From the moment the carriage-door closed upon us, Barton never addressed one word to me, but leaning back, seemed only anxious to escape being recognized by the people, whose attention was drawn to the vehicle by seeing two mounted policemen ride at either side of it. We drove along the quays, and crossing an old, dilapidated bridge, traversed several obscure and mean-looking streets, through which numbers of persons were hurrying in the same direction we were going. At length we arrived at a large open space, thronged with people whose dress and appearance bespoke them from the country. They were all conversing in a low, murmuring tone, and looking up from time to time towards a massive building of dark granite, which I had only to glance at to guess was Newgate. Our pace slackened to a walk as we entered the crowd; and while we moved slowly along, I was struck by the eager and excited faces I saw on every side. It could be no common occasion which impressed that vast multitude with the one character of painful anxiety I beheld.

As they stood gazing with upturned faces at the frowning portals of the jail, the deep, solemn tolling of a bell rung out at the moment, and as its sad notes vibrated through the air, it seemed to strike with a mournful power on every heart in the crowd. In an instant, too, the windows of all the houses were thronged with eager faces,—even the parapets were crowded; and while every sound was hushed, each eye was turned in one direction. I followed with my own whither the others were bent, and beheld above my head the dark framework of the “drop,” covered with black cloth, above which a piece of rope swung back-. wards and forwards with the wind. The narrow door behind was closed; but it was clear that each second that stole by was bringing some wretched criminal closer to his awful doom.

As we neared the entrance, the massive doors were opened on a signal from a policeman on the box of the carriage, and we drove inside the gloomy vestibule. It was only then, as the heavy door banged behind me, that my heart sank. Up to that moment a mingled sense of wrong, and a feeling of desperate courage, had nerved me; but suddenly a cold chill ran through my veins, my knees smote each other, and fear such as till then I never knew crept over me. The carriage-door was now opened, the steps lowered, and Barton descending first, addressed a few words to a person near him, whom he called Mr. Gregg.

It was one of those moments in life in which every passing look, every chance word, every stir, every gesture, are measured up, and remembered ever after. And I recollect now how, as I stepped from the carriage, a feeling of shame passed across me lest the bystanders should mark my fear, and what a relief I experienced on finding that my presence was unnoticed; and then the instant after, that very same neglect—that cold, cold indifference to me—smote as heavily on my spirits, and I looked on myself as one whose fate had no interest for any, in whose fortune none sympathized.

“Drive on!” cried a rough voice to the coachman; and the carriage moved through the narrow passage, in which some dozen of persons were now standing. The next moment, a murmur of “They are coming!” was heard; and the solemn tones of a man's voice chanting the last offices of the Romish Church reached us, with the measured footfall of persons crossing the flagged courtyard. In the backward movement now made by those around me, I was brought close to a small arched doorway, within which a flight of stone steps ascended in a spiral direction; and towards this point I remarked that the persons who approached were tending. My eyes scarcely glanced on those who came first; but they rested with a fearful interest on the bareheaded priest, who, in all the trappings of his office, walked, book in hand, repeating with mournful impressiveness the litany for the dead. As he came nearer, I could see that his eyes were dimmed with tears, and his pale lips quivered with emotion, while his very cheek trembled with a convulsive agony. Not so he who followed. He was a young man, scarce four and twenty; dressed in loose white trousers and shirt, but without coat, vest, or cravat; his head bare, and displaying a broad forehead, across which some straggling hairs of light brown were blown by the wind. His eye was bright and flashing, and in the centre of his pale cheek a small crimson spot glowed with a hectic coloring. His step was firm, and as he planted it upon the ground a kind of elasticity seemed to mark his footfall. He endeavored to repeat after the priest the words as they fell from him; but as he looked wildly around, it was clear his mind was straying from the subject which his lips expressed, and that thoughts far different were passing within him. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the major, who stood close to where I was. The man started back, and for a second even that small spot of crimson left his cheek, which became nearly livid in its pallor. A ghastly smile, that showed his white teeth from side to side, crossed his features, and with a voice of terrible earnestness, he said,—

“'T is easy for you to look calm, sir, at your morning's work, and I hope you 're plazed at it.” Then frowning fearfully, as his face grew purple, he added, “But, by the Eternal I you 'd not look that way av we two stood by ourselves on the side of Sliebmish, and nothing but our own four arms between us.”

The horrible expression of vengeance that lit up his savage face at these words seemed to awe even the callous and stern nature of Barton himself. All his efforts to seem calm and at ease were for the moment unavailing, and he shrank from the proud and flashing eye of the felon, as though he were the guilty one in the presence of his accuser.

Another stroke of the heavy bell rang out. The prisoner started, and turning round his head, seemed to peer anxiously through the crowd behind him, when his eyes fell upon the figure of a man apparently a year or two younger than himself, and whose features, even in their livid coloring, bore a striking resemblance to his own.

“Come, Patsey,” cried he, “come along with us.” Then turning to the jailer, while his face assumed a smile, and his voice a tone of winning softness, he asked, “It is my brother, sir; he is come up nigh eighty miles to see me, and I hope you 'll let him come upon the drop.”

There was something in the quiet earnestness of his manner in such a moment that thrilled upon the heart more painfully than even the violent outbreak of his passion; and when I saw the two brothers hand in hand, march step by step along, and then disappear in the winding of the dark stair, a sick, cold feeling came over me, and even the loud shout that rent the air from the assembled thousands without scarce roused me from my stupor.

“Come, sir,” cried a man, who in the dress of an official had been for some minutes carefully reading over the document of my committal, “after me, if you please.”

I followed him across the courtyard in the direction of a small building which stood isolated and apart from the rest, when suddenly he stopped, and carefully examining the paper in his hand, he said,—

“Wait a moment; I 'll join you presently.”

With these words, he hurried back towards the gate, where Barton still' stood with two or three others. What passed between them I could not hear; but I could distinctly mark that Barton's manner was more abrupt and imperious than ever, and that while the jailer—for such he was—expressed his scruples of one kind or another, the major would not hear him with patience, but turning his back upon him, called out loud enough to be heard even where I stood,—

“I tell you I don't care, regular or irregular; if you refuse to take him in charge, on your head be it. We have come to a pretty pass. Pollock,” said he, turning to a person beside him, “when there is more sympathy for a rebel in his Majesty's jail, than respect for a Government officer.”

“I'll do it, sir,—I'll do it,” cried the jailer; saying which he motioned me to follow, while he muttered between his teeth, “there must come an end to this, one day or other.”

With that he unlocked a strongly barred gate, and led me along a narrow passage; at the extremity of which he opened a door into a small and rather comfortably furnished room.

“Here, sir,” said he, “you 'll be better than where I have my orders to put you; and in any case, I trust that our acquaintance will be but a short one.”

These were the first words of kindness I had heard for some time past. I turned to thank the speaker; but already the door had closed, and he was gone.

The quickly succeeding incidents of my life, the dark destiny that seemed to track me, had given a reflective character to my mind while I was yet a boy. The troubles and cares of life, that in manhood serve only to mould and fashion character,—to call forth efforts of endurance, of courage, or ability,—come upon us in early years with far different effect and far different teaching. Every lesson tit deceit and duplicity is a direct shock to some preconceived notion of faith and honor; every punishment, whose severity in after years we had forgotten in its justice, has to the eyes of youth a character of vindictive cruelty. Looking only to effects, and never to causes, our views of life are one-sided and imperfect; the better parts of our nature will as often mislead us by false sympathy, as will the worst ones by their pernicious tendency.

From the hour I quitted my father's house to the present, I had seen nothing but what to me appeared the sufferings of a poor, defenceless people at the hands of wanton tyranny and outrage. I had seen the peasant's cabin burned because it had been a shelter to an outcast; I had heard the loud and drunken denunciations of a ruffianly soldiery against those who professed no other object, who acknowledged no other wish, than liberty and equality; and in my heart I vowed a rooted hate to the enemies of my country,—a vow that lost nothing of its bitterness because it was made within the walls of a prison.

In reflections like these my evening passed on, and with it the greater part of the night also. My mind was too much excited to permit me to sleep, and I longed for daybreak with that craving impatience which sick men feel who count the long hours of darkness, and think the morning must bring relief. It came at last; and the heavy, clanking sounds of massive doors opening and shutting—the mournful echoes that told of captivity and durance—sighed along the corridors, and then all was still.

There is a time in reverie when silence seems not to encourage thought, but rather, like some lowering cloud, to hang over and spread a gloomy insensibility around us. Long watching and much thinking had brought me now to this; and I sat looking upon the faint streak of sunlight that streamed through the barred window, and speculating within myself when it would fall upon the hearth. Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; my door was opened, and the jailer entered, followed by a man carrying my breakfast.

“Come, sir,” said the former, “I hope you have got an appetite for our prison fare. Lose no time; for there is a carriage in waiting to bring you to the Castle, and the major himself is without.”

“I am ready this moment,” said I, starting up, and taking my hat; and notwithstanding every entreaty to eat, made with kindness and good-nature, I refused everything, and followed him out into the courtyard, where Barton was pacing up and down, impatiently awaiting our coming.