Mrs. Fry next organized classes for these older children, gray-haired, bowed with sin—­many of them.  There were twelve in each class, and they elected a monitor from their numbers, agreeing to obey her.  Mrs. Fry brought cloth from her husband’s store, and the women were taught to sew.  The Governor insisted that there was no precedent for it, and the guards on the walls said that every scrap of cloth would be stolen, but the guards were wrong.

The day was divided up into regular hours for work and recreation.  Other good Quaker women from outside came in to help; and the taproom kept by a mercenary guard was done away with, and an order established that no spirituous liquors should be brought into Newgate.  The women agreed to keep away from the grating on the street, except when personal friends came; to cease begging; to quit gambling.  They were given pay for their labor.  A woman was asked for as turnkey, instead of a man.  All guards were to be taken from the walls that overlooked the women’s department.  The women were to be given mats to sleep on, and blankets to cover them when the weather was cold.  The Governor was astonished!  He called a council of the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen.  They visited the prison, and found for the first time that order had come out of chaos at Newgate.

Mrs. Fry’s requests were granted, and this little woman awoke one morning to find herself famous.

From Newgate she turned her attention to other prisons; she traveled throughout England, Scotland and Ireland, visiting prisons and asylums.  She became well feared by those in authority, for her firm and gentle glance went straight to every abuse.  Often she was airily turned away by some official clothed in a little brief authority, but the man usually lived to know his mistake.

She was invited by the French Government to visit the prisons of Paris and write a report, giving suggestions as to what reforms should be made.  She went to Belgium, Holland and Germany, being received by kings and queens and prime ministers—­as costume, her plain gray dress always sufficing.  She treated royalty and unfortunates alike—­simply as equals.  She kept constantly in her mind the thought that all men are sinners before God:  there are no rich, no poor; no high, no low; no bond, no free.  Conditions are transient, and boldly did she say to the King of France that he should build prisons with the idea of reformation, not revenge, and with the thought ever before him that he himself or his children might occupy these cells—­so vain are human ambitions.  To Sir Robert Peel and his Cabinet she read the story concerning the gallows built by Haman.  “Thee must not shut out the sky from the prisoner; thee must build no dark cells—­thy children may occupy them,” she said.