Passing from the yard, we proceeded up-stairs to the first floor, where were the debtors’ rooms. These were tolerably comfortable, in comparison to the wretched cells we had seen; but the poorer debtors were crowded together, three or four in a room. As far as I could ascertain, there is no insolvency law, but the debtor is free, after ninety days’ imprisonment, if his board and lodging be paid for. “And what if they are not?” “Oh, well, in that case we keep them till all is paid, adding of course for every day they are kept.”
In one of these rooms, sitting on his bed, looking wicked and gloomy, and with a glare like that of a wild beast in his eyes, was a Doctor Withers, who a few days ago murdered his son-in-law and his wife, in a house close to Mr. Mure’s. He was able to pay for this privilege, and “as he is a respectable man,” said the warder, “perhaps he may escape the worst.”
Turning from this department into another gallery, the warder went to an iron door, above which was painted a death’s head and cross-bones, beneath were the words “condemned cell.”
He opened the door, which led to a short narrow covered gallery, one side of which looked into a court-yard, admitting light into two small chambers, in which were pallets of straw covered with clean counterpanes.
Six men were walking up and down in the passage. In the first room there was a table, on which were placed missals, neatly bound, and very clean religious books, a crucifix, and Agnus Dei. The whitewashed wall of this chamber was covered with most curious drawings in charcoal or black chalk, divided into compartments, and representing scenes in the life of the unhappy artist, a Frenchman, executed some years ago for murdering his mistress, depicting his temptations—his gradual fall from innocence—his society with abandoned men and women—intermingled with Scriptural subjects, Christ walking on the waters, and holding out his hand to the culprit—the murderer’s corpse in the grave—angels visiting and lamenting over it;—finally, the resurrection, in which he is seen ascending to heaven!
My attention was attracted from this extraordinary room to an open gallery at the other side of the court-yard, in which were a number of women with dishevelled hair and torn clothes, some walking up and down restlessly, others screaming loudly, while some with indecent gestures were yelling to the wretched men opposite to them, as they were engaged in their miserable promenade.
Shame and horror to a Christian land! These women were maniacs! They are kept here until there is room for them at the State Lunatic Asylum. Night and day their terrible cries and ravings echo through the dreary, waking hours and the fitful slumbers of the wretched men so soon to die.
Two of those who walked in that gallery are to die to-morrow.
What a mockery—the crucifix!—the Agnus Dei!—the holy books! I turned with sickness and loathing from the dreadful place. “But,” said the keeper, apologetically, “there’s not one of them believes he’ll be hanged.”