e disposed to terminate their misery and wish
the world an eternal 'Good Night!'"

As I paced up and down my cell, full of the thought, "I am in prison,
then," my curiosity was excited by a large urn-looking object in the
right corner under the window, just below a water-tap and copper basin.
I had noticed it before, but I fancied it was some antique relic of
Old Newgate. Examining it closely, I found it had a hinged lid, and on
lifting this my nose was assailed by a powerful smell, which struck
me as about the most ancient I had ever encountered. This earthenware
fixture was in reality a water-closet, and I imagined it must have
communicated direct with the main drainage. A more unwholesome and
disgusting companion in one's room is difficult to conceive. I believe
these filthy monstrosities still exist in Newgate, although they
are abolished in other prisons. Yet it puzzles one to understand
why prisoners awaiting trial should be poisoned by such a diabolical
invention any more than prisoners who have been convicted and sentenced.

Just as I finished inspecting this monument of official ingenuity,
I heard a heavy footstep along the corridor, and presently a key was
inserted in my lock. It "grated harsh thunder" as it turned. The door
was flung open abruptly, without any consideration whether I might be
standing near it, and an official entered, who turned out to be the
chief warder. He was a polite, handsome man of five-and-forty, with
a fine pair of dark eyes and a handsome black beard. During my brief
residence in Newgate he treated me with marked civility, and sometimes
engaged in a few minutes' conversation. In one of these brief interviews
he told me that he had officiated at fourteen executions, and devoutly
hoped he might never witness another, his feelings on every occasion
having been of the most horrible character. I also found that he was
fond of a book, although he had little leisure for reading or any other
recreation. He looked longingly at my well-printed copy of Byron;
but what impressed him most was my little collection of law books,
especially Folkard's fat "Law of Libel," which he regarded with the awe
and veneration of a bibliolater, suddenly confronting a gigantic mystery
of erudition.

This worthy officer came to tell me that my "friend with the big head"
had just called to see what he could do for us. "Big-head" was
Mr. Bradlaugh. The description was facetious but by no means
uncomplimentary.