At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. "It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance.
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