It now appeared evident that the discipline of the female side was most unsatisfactory, and there had been great remissness on the part of the officers. It was discovered, too, among other things, that the religious exercises had been greatly neglected: the reading of the lesson in the morning service in the wards had been “either shamefully slurred over, or neglected altogether.” For this, and other omissions, the visitor assembled the matrons in a body, and lectured them in plain terms. That very afternoon occurred the first real outbreak. All at once the whole of one of the wards was found to be in an uproar. The shouts and yells of the women could be heard all over the prison, and for a great distance beyond. The disturbance arose in this wise: there had been great misconduct that morning in chapel, but the offenders had eluded detection, as they thought; therefore when the matron reprimanded them, they concluded that one of their number had “rounded” or “put them away,”—in other words, had turned informer. Elizabeth Wheatley was suspected, and upon her the whole of her companions fell, tooth and nail, when let out for exercise. It was with the utmost difficulty she was rescued from their clutches. Then the ringleaders, having been again confined to their cells, commenced a hideous din and continued it for hours. Soon after this a violent attack is made upon the chief matron: a woman assaults her, and deals her a blow that makes her nose bleed. This is the signal for a general disturbance. All the ward join in the uproar: those not under lock and key crowd round the matron with frightful yells and imprecations, and from those in their cells, come shouts through the bars, such as “Give it her! give it her. I’d make a matron of her, if I was out. I’d have her life.” The unfortunate officer is only saved from serious injury by the prompt interposition of the wardswoman, a well-conducted prisoner; the excitement now becomes tremendous. Let us look at a scene enacted in another part of the prison on that very same evening. It is towards dusk in the “Long Room,” where there are beds for nearly forty. Half a dozen women, unattended by a turnkey, are discussing the topics of the day. One, Nihill, is lamenting in bitter terms the want of pluck exhibited by the others. None of the women were “game,” she said. She was ready to do anything, but none of the others would give her a helping hand. There were men in the prison, too, who were willing and able to join in a mutiny if they only got a lead. It might be done in chapel, where the whole of the population of the Penitentiary collected together twice a day for prayers. At this moment comes a new arrival, bearing the news of the murderous assault upon the matron, to which reference has been already made. “How many were in it?” Nihill asks, she being the leading malcontent of those mentioned above. “Five.”