some serious injury, and that her hands should be secured.” Two days later we read: “Julia Newman is worse than ever. The doctors say she is not mad, at least Dr. Monro did. Mr. Wade is doubtful.” The governor himself was of opinion that she was only carrying on a deep scheme: He says, “I suggested to Mr. Wade, a day or two ago, that if any circumstance had arisen to make it probable that she was really deranged, we had better have another opinion, and send her to Bedlam; but there does not seem any ground for this step. But is the prisoner to defy all authority, now that the doctor has removed her from the dark to the infirmary? Certainly not. I therefore called upon the doctor to report whether there was any danger in subjecting her to fresh punishment for fresh offences. The surgeon thinks there would be considerable risk in sending her to the dark cell on bread and water at present. Had I received a different answer, I should have proceeded forthwith to act upon the reports against her; but the committee will see how I am situated. She is too ill for punishment, and gets more violent and refractory than ever. Her acts of misconduct are: refusing to take her dinner, tearing up her prayer-book, singing loudly all the fore-part of the evening, and refusing her breakfast; grazing her nose, so that her face presents the most frightful appearance; asking for a can of water and then throwing it all over the taskmistress.” No further steps are taken at the moment, beyond providing a special strait waistcoat to be used in case of emergency. But she still continues in the infirmary. About 7 o’clock that evening she is heard screaming loudly. After some time the governor sends to ask the surgeon if he was aware of it. Answer comes to say that he is ill in bed. Second message (oh, cunning governor-chaplain!): “Would it be objectionable to her health to remove her to the dark?” Surgeon, asking only to be left in peace, replies, “Nothing to prevent her being placed anywhere.” This is all the governor wants. Off she goes to the dark, where she remains till she is reported to be singing as loudly as ever in her cell, and won’t give up her rug. Next she is found lying on her back, with a handkerchief knotted tightly around her neck. As soon as she was better, she uttered the following impromptu:— “What a pity hell’s gates are not kept by dame King, So surly a cur would let nobody in”—