look or dejected mien of a convict, often displayed itself in the shape of a paper of tobacco—a great luxury-or a bit of gingerbread secretly conveyed to some object of our pity.

In the course of a pleasant journey to the west, during the past summer, we were delayed a few hours at Auburn, and it was suggested by some of our party that we should visit the lion of the place, the State Prison. I had never been within the walls of a prison since I was a very little girl, and, strange to say, my recollections of "durance vile" were pleasurable ones. The old State Prison then stood in the very heart of the straggling and unpicturesque village of Greenwich, since swallowed up by the expanding jaws of the city of New York, to which it now forms a suburb. My father was physician to the establishment, and this, together with the fact that the keeper's children were my schoolfellows, afforded me ready access to the prison. I remember well the cross visage of the porter as he used to crawl out of his little lodge with the enormous key which was to open the ponderous gate for a merry child. Directly within this gate was a paved court, as clean as a drawing-room, and always full of sunshine. On the right hand of the court, a high picket fence separated it from the working-ground, or yard, as it was called; while on the left, a similar barrier shut off a garden, which, to my inexperienced eye, seemed a perfect paradise. It was a great privilege to be allowed admission into the garden, and I recollect how carefully I used to draw my dress around me, and tread on tiptoe between the beds of blooming flowers, lest I should mar their beauty.

When I visited the workshops, which I frequently did with my young companions, every thing wore to me an appearance of contented industry, for I saw but little difference between the labourer in the prison and the workman in the factory, except that the felon was best provided with clothes and food. Their tables were spread with every attention to cleanliness and comfort; their huge bits of boiled beef and wholesome rye bread looked to me then even inviting, and upon the whole, the punishment of imprisonment did not seem so very terrible. The servants of the house, the cooks and waiters, the gardeners and sempstresses, all were felons, and as they travelled to and fro with cheerful faces, to my view seemed quite regardless of the wall which arose between them and the rest of the world. No child, as young as I then was, can be made to comprehend fully the philosophy of crime and its consequences. We cared very little about the justice which condemned these people to punishment. We could not read the characters which guilt had stamped upon their scared brows, and our sympathy, ever excited by the melancholy

With these recollections thronging around my mind, I felt some curiosity to learn what would be my present impressions from a visit to such a place, and we accordingly set off to behold Auburn Prison. We arrived there a few minutes before twelve o'clock, and the only thing that struck me as we passed rapidly through a few of the wards, was the sullen, ferocious expression of countenance which every one As we proceeded through the cooperage, I felt my blood chill as we approached a deformed negro, who, with a sharp axe in his hand, was busted in preparing staves. As our party passed by, he raised his crooked body, and glared after each with a malig. nity and savageness that seemed almost demoniacal.

wore.

But we had scarcely time to notice any thing when we were summoned into the court, to see the convicts go to dinner. At that time there were only eight women in the prison, and those we did not see, but never shall I forget the appearance of those wretched felons. Six hundred men of all ages, from the scarcely-bearded boy to the hoary-headed sinner of threescore, their arms folded on their breasts, their faces turned towards their jailer, marched in single file and with locked steps across that immense square, the solemn tramp of their heavy feet alone breaking the breathless silence of the place. I shuddered as I looked and listened, for it required but little effort of imagination to fancy it a triumphal procession in honour of the great Principle of Evil. It was indeed a fearful testimony to the degradation of human nature. Here were men of stalwart courage-of herculean strength-of consummate artifice-men of blood even-and yet all were subjected, like so many helpless children, to the bidding of one feeble being whom they could have crushed like a worm in their path. It was a terrible picture of the effects of sin, for it exhibited the utter crushing of the intellectual and physical nature-the total prostration beneath brute force of the body made in God's image and the soul which is the breath of his nostrils.

When all were seated at table, the sight was even more painful. The privilege of speech-a blessing so common as scarcely to be valued-is denied to those guilty men; a stillness like that to which the Trappists condemn themselves for their souls' sake, reigns ever in that place, and when I beheld them silently devouring their coarse food with a fierce and ravenous appetite, I almost fancied that the old fable of the "Loup Garoux," was realized in our own times, and that the evil one had converted those wretched beings into wolf-men. Not one face did I see which bore the impress of penitence or resignation. Stolid ferocity, leering impudence, bitter malignity, watchful revenge, or dark hatred, might be read in every countenance. I felt my very heart grow sick as I looked on this vast assemblage of the outcasts of society, and

I gladly hurried from the close and stifling atmosphere of that gloomy room, into the blessed light and breath of heaven.

As we returned to the hotel the conversation naturally reverted to the scene we had just witnessed, and we had quite a discussion as to the propriety of such visits, as well as their probable effects upon the prisoners. Man rarely becomes utterly debased by one act of criminality. The guilt which he is condemned to expiate in confinement, may not have deprived him of all sense of shame, but by being thus subjected to the gaze of impertinent curiosity he loses the little self-respect which he has retained in the midst of crime, and is thus deprived of an incentive, stronger than all others in an unregenerate heart, to return to a virtuous course of life. The biting jest, the keen sarcasm, the witless triumph of many who come to behold the consequences of error, can excite no other feeling than that of impotent rage in the breast of him who was not "strong to resist temptation;" and in most cases will only stimulate him to become an Ismael of the world's great wilderness, turning his hand against every man, even as every man's hand is against him.

As an illustration of the untameable spirit of pride which may exist in the breast of a convict, one of our party related the following story. I will endeavour to give it in his own words, though I can do little justice to the graphic style of the speaker.

"My duties as physician to the New York State Prison, brought me into daily contact with many of its inmates for several years, and I could narrate innumerable instances of the pride and even nobleness of sentiment which may often be found in the midst of crime. The fanciful philosopher of olden times, who suggested the fantastic idea that the body of man was inhabited by two natures, one evil, the other good, and that the crimes and virtues of every one were in proportion to the advantage gained by the two principles which were constantly struggling within him, might there have found most plausible reasons for his theory. I remember one example of perseverance and indomitable resolution which if exercised in the cause of virtue would have made their possessor a hero.

Early in the spring of 18-, a young man named Bradshaw, was sentenced to prison for horse-stealing. I happened to be in the keeper's room when he was brought in to be registered, and I was immediately struck with his appearance. He was just twenty-two years of age, with a ruddy complexion, embrowned by toil, a clear blue eye, and a robust figure; presenting, in short, one of the finest specimens of the American farmer that had ever met my notice. I was particularly attracted by the evidences of vigorous health which were apparent in his whole person, and could almost have envied him as I contrasted my feebler frame with his muscular form. Feeling some curiosity respecting one who was certainly no hardened sinner, I endeavoured to enter into conversation with him, but was immediately repulsed by his sullen manner. Contrary to the practice of condemned felons, who are generally quite ready to enter into details of the conspiracy which doomed them to become innocent inmates of a prison, Bradshaw refused to give any account of himself, and stood perfectly silent except when obliged to reply to the necessary questions of the keeper. His conduct might have been the effect of a consciousness of guilt, or

of a sense of injured innocence, but which it really was, would have puzzled the acuteness of a German philosopher to discover.

"He had been but a short time in prison when for some act of insubordination he was sentenced to wear a block and chain on his leg-a punishment usually inflicted for first offences, and which also involved the necessity of dining in Hall Eight, as it was called, on bread and water. He wore his badge of disgrace one day, but on the following morning as he passed through the yard on his way to dinner, he took up an axe and split the block in two pieces. This conduct was, of course, reported to the chief authorities of the prison, and his block was exchanged for a fifty-six pound weight. It was impossible for him to remove this clog to his steps, he was compelled to drag his weight of punishment until his sullen and vindictive temper was aroused almost to frenzy. He determined on some signal act of revenge which should satisfy his angry feelings, and, as he was at that time employed in the weaver's shop, he soon found means to effect his object. Watching his opportunity, he secreted himself behind the door while his companions, together with the keeper, passed out to the hall appropriated to their meals. No sooner did he find himself alone, than, seizing a knife, he cut through every boom in the shop. Now, if you recollect that the boom is the frame upon which the finished web is rolled, and that, by cutting it through, every piece is divided into bits of about half a yard in length, you will understand the extent of the damage effected by Bradshaw. Several hundred yards of cloth were utterly destroyed, and, far from attempting to conceal his agency in the mischief, he boldly avowed his determination to continue such a course of conduct as long as he was detained in prison. He was immediately sent to the cells, where, confined in a small, dimly-lighted apartment, without employment, and with no other food than bread and water, he continued for five months. During all this time his manner was still the same. He never attempted to exchange a word with those who brought his supply of daily sustenance, his bible was thrown unheeded on the floor, and he seemed totally regardless of his lonely and wearisome condition.

"If there be a punishment which exceeds the powers of human endurance, methinks it is solitary confinement. Shut up in a darksome cell, cut off from all intercourse with his fellow beings, forbidden the exercise of industry-that only sure source of contentment-the physical privations of the criminal are the least of his sufferings. The constrained idleness to which he is condemned leaves free scope to the workings of the uncontrollable mind. He quaffs the cup of wormwood and gall which memory presents to his polluted lips, until the fountains of tenderness, which sprang up within his heart while he yet lay on his mother's bosom, become like the waters of Marah, diffusing unmingled bitterness. He writhes beneath the scorpion stings of remorse until, like the penitents of darker ages, he becomes callous to the scourge. The narrow limits of his cell are peopled with images of horror. His waking hours are as dream-like as those of deep midnight, for the incubus of a guilty conscience sits heavy on his breast and he is either maddened by its horrors or familiarized to its reproaches. Yes! Solitary imprisonment is indeed a fearful doom. Either reason sinks beneath its tortures or else the demons which lie in