The deterioration of mind on all connected with a crowded gaol,--that university for crime--is shown, in a paper a few pages further on (page 255), where even the song of a young girl, the outpouring of an unburthened heart, is tainted by the details of crime. The words are left in their original tongue; retained for the sake of showing the ability of the author, but not translated, as being little suited to give pleasure or effect any good. Alas! that the gaol should have power thus to efface even the charms of melody, and render discordant music’s silvery tones. But even that sweetest of sounds, a female voice, becomes tainted by prison association: the rust of a gaol corrodes the heart, and eats into every thing; time cannot efface its mark, nor the brightest sun call forth one gleam from where its dimness has once affixed itself. As it mars lovely woman’s charms, so it renders disgustful the venerableness of age. From the song of the young girl we trace its earlier mildew; from the powerful paper narrating the history of the old convict (which is by far the most stirring and full of adventure of the whole, see pages 268 to 272) we learn its baleful effects on old age. May a beneficent, rationally-grounded clemency be, in future, the means of redeeming “all such as have erred;” and may a widely-spread system of enlightened education happily train the children of adverse circumstances “in the way they should go.” P. HESKETH FLEETWOOD. [Illustration: “_Condemned to Death._” Etched by R. de los Rios.--From drawing by François Flameng.] THE LAST DAY OF A CONDEMNED. FIRST PAPER. BICÊTRE PRISON. Condemned to death! These five weeks have I dwelt with this idea,--always alone with it, always frozen by its presence, always bent under its weight. Formerly (for it seems to me rather years than weeks since I was free) I was a being like any other; every day, every hour, every minute had its idea. My mind, youthful and rich, was full of fancies, which it developed successively, without order or aim, but weaving inexhaustible arabesques on the poor and coarse web of life. Sometimes it was of youthful beauties, sometimes of unbounded possessions, then of battles gained, next of theatres full of sound and light, and then again the young beauties, and shadowy walks at night beneath spreading chestnut-trees. There was a perpetual revel in my imagination: I might think on what I chose,--I was free. But now,--I am a Captive! Bodily in irons in a dungeon, and mentally imprisoned in one idea,--one horrible, one hideous, one unconquerable idea! I have only one thought, one conviction, one certitude,-- _Condemned to death!_