the floor of the vestibule, muttering, incoherently, "there is no hope for one like me." And the old walls re-echo his lamentation.
"His mother, otherwise a kind sort of woman, sends him here. She believes it will work his reform. I pity her error-for it is an error to believe reform can come of punishment, or that virtue may be nurtured among vice." Thus responds the brusque but kind-hearted old jailer, who view swith an air of compassion his new comer, as he lays, a forlorn mass, exposed to the gaze of the prisoners gathering eagerly about him.
The dejected man gives a struggle, raises himself to his haunches, and with his coarse, begrimed hands resting on his knees, returns the salutation of several of his old friends. "This, boys, is the seventh time," he pursues, as if his scorched brain were tossed on a sea of fire, "and yet I'm my mother's friend. I love her still-yes, I love her still!" and he shakes his head, as his bleared eyes fill with tears. "She is my mother," he interpolates, and