It was nearly daylight when I was thrust into jail.  There were no cells, only large rooms for a dozen or more men, and I was put, into one of these with several prisoners who were awaiting trial, or who had been tried and were there till they could be sent to prison.  It was a day or two before I found out what I was there for.  Then a Dutch Deputy Sheriff, who was also keeper of the jail, came and told me that I was held for bigamy, adding the consoling intelligence that it would be a very hard job for me, and that I would get five or six years in State prison sure.  I was well acquainted in Easton, and I sent for lawyer Litgreave for assistance and advice.  I sent also to my half-sister in Delaware County, N. Y., and in a day or two she came and saw me, and gave Mr. Litgreave one hundred dollars retaining fee.  My lawyer went to see the Scheimers and when he returned he told me that he hoped to save me from State prison-at all events he would exercise the influence he had over the family to that end; but I must expect to remain in jail a long time.  Precisely what this meant I did not know then; but I found out afterwards.

Soon after this visit from the lawyer, the Deputy Sheriff came in and said that he was ordered “by the Judge” to iron me, and it was done.  They were heavy leg-irons weighing full twelve pounds, and I may say here that I wore them during the whole term of my imprisonment in this jail, or rather they wore me—­wearing their way in time almost into the bone.  I had been here a week now, and was well acquainted with the character of the place.  It was indescribably filthy; no pretence was made of cleansing it.  The prisoners were half fed, and, at that, the food was oftentimes so vile that starving men rejected it.  The deputy who kept the jail was cruel and malignant, and took delight in torturing his prisoners.  He would come in sometimes under pretence of looking at my irons to see if they were safe, and would twist and turn them about so that I suffered intolerable pain, and blood flowed from my wounds made by these cruel irons.  Such abuse as he could give with his tongue he dispensed freely.  Of course he was a coward, and he never dared to come into one of the prisoner’s rooms unless he was armed.  This is a faithful photograph of the interior of the jail at Easton, Penn., as it was a few years ago; there may have been some improvement since that time; for the sake of humanity, I hope there has been.

After I had been in this jail about six weeks, and had become well acquainted with my room-mates, I communicated to them one day, the result of my observation: 

“There,” said I, showing them a certain place in the wall, “is a loose stone that with a little labor can be lifted out, and it will leave a hole large enough for us to get out of and go where we like.”