ALEXANDER WILSON. lxxxi 



their eyes as I passed, with symptoms of eager and inquisitive 

 curiosity. After fixing my quarters, disposing of my arms, and 

 burnishing myself a little, I walked out to have a more particular 

 view of the place. 



" This little metropolis of the western country is nearly as large 

 as Lancaster, in Pennsylvania. In the centre of the town is a public 

 square, partly occupied by the court-house and market-place, and 

 distinguished by the additional ornament of the pillory and stocks. 

 The former of these is so constructed as to serve well enough, if 

 need be, occasionally for a gallows, which is not a bad thought ; for 

 as nothing contributes more to make hardened villains than the 

 pillory, so nothing so effectually rids society of them as the gallows ; 

 and every knave may here exclaim, 



' My bane and antidote are both before me.' 



I peeped into the court-house as I passed ; and, though it was 

 court day, I was struck with the appearance its interior exhibited ; 

 for, though only a plain, square, brick building, it has all the gloom 

 of the Gothic, so much admired of late by our modern architects. 

 The exterior walls having, on experiment, been found too feeble for 

 the superincumbent honours of the roof and steeple, it was found 

 necessary to erect, from the floor a number of large, circular, and 

 unplastered brick pillars, in a new order of architecture (the thick 

 end uppermost), which, while they serve to impress the spectators 

 with the perpetual dread that they will tumble about their ears, 

 contribute also, by their number and bulk, to shut out the light, 

 and to spread around a reverential gloom, producing a melancholy 

 and chilling effect, — a very good disposition of mind, certainly, for 

 a man to enter a court of justice in. One or two solitary individuals 

 stole along the damp and silent floor ; and I could just descry, 

 elevated at the opposite extremity of the building, the judges 

 sitting like spiders in a window corner, dimly distinguishable 

 through the intermediate gloom. The market-place, which stands 

 a little to the westward of this, stretches over the whole breadth 

 of the square ; is built of brick, something like that of Philadelphia, 

 but is unpaved and unfinished. In wet weather, you sink over the 

 shoes in mud at every step ; and here, again, the wisdom of the 

 police is manifest, — nobody, at such times, will wade in there unless 



