Methinks I hear the distant rout Of coaches rumbling all about-- We're close above the Parks!

XXXVII.

I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets.

Lord! what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light!

Well--there's the finish of our flight!

I've smoked my last segar!

A _FRIENDLY_ ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY _IN_ NEWGATE.[21]

"Sermons in stones."--_As You Like It._ "Out! out! damned spot!"--_Macbeth._

[Footnote 21: Elizabeth Fry had set up her school for the children in Newgate as early as 1817. Moll Brazen, Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, and the rest, are names borrowed from Gay's _Beggars' Opera_.]

I.

I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!

It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flame-- I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing, Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim You make to Christianity,--professing Love, and good _works_--of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young _Fry's_ bookseller, Friend Darton!

II.

I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute-- Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport-- I should have said, that _wear_, the sober suit Shap'd like a court dress--but for heaven's court.

I like your sisters too,--sweet Rachel's fruit-- Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support Of virtue--and I like to see them clad With such a difference--just like good from bad!

III.

I like the sober colors--not the wet; Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow-- Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet-- In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go-- The others are a chaste, severer set, In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go-- They're moral _standards_, to know Christians by-- In short, they are your _colors_, Mrs. Fry!

IV.

As for the naughty tinges of the prism-- Crimson's the cruel uniform of war-- Blue--hue of brimstone! minds no catechism; And green is young and gay--not noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or Olive--and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess; And yellow is a convict by its dress!

V.

They're all the devil's liveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sin-- But how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in The Evil presence? You and I know, then, How all the party colors will begin To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there, Whereas the _Foxite_ shades will all show fair!

VI.

Witness their goodly labors one by one!

_Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor-- _Dove-color_ preaches love to all--and _dun_ Calls every day at Charity's street door-- _Brown_ studies scripture, and bids woman shun All gaudy furnishing--_olive_ doth pour Oil into wounds: and _drab_ and _slate_ supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

VII.

Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor!

When all persuasions in your praises blend-- The Methodist's creed and cry are, _Fry_ forever!

No--I will be your friend--and, like a friend, Point out your very worst defect--Nay, never Start at that word! But I _must_ ask you why You keep your school _in_ Newgate, Mrs. Fry?

VIII.

Top well I know the price our mother Eve Paid for _her_ schooling: but must all her daughters Commit a petty larceny, and thieve-- Pay down a crime for _"entrance"_ to your _"quarters"_?

Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters!

Oh, tho' it cost you rent--(and rooms run high) Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

IX.

O save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd!

Set up your mounted sign _without_ the gate-- And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd!

'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!

Nay, if you would not have your labors foil'd, Take it _inclining_ tow'rds a virtuous state, Not prostrate and laid flat--else, woman meek!

The _upright_ pencil will but hop and shriek!

X.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,-- To bring sobriety to life again, Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,-- To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,-- To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her; To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!

XI.

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw-- To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach She made in manners--to write heaven's own law On hearts of granite.--Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory's--to draw The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!

XII.

In vain you teach them baby-work within: 'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin-- Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time-- It is too late for scouring to begin When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime Is worn away, and nothing sound remains; You'll fret the fabric out before the stains!

XIII.

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry!

I like your cookery in every way; I like your shrove-tide service and supply; I like to hear your sweet _Pandeans_ play; I like the pity in your full-brimm'd eye; I like your carriage, and your silken gray, Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching; But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.

XIV.

Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.