early in the present century; but bad as it was then, it must have been incomparably worse in the days of Fielding, the novelist. For many years he was the chief magistrate at Bow-street, and, of course, had every facility to acquaint himself with the state of the gaols of London. His account of Newgate, in his "Life of Mr. Jonathan Wild," opens out scenes of vice and reckless depravity in prisoners and officials, not excepting the chaplain, which really make the reader shudder. The accuracy of the description has never been questioned. Of the chaplain's religious views, here is a specimen. A prisoner says to him, "I believe a sincere Turk will be saved;" and he replies, "I know not what will become of a sincere Turk; but if this is your persuasion, it is impossible you can be saved. No, sir, so far from a sincere Turk being within the pale of salvation, neither will any sincere Presbyterian, Anabaptist, nor Quaker whatever, be saved."

A dispute arose in the prison between Wild and Johnson as to who should be the recognized agent of the criminals: speeches are delivered before all the prisoners, debtors included; a violent contest ensues; 66 some cried 'Johnson!' others, Wild, for ever!' the cells resounded with the shouts, and the poor debtors re-echoed 'The liberties of Newgate!' which in the cant language signifies plunder, as loudly as the thieves themselves. At length Johnson is rejected, his fine clothes stripped off and appropriated by Wild, who in a few days assumed them himself."

“A warrant arrives for the execution of Heartfree, who wishes to take leave of his wife. In answer to his request, the turnkey says 'he had compassion for him, and would do more than he could answer; but he supposed Frendly was too much of a gentleman not to know what was done for such civility.' Five guineas are given for a reprieve of ten minutes.

The wife faints; the gaoler asks what

Frendly will give for half-an-hour more; receives a promise of ten guineas for the favour, and then says, 'I don't care if they stay a whole hour together, for what signifies hiding good news?-the gentleman is reprieved.'"

Then, on the condemnation of Wild, come the exhortations of the chaplain to repentance, upon which we have this dialogue::

Wild.--All this is very true, but let us take a bottle of wine to cheer our spirits.

Ordinary.-Why wine? Let me tell you, Mr. Wild, there is nothing so deceitful as the spirit given to us by wine. If you must drink, let us have a bowl of punch, a liquor I the rather prefer, as it is nowhere spoken against in Scripture.

Wild.-I ask your pardon, doctor, I should have remembered that punch was your favourite liquor; I will take a swinging cup to your being made a bishop.

Ordinary.—And I will wish you a reprieve in as large a draught.

I refrain from further extracts,-our altered manners would make them offensive; but could we doubt as to the old abominations tolerated in all our prisons, the tone in which they are dwelt upon by Fielding would convince the most incredulous. The discipline of those dreary but indispensable places of punishment is now much improved, although far from perfect. The sword of justice is no longer wielded by the avenger. The lex talionis has fallen into desuetude, and if the sinner must die, it is for example and warning; the sentence is not pronounced in wrath; mercy to the many makes it equitable that the few should suffer, that all may not perish. The judge has learned to discriminate; the homicide's life is forfeit, but minor culprits have time allowed them for penitence. Whether the punishment of death will ever be abrogated I know not; for my part I cannot join the superfine professors of humanity who teach that under no circumstances ought the law's last penalty to be exacted. "Whoso sheddeth man's

blood, by man shall his blood be shed," is an essential part of the Scripture code, and it would be equally rash and sinful to expunge it. Let our prisons be stern but effectual schools of morality and religion; let us never inflict forty stripes where thirty and nine will suffice. Our nature is frail and liable to offend; let us meet its errors with the mildest possible correctives, and while we smite the guilty, remember our common humanity; yet let us always be watchful to punish small faults, that they may not be aggravated into flagitious crimes.

280

PETER WAGHORN, THE TINMAN OF HOLYWELL MOUNT.

THERE is no faculty of the human mind more curious than its power of revivifying feelings and remembrances that appeared to be utterly forgotten, when acted upon from without by some seemingly accidental circumstance. Secret depositories of memory, long built up by oblivion, are instantly revealed anew at the open sesame of sight, sound, or thought-unexpected, or springing forth without any known cause, a mental condition which affords the strongest possible argument against the indulgence of wicked or lawless ideas, since in so doing we burden ourselves with a load of remorse which will be sure to awake in vengeance when we can least sustain it. Nor are such unaccountable journeyings back into our past life peculiar to the young or middle-aged; on the contrary, they are often most vivid and startling as we approach the end of our career. It seems as if much that is connected with our individual experiences grows more sharply outlined at the season when we are about to forget them for ever, if in our ignorance of our future state we may be permittted to use such language.

Passing through a bye-street in Islington, I came to an old broker's shop-one of those heterogeneous receptacles

for unconsidered odds and ends, the sweepings of decent houses, or the riches of the hiding-places of the poorwhen a casual glance led me to stop and notice a soiled and partly tattered engraving which figured between a couple of hideous portraits. It had no pretensions as a work of art, but the subject was interesting. It represented Queen-square, Great Ormond-street, as it appeared when first built, and was "respectfully dedicated to the ladies and gentlemen-the inhabitants." You all know Queen-square; it is closely built in now, yet in the picture it is absolutely in the country. The chapel, then quite new, and Southampton-row flank it on one side; Ormondstreet-then the abode of the nobility—on the other. It consists of long ranges of houses placed right and left, with a rather narrow garden in the centre; and terminating in a pleasant prospect towards Primrose Hill, Hampstead, and Highgate. The patroness of the square was Queen Anne, consequently it must have been built a century and a half; yet what was traced in the engraving resembled so much what I remembered fifty years since, that for a moment I almost forgot the weight of threescore winters and summers. Guildford-street had extinguished the country prospect of Queen-square when I knew it first; but, with few other exceptions, there it was in the print. Where Russell-square, Woburn-place, Tavistock-square, New Pancras Church, and a long catalogue of other buildings now stand, nursery-grounds or green fields might then be found. At present nothing green can be met with nearer than the Regent's Park, which was at that period a mere range of swampy cow-fields.

But what has all this to do with Peter Waghorn? You shall learn. The print brought vividly to my mind a pleasant walk I often took when a lad. In Tottenhamcourt-road, not far from my mother's residence, there was a general shop, where hardware was sold, and somehow I