It is a most terrible thing for a man of sensibility to stand in the dock of the Old Bailey before the awful array of Judges, Lord Mayor, Sheriffs and Aldermen. I know very well that most of the hardened wretches that stand there have no sense of terror and little of anxiety. For them the Judge is like that fabled Sister who cuts the thread of life: they have come to the end of their rope: their time is up: they are fatalists in a stupid way: the sentence is passed: they bear no malice against the informer: the game has been played according to the rules--what more can a man desire? Tyburn awaits them. And afterwards? They neither know nor do they care. Early on the morning of the trial, Mr. Dewberry came to see me. He was cheerful, and rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. 'The case,' he said, 'is complete. Never was a case more complete or more astonishing as you shall see.' He would not explain further: he said that walls, even in Newgate, have ears: that I must rely upon his word. 'Sir,' he said, 'so much I will explain because it may give you ease. Never has a man gone forth to be tried for his life, with a greater confidence in the result than you ought to have. And, with that assurance enter the Court with a light heart.' They knocked off my irons before going into Court. Thus relieved, I was marched along a dismal passage, leading from the prison to the Old Bailey. The Court was crowded, not so much out of compliment to me, but because it was bruited abroad among the rogues of St. Giles's that two of their body were that day about to achieve greatness. They were, truly: but not in the way that was expected. The crowd, in fact, consisted chiefly of pickpockets and thieves, with their ladies. And the heroes of the day were the Bishop and the Captain.