get at the Prison is no easy work. The Captain of the steamer
will tell you, you must take a trap the moment you get on shore, but Jehu
will ask you so long a price as to put all idea of riding quite out of
the question. The people on the island will give you but little
information, and that of rather a contradictory character. Undoubtedly
the better plan is to trust to your own sense and legs. On our way we
met an officer of the Royal Navy--a captain, we imagine. Before us, at a
little distance, was what we took to be the prison, but we were not sure
of the fact, and accordingly asked the gallant officer. We trust he was
not a type of the service. He did not know what that building was before
him: he did not know whether there was a prison there; and then he
finished by asking us if we were one of the officials. If the French do
come, let us hope Her Majesty's fleet will have more acute officers than
our gallant acquaintance! We arrived at the principal entrance,
notwithstanding the non-success of our queries with the brave marine, at
a quarter to one. Before we enter, let us look around. What a place for
a man to get braced up in! What a jolly thing it would be for many a
London Alderman could he come here for a few months. Just below is the
prison, clean, snug, and warm. At our feet is the stupendous Breakwater,
within which lie, as we trust they may ever lie, idle and secure, some of
the ships comprising the Channel Fleet. Here, stealing into the bay like
a bird with white wings, is a convict ship, coming to bear away to the
Bermudas some of the convicts now shut up within those stone walls. If
you look well at her through the glass you can see her live freight on
board, for she only calls here for some fifty or sixty,--who, however,
have no wish to leave Portland for harder work and a less healthy
climate. Beyond is Weymouth, and its comfortable hotels--its agreeable
promenade--and with, in summer time, its pleasant bathing. Right across
St. Albyn's Head, and on the other side the Dorset coast, and straight
across some eighty miles of the salt sea, is Cherbourg, with a breakwater
far more formidable than that above which we stand. It is a clear bright
sky above us, and in the light of the sun the scene is beautiful almost
as one of fairy land.

We ring the bell--hand in, through a window, our letter of
introduction--are ushered into a wooden cage in which the janitor
sits--enter our name in a boo