waiting-maids, gentlemen, ushers, cooks, kitchen girls, pages, footmen, down to the horses that were in the stables and the grooms that attended them, she touched each and all. Nay, with kind consideration for the feelings of the princess, she even touched the little fat lapdog Puffy, who had laid himself down beside his mistress on her splendid bed. He, like all the rest, fell fast asleep in a moment. The very spits that were before the kitchen fire ceased to turning, and the fire itself went out, and everything became as silent as if it were the middle of the night, or as if the palace were a palace of the dead. The king and queen, having kissed their daughter and wept over her a little but not much, she looked so sweet and content, departed from the castle, giving orders that it was to be approached no more. The command was unnecessary, for in one quarter of an hour, there sprang up around it a wood so thick and thorny that neither beasts nor men could attempt to penetrate there. Above this dense mass of forest could only be seen the top of the high tower where the lovely princess slept. A great many changes happened in a hundred years. The king, who never had a second child, died, and his throne passed on to another royal family. So entirely was the story of the poor princess forgotten that when the reigning king's son, being one day out hunting and stopped in a chase by this formidable wood, inquired what wood it was and what were those towers which he saw appearing out of the midst of it, no one could answer him. At length an old peasant was found who remembered having heard his grandfather say to his father that in this tower was a princess, beautiful as the day, who was doomed to sleep there for a hundred years until awakened by a king's son, her destined bridegroom. At this the young prince, who had the spirit of a hero, determined to find out the truth for himself. Spurred off by both generosity and curiosity, he leaped from his horse and began to find his way through the thick wood. To his amazement the stiff branches all gave way and the ugly thorns of their own accord, and the brambles buried themselves in the earth to let him pass. This done they closed behind him, allowing none of his suit to follow, but ardent and young he went boldly on alone. The first thing he saw was enough to smite him with fear. Bodies of men and horses lay extended on the ground, but the men had faces not death-white but red as peonies and beside them were glasses half filled with wine showing that they had gone to sleep drinking. Next he entered a large court paved with marble, where stood rows of guards presenting arms, but as if cut out of stone. Then he passed through many chambers where gentlemen and ladies, all in the dress of the past century, slept at their ease, some standing, some sitting. The pages were looking in corners. The ladies of honor were stooping over their embroidery frames or listening, apparently with polite attention, to the gentlemen of the court, but all were as silent as statues and as immovable. Their clothes, strange to say, were fresh and new as ever, and not a particle of dust or spiderweb had gathered over the furniture, though it had not known a broom for a hundred years. Finally, the astonished prince came to an inner chamber where was the fairest sight his eyes had ever beheld. A young girl of wonderful beauty lay asleep on an embroidered bed, and she looked as if she had only just closed her eyes. Trembling, the prince approached and knelt beside her. Some say he kissed her, but as nobody saw it and she never told, we cannot be quite sure of the fact. However, as the end of the enchantment had come, the princess waked at once, and looking at him with eyes of the tenderest regard, said drowsily, Is it you, my prince? I have waited for you very long. Charmed with these words and still more with the tone in which they were uttered, the prince assured her that he loved her more than his life. Nevertheless, he was the most embarrassed of the two. For, thanks to the kind fairy, the princess had plenty of time to dream of him during her century of slumber, while he had never even heard of her till an hour before. For a long time did they sit talking, and yet had not said half enough. Their only interruption was the little dog Puffy, who had awakened with his mistress and now began to be exceedingly jealous. Meantime, all the attendants, whose enchantment was also broken, not being in love were ready to die of hunger after their fast of a hundred years. A lady of honor ventured to say that dinner was served, whereupon the prince handed his beloved princess at once to the great hall. She did not wait to dress for dinner, being already perfectly and magnificently attired, though in a fashion somewhat out of date. However, her lover had the politeness not to notice this, nor to remind her that she was dressed exactly like her royal grandmother, whose portrait still hung on the palace walls. During dinner, a concert by the attendant musicians took place, and considering they had not touched their instruments for a century, they played extremely well. They ended with the wedding march. For that very evening, the marriage of the prince and princess was celebrated, and although the bride was nearly 100 years older than the bridegroom, it is remarkable that fact would never have been discovered by anyone unacquainted therewith. After a few days, they went together out of the castle and enchanted wood, both of which immediately vanished and were never more beheld by mortal eyes. The princess was restored to her ancestral kingdom, and after a few years, the prince and she became king and queen, and ruled long and happily. The End of The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood by Charles Perrault. Once upon a time, a certain Ronin, Tajima Shume by name, an able and well-read man, being on his travels to see the world, went up to Kyoto by the Tokaido, the road of the Eastern Sea, the famous high road leading from Kyoto to Edo. The name is also used to indicate the provinces through which it runs. One day, in the neighborhood of Nagoya, in the province of Owari, he fell in with a wandering priest, with whom he entered into conversation. Finding out that they were bound for the same place, they agreed to travel together, beguiling their weary way by pleasant talk on diverse matters. And so, by degrees, as they became more intimate, they began to speak without restraint about their private affairs, and the priest, trusting thoroughly in the honor of his companion, told him the object of his journey. For some time past, said he, I have nourished a wish that has engrossed all my thoughts, for I am bent on setting up a molten image in honor of Buddha. With this object I have wandered through various provinces, collecting alms, and, who knows by what weary toil, we have succeeded in amassing two hundred ounces of silver. Enough, I trust, to erect a handsome bronze figure. What says the proverb? He who bears a jewel in his bosom bears poison. Hardly had the Ronin heard these words of the priest, then an evil heart arose within him, and he thought to himself, man's life, from the womb to the grave, is made up of good and ill luck. Here am I, nearly forty years old, a wanderer, without a calling, or even a hope of advancement in this world. To be sure, it seems a shame, yet if I could steal the money this priest is boasting about, I could live at ease for the rest of my days. And so he began casting about how best he might compass his purpose. But the priest, are from guessing the drift of his comrades' thoughts, journeyed cheerfully on till they reached the town of Kuanah. Here there is an arm of the sea, which is crossed in ferry boats, that start as soon as some twenty or thirty passengers are gathered together, and in one of these boats the two travelers embarked. About half way across the priest was taken with a sudden necessity to go to the side of the boat, and the Ronin, following him, tripped him up while no one was looking, and flung him into the sea. When the boatmen and the passengers heard the splash and saw the priest struggling in the water, they were afraid, and made every effort to save him. But the wind was fair, and the boat running swiftly under the bellying sails, so they were soon a few hundred yards off from the drowning man, who sank before the boat could be turned to rescue him. When he saw this, the Ronin feigned the utmost grief and dismay and said to his fellow passengers, This priest whom we have just lost was my cousin. He was going to Kyoto to visit the shrine of his patron, and as I happened to have business there as well, we settled to travel together. Now, alas, by this misfortune, my cousin is dead, and I am left alone. He spoke so feelingly and wept so freely that the passengers believed his story, and pitied and tried to comfort him. Then the Ronin said to the boatmen, We ought by rights to report this matter to the authorities. But as I am pressed for time and the business might bring trouble on yourselves as well, perhaps we had better hush it up for the present. I will at once go on to Kyoto and tell my cousin's patron, besides writing home about it. What think you gentlemen? added he, turning to the other travelers. They, of course, were only too glad to avoid any hindrance to their onward journey, and all with one voice agreed to what the Ronin had proposed. And so the matter was settled. When at length they reached the shore, they left the boat, and every man went his way. But the Ronin, overjoyed in his heart, took the wandering priest's luggage and, putting it with his own, pursued his journey to Kyoto. On reaching the capital, the Ronin changed his name from Shume to Tokube, and, giving up his position as a samurai, turned merchant and traded with the dead man's money. Fortune favoring his speculations, he began to amass great wealth, and lived at his ease, denying himself nothing. And in course of time, he married a wife who bore him a child. Thus the days and months wore on, till one fine summer's night, some three years after the priest's death, Tokube stepped out on the veranda of his house to enjoy the cool air and the beauty of the moonlight. Feeling dull and lonely, he began musing over all kinds of things, when, on a sudden, the deed of murder and theft, done so long ago, vividly recurred to his memory. And he thought to himself, Here am I, grown rich and fat on the money I wantonly stole. Since then, all has gone well with me. Yet, had I not been poor, I had never turned assassin or thief. Oh, woe betide me, what a pity it was! And, as he was revolving the matter in his mind, a feeling of remorse came over him in spite of all he could do. While his conscience thus smote him, he suddenly, to his utter amazement, beheld the faint outline of a man standing near a fir tree in the garden. On looking more attentively, he perceived that the man's whole body was thin and worn, and the eyes sunken and dim. And in that poor ghost that was before him, he recognized the very priest whom he had thrown into the sea at Kuwana. Chilled with horror, he looked again and saw that the priest was smiling and scorned. He would have fled into the house, but the ghost stretched forth its withered arm and clutching the back of his neck, scowled at him with a vindictive glare and a hideous ghastliness of mane so unspeakably awful that any ordinary man would have swooned with fear. But Tokubei, tradesman though he was, had once been a soldier and was not easily matched for daring. So he shook off the ghost and, leaping into the room for his dirk, laid about him boldly enough. But, strike as he would, the spirit, fading into the air, eluded his blows, and suddenly reappeared, only to vanish again. And from that time forth Tokubei knew no rest and was haunted night and day. At length, undone by such ceaseless vexation, Tokubei fell ill and kept muttering, oh misery, misery, the wandering priest is coming to torture me. Hearing his moans and the disturbance he made, the people in the house fancied he was mad, and called in a physician who prescribed for it, but neither pill nor potion could cure Tokubei, whose strange frenzy soon became the talk of the whole neighborhood. Now, it chanced that the story reached the ears of a certain wandering priest who lodged in the next street. When he heard the particulars, this priest gravely shook his head, as though he knew all about it, and sent a friend to Tokubei's house to say that a wandering priest, dwelling hard by, had heard of his illness and were it never so grievous, would undertake to heal it by means of his prayers, and Tokubei's wife, driven half-wild by her husband's sickness, lost not a moment in sending for the priest and taking him to the sick man's room. But no sooner did Tokubei see the priest than he yelled out, Help! Help! There is the wandering priest come to torment me again! Forgive! Forgive! And, hiding his head under the coverlet, he lay quivering all over. Then the priest turned all present out of the room, put his mouth to the affrighted man's ear and whispered, Three years ago, at the Kuana Ferry, you flung me into the water, and well you remember it. But Tokubei was speechless and could only quake with fear. Happily, I had learned to swim and to dive as a boy, so I reached the shore, and, after wandering through many provinces, succeeded in setting up a bronze figure to Buddha, thus fulfilling the wish of my heart. On my journey homeward, I took a lodging in the next street and there heard of your marvelous ailment, thinking I could divine its cause, I came to see you, and am glad to find that I was not mistaken. You have done a hateful deed, but am I not a priest? And have I not forsaken the things of this world, and would it not ill become me to bear malice? Repent, therefore, and abandon your evil ways. To see you do so, I should esteem the height of happiness. Be of good cheer now, and look me in the face, and you will see that I am really a living man, and no vengeful goblin come to torment you. Seeing he had no ghost to deal with, and overwhelmed by the priest's kindness, Tokubei burst into tears and answered, Indeed, indeed, I don't know what to say, in a fit of madness, I was tempted to kill and to rob you. Fortune befriended me ever after, but the richer I grew, the more keenly I felt how wicked I had been, and the more I foresaw that my victim's vengeance would one day overtake me. Haunted by this thought, I lost my nerve, till one night I beheld your spirit, and from that time fell ill, but how you managed to escape and are still alive is more than I can understand. A guilty man, said the priest with a smile, Shudders at the rustling of the wind, or the chattering of a stork's beak. A murderer's conscience prays upon his mind till he sees what is not. Hoverty drives a man to crimes which he repents of in his wealth. How true is the doctrine of Moshi, that the heart of man, pure by nature, is corrupted by circumstances. Thus he held forth, and Tokubei, who had long since repented of his crime, implored forgiveness, and gave him a large sum of money, saying, Half of this is the amount I stole from you three years since. The other half, I entreat you to accept his interest, or as a gift. The priest at first refused the money, but Tokubei insisted on his accepting it, and did all he could to detain him, but in vain. For the priest went on his way, and bestowed the money on the poor and the needy. As for Tokubei himself, he soon shook off his disorder, and thenceforward lived at peace with all men, revered both at home and abroad, and ever intent on good and charitable deeds. End of Tajima by Miss Mitchford. Two Cases of Grip by M. Quad. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Deborah Lynn in Northern Lower Michigan, March 2007. What's this? What's this? exclaimed Mr. Bowser as he came home the other evening, and found Mrs. Bowser lying on the sofa and looking very much distressed. The doctor says it's the grip, a second attack, she explained. I was taken with a chill and headache about noon, and... Grip? Second attack? That's all nonsense, Mrs. Bowser. Nobody can have the grip a second time. But the doctor says so? Then the doctor is an idiot, and I'll tell him so to his face. I know what's the matter with you. You've been walking around the backyard barefoot, or doing some other foolish thing. I expected it, however. No woman is happy unless she's flat down about half the time. How on earth any of your sex managed to live to be twenty years old is a mystery to me. The average woman has no more sense than a rag baby. I haven't been careless, she replied. I know better. Of course you have. If you hadn't been, you wouldn't be where you are. Grip be hanged. Well, it's only right that you should suffer for it. Call it what you wish, but don't expect any sympathy from me. While I use every precaution to preserve my health, you go sloshing around in your bare feet, or sit on a cake of ice to read a dime novel, or do some other tomfool thing to flatten you out. I refuse to sympathize with you, Mrs. Bowser. Absolutely and she totally refused to utter one word of pity. Mrs. Bowser had nothing to say and reply. Mr. Bowser ate his dinner alone, took advantage of the occasion to drive a few nails and make a great noise, and by and by went off to his club and was gone until midnight. Next morning Mrs. Bowser felt a bit better and made a heroic attempt to be about until he started for the office. The only reference he made to her illness was to say, If you live to be three hundred years old, you may possibly learn something about the laws of health and be able to keep out of bed three days in a week. Mrs. Bowser was all right at the end of three or four days and nothing more was said. Then, one afternoon at three o'clock, a carriage drove up and a stranger assisted Mr. Bowser into the house. He was looking pale and ghastly, and his chin quivered and his knees wobbled. What is it, Mr. Bowser? she exclaimed as she met him at the door. Bed! Doctor! Death! he gasped and replied. Mrs. Bowser got him to bed and examined him for bullet holes or knife wounds. There were none. He had no broken limbs. He hadn't fallen off a horse or been half-drowned. When she had satisfied herself on these points she asked, How were you taken? With a ch-chill he gasped with a ch-chill and a-b-backing. I thought so, Mr. Bowser. You have the grip, a second attack. As I have some medicine left there's no need to send for the doctor. I'll have you all right in a day or two. Get the doctor at once, willed Mr. Bowser. Or I'm a dead man. Such a backache so cold, Mrs. Bowser, if I should die, I hope. Emotion overcame Mr. Bowser and he could say no more. The doctor came and pronounced it a second attack of the grip, but a very mild one. When he had departed, Mrs. Bowser didn't accuse Mr. Bowser with putting on his summer flannels a month too soon, with forgetting his umbrella and getting soaked through, with leaving his rubbers at home and having damp feet all day. She didn't express her wonder that he hadn't died years ago, nor predict that when he reached the age of Methuselah he would know better than to roll in snow-banks or stand around in mud puddles. She didn't kick over chairs or slam doors or leave him alone. When Mr. Bowser shed tears she wiped them away. When he moaned she held his hand. When he said he felt that the grim specter was near and wanted to kiss the baby goodbye, she cheered him with the prediction that he would be a great deal better next day. Mr. Bowser didn't get up next day, though the doctor said he could. He lay in bed, and sighed and uttered sorrowful moans and groans. He wanted toast and preserves. He had to have help to turn over. He worried about a relapse. He had to have a damp cloth on his forehead. He wanted to have a council of doctors, and he read the copy of his last will and testament over three times. Mr. Bowser was all right next morning, however. When Mrs. Bowser asked him how he felt, he replied, How do I feel? Why, as right as a trivet, of course. When a man takes the care of himself that I do, when he has the nerve and willpower I have, he can throw off most anything. You would have died, Mrs. Bowser, but I was scarcely affected. It was just the play spell. I'd like to be real sick once, just to see how it would seem. Cholera, I suppose it was, but outside of feeling a little tired, I wasn't at all affected. And the dutiful Mrs. Bowser looked at him and swallowed it all and never said a word to hurt his feelings. End of Two Cases of Grip by M. Quad 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 Bedlin 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, graded windows and a transient thought upon the condition of the unhappy beings emured in the dismal cells, and yet these same men day by day and hour by hour pass and repass this gloomy depository of the guilty and misery of London in one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up within it, they 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 forever, 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 vigor, in the flower of youth or the prime of life, with all their facilities and perceptions as acute and perfect as your own, but dying nonetheless, 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 is with some such thought 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 intentions into effect, we proceeded 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 presume 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 note, made no memoranda, measured none of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches in no particular room, were unable even to report of how many apartments the jail 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 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 waist-quoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an almanac, 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 and a book for 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 affronted 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 ourselves at 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 Shepherd, a 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 torturous and intricate windings guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel at once the slight hope of escape that any newcomer may have entertained and the very recollections 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 the 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 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 now averted, omitting any mention of intervening gates, 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 discernable, passing to and fro, a narrow yard. Some twenty women, the majority of whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the presence of strangers, retreated into their wards. This 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 the 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 born 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 on the 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 mothers and treaties, whatever they were, and beyond inquiring after gem, and eagerly catching at the few half-penis 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 further 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 nearby 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 defense that she was disclosing. Perhaps 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 depression, as at the chance of her getting off in spite of her prosecutions. 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 vice, who have never known what childhood is, who have never been taught to love and court-apparence smile, or to dread appearance 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 only be 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 hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the station house, and the pawnbrokers, and they will understand you. Two or three women were standing in 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 as 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, white-washed 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 on 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 were placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which it hangs during the day. The ward is thus made to answer the purpose both of a day room and a sleeping apartment. Over the fireplace was a large sheet of plasterboard 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 at 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 demeanor. One of the two resumed the needlework, which they had probably laid aside at the commencement of their meal. Others gazed at the visitors with littlest 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 nothing 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 jail is a small receiving room to which prisoners are conducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found ourselves at first, and which by the by 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, and 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 the 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 pentaphors without jackets, others in jackets without pentaphors, and one in scarce anything at all. The whole number, without an exception, we believe, have been committed for trial on charges of pickpocketing, 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 eventually quite gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at. Their idea appeared to be that we had come to see Nugget 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 helpful creatures of neglect before. On either side of the schoolyard is a yard for men, in one of which, that towards Nugget 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 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-grade 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 hands, 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 the 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 closed iron-gradings 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 communications by touch with the prisoner who visits him. The married men have a separate grading 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 this place, the knowledge that here a portion of the brutal service is on some dreadful occasions performed over the quick and not upon the dead, casts over it a still more gloomy and somber air than art has imparted to it. We know not, but its appearance is very striking. There is something in a silence 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 of its appointments, the bare scanty pulpit with the paltry-painted pillars on either side, the woman's gallery with its great heavy curtain, the men's with its unpainted benches, and dingy front, a tottering little table at the altar with the condiments 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 afterward, immediately below the reading desk on the floor of the chapel, forming the most conspicuous object in this little area is the condemned pew, a huge black pan in which the wretched people who are singled out for death are placed on Sunday preceding their execution in sight of all their fellow prisoners, for 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 yet there is 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 civilization 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 defense, as every year's experience has shown them to be more and more inefficous. 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 general 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 around to the left and pauses before another gate, and having passed his 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 house, in Nugget Street, running from Nugget Street towards the center of the prison, parallel with Nugget Market. It is a long, narrow court of which a portion of the wall in Nugget Street forms one end, and the gate at the other, at the upper end, on the left hand, that is, adjoining the wall in Nugget Street, is a cistern of water, and at the bottom of a double-grading of which the gate itself forms a part, similar to that before described. Through these gates 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 chavo de fris, and the hole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced turnkeys. 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 grisly 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 an ejected 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 window, and the remaining 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 continents 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 questioned 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 somber 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 circumstance 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 was sealed, no plea could be urged in extinuation of their crime, and they well knew that for them there was no hope in this world. The two short ones, the turnkey whispered, are dead men. The man to whom we have eluded, as entertaining some hope of escape, was lounging at the greatest distance he could place between himself and his companions, in the window nearest 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 toward 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 upon him, and communicated to his pale haggard face and his ordered 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 in 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 at the positions we had described, and were as motionless as statues. A few paces up the yard, informing 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 staircase 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 on the story opens, and from it alone can 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 prisoners under the 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 pretense. We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long and eight six wide. 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 heavily crossed iron bars. It contained no other furniture of any description. Conceived the situation of a man spending his last night on earth in his cell, buoyed up with some vague and hope of reprieve. He knew not why. Indulging in some wild and visionary idea of escape, he knew not how. Hour after hour of the three preceding days allowed him for preparation was fled with a speed which no man living could deem possible. For none but this dying man can know. He has wearied his friends within treaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities, neglected in his feverish restlessness a timely warning of his spiritual counselor. 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 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, in 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 yard, 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 standing 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 a 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 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 promise of pardon for repentance and its lawful denunciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush! That sound is what? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be too 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. 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 the fresh boundless prospect on either 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 upon 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 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 now 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 he cries. A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes cold and wretched. The dull, gray light of morning is stealing into his cell and falls upon the form of the attendant turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from the uneasy bed in a momentary 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.