About Christmas 1816, or January 1817, Mrs. Fry commenced her leviathan
task in good earnest. The world had been full of startling events since
her first two or three tentative visits to Newgate; so startling were
they, that even in the refined and sedate quietude of Quakerism there
must have existed intense interest, excitement, and possibly fear. We
know from Isaac Taylor's prolific pen, how absorbing was the idea of
invasion by the French, how real a terror was Bonaparte, and how full of
menace the political horizon appeared. Empires were rising and falling,
wars and tumults were the normal condition of society; the Continent was
in a state of agitation and warfare. Napoleon, the prisoner of Elba, had
returned to Europe, collected an army, and, contesting at Waterloo the
strength of England and Prussia, had fallen. He was now watched and
guarded at St. Helena, while the civilized world began to breathe
freely. The mushroom kingdoms which he had set up were fast tottering,
or had fallen, while the older dynasties of Europe were feeling once
more secure, because the man who hesitated not to sacrifice vast myriads
of human lives to accomplish his own aggrandizement, was now bound, and,
like a tiger in chains, could do nought save growl impotently.

Meanwhile the tide of prison-life went on, without much variation.
Newgate horrors still continued; the gallows-crop never failed; and the
few Acts of Parliament designed to ameliorate the condition of the
prisoners in the jails had almost become dead letters. In 1815 a
deputation of the Jail Committee of the Corporation of London visited
several jails in order to examine into their condition, and to introduce
a little improvement, if possible, into those under their care. This
step led to some alterations; the sexes were separated, and the women
were provided with mats to sleep upon. Visitors were restrained from
having much communication with the prisoners, a double row of gratings
being placed between the criminals and those who came to see them.