is a dreadful place of
durance. It is situated on one of the mountainous streets in the
Portuguese metropolis, and was formerly the archbishop's palace. A vast
proportion of the crimes committed in the city are plotted between the
persons confined within, and those without, the prison; for there is
nothing to prevent constant communication with the street through the
double iron-bars, so that an unchecked and unobserved intercourse is
maintained, much to the furtherance of crime. Through these bars all
sorts of food, liquors, raiment, weapons, &c. can be conveyed from the
street; and, indeed, through these bars the meals of the prisoners are
served. The prison is capable of containing about 700 people; the usual
number, however, is 400. The state of the apartments in which the
criminals pass their time is truly distressing. The stench is
overpowering; and though visitors remain in the rooms only a few
minutes, they often retire seriously indisposed. The expense of
maintaining the prisoners is 8,000 cruzados, or about 1,000_l_. per
annum. Of this sum, one-half is paid by the city, and the other by the
_Misericordia_, a benevolent association, possessing large funds from
various bequeathed estates. Nevertheless, the food appears insufficient;
it consists chiefly of a soup made of rice. The allowance of bread is
one pound and a half per day for four persons.

G.W.N.

* * * * *

ADDRESSED TO MISS STREET.

(_For the Mirror._)

In London's variegated streets
The eye, whatever pleases, meets;
For like another Street, I know,
Those Streets each day more charming grow.

As if by magic's changeful wand,
Taste, beauty, order, strength combine;
And shew a mighty master's hand
In every graceful curve and line.

But meaner temples strive in vain
Perfection's envied height to gain;
For in our matchless Street alone,
The charm of perfect beauty's known.

How blest, if at that living shrine,
With deepest feeling, warm and true,
The nameless happiness were mine,
To bend in form--and spirit too.

But no--though in my ardent breast,
The fires of love must ever rise,
Th' adverse circles of my fate,
Forbid the outward sacrifice.

My spirit breathes its inmost breath,
In this my first--my last confession:--
The passion will survive till death,
But never more can know expression.

W.

* * * * *