At the mere mention of this name, the mind instantaneously becomes filled with visions of vice in all its most hideous forms, and crime in all its most appalling shapes;--wards and court-yards filled with a population peculiar to themselves,--dark gloomy passages, where the gas burns all day long, and beneath the pavement of which are interred the remains of murderers and other miscreants who have expiated their crimes upon the scaffold,--shelves filled with the casts of the countenances of those wretches, taken the moment after they were cut down from the gibbet,--condemned cells,--the chapel in which funeral sermons are preached upon men yet alive to hear them, but who are doomed to die on the morrow,--the clanking of chains, the banging of huge doors, oaths, prayers, curses, and ejaculations of despair! Oh! if it were true that the spirits of the departed are allowed to revisit the earth for certain purposes and on particular occasions,--if the belief of superstition were well founded, and night could be peopled with the ghosts and spectres of those who sleep in troubled graves,--what a place of ineffable horrors--what a scene of terrible sights, would Newgate be at midnight! The huge flag-stones of the pavement would rise, to permit the phantoms of the murderers to issue from their graves. Demons would erect a gibbet at the debtor's door; and, amidst the sinister glare of torches, an executioner from hell would hang these miscreants over again. This would be part of their posthumous punishment, and would occur in the long--long nights of winter. There would be no moon; but all the windows of Newgate looking upon the court-yards (and there are none commanding the streets) would be brilliantly lighted with red flames, coming from an unknown source. And throughout the long passages of the prison would resound the orgies of hell; and skeletons wrapped in winding sheets would shake their fetters; and Greenacre and Good--Courvoisier and Pegsworth--Blakesley and Marchant, with all their predecessors in the walks of murder, would come in fearful procession from the gibbet, returning by the very corridors which they traversed in their way to death on the respective mornings of their execution. Banquets would be served up to them in the condemned cells; demons would minister to them; and their food should be the flesh, and their drink the gore, of the victims whom they had assassinated upon earth! All would be horrible--horrible! But, heaven be thanked! such scenes are impossible; and never can it be given to the shades of the departed to revisit the haunts which they loved or hated--adored or desecrated, upon earth! NEWGATE!--fearful name! And Richard Markham was now in Newgate.