Every morning at nine a curate read prayers at the prisoners.  The curate stood well outside the grating; while all the time from inside loud cries of advice were given and sundry remarks tendered him concerning his personal appearance.  The frightful hilarity of the mob saved these wretches from despair.  But the curate did his duty:  he who has ears to hear let him hear.  Waiting in the harbor were ships loading their freight of sin, crime and woe for Botany Bay; at Tyburn every week women were hanged.  Three hundred offenses were punishable with death; but, as in the West, where horse-stealing is the supreme offense, most of the hangings were for smuggling, forgery or shoplifting.  England being a nation of shopkeepers could not forgive offenses that might injure a haberdasher.

Little Mrs. Fry, in the plainest of Quaker gray dress, with bonnet to match, stood outside Newgate and heard the curate read prayers.  She resolved to ask the Governor of the prison if she might herself perform the office.  The Governor was polite, but stated there was no precedent for such an important move—­he must have time to consider.  Mrs. Fry called again, and permission was granted, with strict orders that she must not attempt to proselyte, and, further, she had better not get too near the grating.

Mrs. Fry gave the great man a bit of fright by quietly explaining thus:  “Sir, if thee kindly allows me to pray with the women, I will go inside.”

The Governor asked her to say it again.  She did so, and a bright thought came to the great man:  he would grant her request, writing an order that she be allowed to go inside the prison whenever she desired.  It would teach her a lesson and save him from further importunity.

So little Mrs. Fry presented the order, and the gates were swung open and the iron quickly snapped behind her.  She spoke to the women, addressing the one who seemed to be leader as sister, and asked the others to follow her back into the courtway away from the sound of the street, so they could have prayers.  They followed dumbly.  She knelt on the stone pavement and prayed in silence.  Then she arose and read to them the One Hundred Seventh Psalm.  Again she prayed, asking the others to kneel with her.  A dozen knelt.  She arose and went her way amid a hush of solemn silence.

Next day, when she came again, the ribaldry ceased on her approach, and after the religious service she remained inside the walls an hour conversing with those who wished to talk with her, going to all the children that were sick and ministering to them.

In a week she called all together and proposed starting a school for the children.  The mothers entered into the project gladly.  A governess, imprisoned for theft, was elected teacher.  A cell-room was cleaned out, whitewashed, and set apart for a schoolroom, with the permission of the Governor, who granted the request, explaining, however, that there was no precedent for such a thing.  The school prospered, and outside the schoolroom door hungry-eyed women listened furtively for scraps of knowledge that might be tossed overboard.