I went yesterday to Newgate, to see Mrs. Fry’s performance. I by no means wish to underrate her merits by the phrase. The same lips which said, ‘Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,’ have also said, ‘Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick;’ leaving the heart at liberty to follow either precept, as it conscientiously judges one or other most useful at the time; thus proving in this instance, as in so many others, that the Gospel is ‘the law of liberty.’
Miss Hewitt, Lady Jane Peel, and I, set out at ten for Newgate; where a stonework of fetter over the door told us we had arrived after a twenty minutes’ drive. Two fat and jolly men received us in a sort of office, and civilly consigned us to a maid-servant, who led us up two narrow and steep flights of stairs to a small homely room, in the middle of which, her back to the door, Mrs. Fry sat at a table, with books and papers before her. The female convicts, I suppose about sixty in number, faced her on rows of benches, raised as in the gallery of a theatre. Opposite to these were two or three rows for the visitors, and a single row on each side, all as full as possible. As we entered, we were slightly named to her, and slightly acknowledged. The smell was oppressive, and the heat unpleasant, but this was instantly forgotten in the interest of the scene. The convicts first drew my attention. They were of decent appearance and deportment, habited like the lowest class of servants. They were singularly plain, but most of them in the prime or vigour of life, not one very old woman; and two had children, whom they nursed. Among the visitors I saw a few of my acquaintance, and some persons of note.
After a short silence Mrs. Fry read, in a soft, low, silvery tone the fourth chapter of the Ephesians, with perfect intelligence and expressive sweetness. She then paused, and explained what she thought wanted elucidation in a few simple well-chosen words. Two men of the Society of Friends spoke a few words of exhortation. She then read a Psalm, and, I think, did not say anything in explanation; but she knelt down and commenced a prayer for comfort to the unhappy convicts, and spiritual blessings for them, for us, and for all. This prayer was chanted in a way, I am told, peculiar to the Society of Friends. I did not like it, with all the advantages of Mrs. Fry’s sweet voice and musical skill. It is not a regular tune; the words rise a few notes in the scale in regular progression, and fall again to the same place, but never descend lower or change their order. Many words, of course, sometimes are given to one note, and the long-drawn emphasis sometimes laid on ‘and,’ and other equally insignificant words, was disagreeable to my ear. On the whole, it affected my nerves unpleasantly, and wanted the solemn unction of the human speaking voice. Music ought to be very fine when we address the Deity; even then it seems more suitable for repeating, or dwelling on, our petitions, or for praise and gratitude, than for humble, deep, deprecatory prayer.
The convicts now left the room. A subscription followed; and Mrs. Fry offered to show us the jail. I went part of the way; but as we seemed to walk through narrow, dark, and winding passages cut out of the cold rock, my courage failed. Thought dwelt intensely on those that went in that way, never to return but to death or banishment, and I felt that I was exposing myself perhaps to illness, when uncalled on by any duty. I prevailed on a good, kind Quaker friend to be my Orpheus, and was very glad to see the light of day once more.
It was a fine lesson of humility and gratitude. The doubt whether in similar circumstances one might not have been more guilty than the worst of these women, the reflection how deeply they might have been assailed by the temptations of want, added to every other infirmity of our nature, and how bitterly they might expiate in this world the offences of which they had repented, all pressed on the mind at once.
June 13. Mrs. Fry and all the remarkables have faded like stars at sunrise. The Queen, the Queen alone fills up the London show-box, and frights our Court from its propriety. Figurez-vous, a woman still handsome, fresh and vigorous as at fifteen, attended but by an alderman, a female friend, a page, and half a dozen servants, causing the stoutest hearts to quail; making necessary nightly patrols of cavalry, and an increased military force in the capital; terrifying the Cabinet Ministers from their business in the House of Commons; occupying all tongues, all pens, all eyes, if they could but obtain a sight; keeping the King in check, and finally being the innocent cause of your mother’s windows being broken by the mob, as a little epilogue to their more serious performance at Lady Hertford’s.
May 26, 1820.—Mr. Grattan has taken leave of all his friends, and resigned himself to that departure from his life and his fame which he is aware must shortly take place, in the due course of a painful complaint. He is perfectly simple, affectionate, and sublime. On the confines of another world, he still enjoys the best this can give—in the company and cares of his wife and his four children, all warm-hearted, loving, and intellectual. But he has not lain down on a sofa to close his eyes in apathy, and indolently attend the stroke of fate. He feels a desire of dying in his vocation, and employing his last breath in pleading the cause of his Roman Catholic countrymen. His great mind still connects itself with earth by the link of patriotism, though all other ties are dissolving or dissolved.
June 23.—Heard the tumultuous shouting of a well-dressed and exulting crowd on a glimpse of the Queen, who appeared once on her balcony on her return from an airing. There was pleasure and triumph in the sound; but it was not unmingled with a stern consciousness of power. It filled me with mournful anticipations. The King, his ministers, his courtiers, and the whole phalanx of the supporters of Administration are on one side, and the Queen and people on the other. In these shouts I heard the voice of a lion; pleased, but still a lion—the murmurs of the sea; gentle, but so are the precursors of a storm. Some say dislike to the King creates the greatest part of the interest in favour of the Queen. I do not think so ill of the English character. I believe it proceeds from the immutable sense of justice.