uilding, 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 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
thoughts to turn to, nor p