about two hundred yards each way. The walls,
garnished with towers, are thirty feet high. I
is impossible to imagine an edifice whose
external architectural arrangements give a more
exact idea of its peculiar purpose, or which
culd better prepare the mind for the impressions
it is to receive within.

The plan of the interior is this: A central
circular building, called the Observatory, has
eight openings, each of which corresponds with
a gallery. One of these corridors or galleries
leads to the offices belonging to the establishment,
the officers' lodgings, the kitchens, store
rooms, &c. The other seven correspond to so
many oblong wings, in each of which the
prisoners' cells are placed right and left along a
central passage, which is itself only a continuation
of the corridor. The ground plan would be
exactly represented by a windmill furnished with
eight sails. From the centre of the Observatory,
the governor, by making a complete revolution
on his own axis, can embrace at a glance all that
is passing. The penitentiary contains in all five
hundred and sixty cells. Those on the grounc
floor open into walled-in gardens of eight or ten
yards square. Such are the material arrangements.

The penal system is based upon seclusion by
night and by day, with compulsory labour; a
quarter of an hour per day being allowed each
prisoner for conversation with his keeper, with
the governor, or with charitable men who come
to the prison, out of pure philanthropy, to
perform the functions of chaplain and schoolmaster.
Note that this quarter of an hour's conversation
is the essential and capital point; suppress it,
and the prisoner goes mad or dies. At Pittsburg,
they tried a cellular system without the
quarter of an hour's grace, and were obliged to
give it up.

The man who holds no communication with
his fellows, manifests symptoms, little by little,
of a decided tendency to insanity, which is almost
certain when the seclusion is absolute; and is
developed, in all cases, in proportion to the
obstacles placed between the imprisoned mind
and the outer world. The philosophers and
economists of Europe and America lost no time
in discussing the question. In Pennsylvania, it
is hard to say why, it was debated both more
profoundly and more passionately than
elsewhere, and made the subject of more frequent
experiment. Two grand systems—those of
Auburn and Cherry Hill—still remain standing
face to face. At Auburn, the prisoners are
secluded only by night. By day, they labour
together in common workshops, but on condition
of absolute silence. Now, it is found that
nothing short of the whip will prevent the
prisoners from communicating with each other
by signs or a stolen interchange of words. The
keeper therefore walks about the room armed with
the repressive instrument, punishing the culprit
instantly a fault is committed, exactly as a huntsman
keeps his pack in order by liberal infliction
of the lash. Where this form of discipline is
employed, the prisoners preserve their reason;
the sight of their fellow-creatures, even without
verbal intercourse, suffices to maintain their
intellectual faculties in equilibrium. Moreover,
their health is good, and they perform useful and
profitable labour. On the other hand, their
morals improve but slightly, or not at all. The
reason is plain. The basis of human morality is
the sentiment of personal dignity; how can it
be acquired, or regained after being lost, under
the incessant and degrading action of the whip?

In the state of Pennsylvania, a criminal cannot
be condemned to more than twelve years
of cellular imprisonment. But the governor of
the prison informed the prince that five years
was the very most that a prisoner could bear.
In fact, madness is always hovering over those
sad retreats of silence and solitude, stooping
sometimes on one and sometimes on another,
and frightening even those who are not yet
struck, by the shadow of its murky wing.

The tourists swept over the distance which
separates Philadelphia from Washington at the
rate of thirty miles an hour. They crossed arms
of the sea with fearful rapidity on a couple of
rails which looked like mere wires suspended
over the abyss; they glided at full steam—they,
their locomotive, and their carnages—upon the
roof of an immense edifice, whose lower stories
were occupied by an unknown and unseen
population. Then, they felt the edifice move, and
discovered that they were on the top of a
steamer, on board which the train was taken, as
a bale of cotton might be on an ordinary vessel.

The day after his arrival, the prince went to
White House, to visit the president of the
republic. The official residence of the first
magistrate of the United States is a handsome palace
situated in the most retired quarter of
Washington, and surrounded by a beautiful garden.
When the prince and Baron Mercier got out of
their carriage, at the foot of a magnificent flight
of marble steps, there was nobody, neither
servant nor porter, to receive them or even to open
the door. Some chance passing messenger
fulfilled the task.

The saloon into which the prince was shown
is a magnificent room, covered with gilding;
the furniture is rich, but of questionable taste.
The party were kept waiting a quarter of an
hour, and there were symptoms that the prince's
impatience would cause him to make a sudden
retreat, when there appeared a little man, in a
straw hat, a grey frock coat, and no cravat, or a
cravat so small as not to be worth mentioning.
With a gay and active step he approached Baron
Mercier, who, after a friendly shake of the hand,
presented Mr. Seward, Minister of Foreign
Affairs of the United States.

Mr. Seward may be forty-eight or fifty; his
lair, a little in disorder, is light mingled with
grey; his eyes, deep sunk beneath his eyebrows,
are small, bat very sharp; his aquiline nose
presents a very decided curve; his whole countenance
reveals cleverness and intellect. He is
an excellent companion, very merry, very lively,
and familiar from the first shake of the hand,
his manners are so free and easy, that they