"Put that down, Crisp. It's a blessing to think of the state of freedom one enjoys even in the gaols of this enlightened and liberal nation."
"To be sure it is," said the turnkey. "The young thieves consider Newgate to be a capital school for improvement in their profession: when they're at chapel, they're always practising pick-pocketing on each-other."
"What's bred in the bone will never go out of the flesh," observed the Superintendent. "But the poor creeturs must have some diwersion. Put that down, Crisp."
"Ah! Newgate has seen some rum things in its time," moralised the turnkey. "It has been a felon's gaol for well-nigh seven hundred years."
"Has it, though?" cried the Superintendent. "Now, then, Crisp—put that down."
"And ever since I first come here," continued the turnkey, "there have been constant Reports drawn up about the state of discipline; but I never see that any change follows."
"Put that down, Crisp. When my book is published, my good fellow, you'll jist see what the world will say about a change! There's no need of change—and that I'll undertake to prove. Newgate is the very palace of prisons. Lord bless us! it would do half the Aldermen themselves good to pass a few days in such a pleasant place."
"Sometimes we have a few discontented fellows here that don't like to associate with the rest," proceeded the turnkey; "and then they ask to be thrown into solitary cells."
"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose they're always gratified in their wishes?" asked the Superintendent.
"Oh! always," replied the turnkey. "But the worst of all is that the chaplain here is nothing more or less than a regular spy upon the governor and the officials, and constantly reports to the Home Office every thing that occurs."