prison presented itself, solid, immense, and gloomy, as though it were built of steel—­“Castle of Giant Despair.”  Its guarded gate was swung back, and all were marched into a paved courtyard, where their names were called over, and their irons removed.  Then each was stripped and searched, and another uniform substituted for that they had worn at Cross Key.  The old hands seemed to take a pride in knowing what was about to be done beforehand; in being recognized by the warders, though their greeting was but a contemptuous shrug; and in threading the windings of the stone labyrinths with an accustomed step.  Richard was ushered into a cell the exact counterpart of that he had lately inhabited; and yet he regarded it with the interest which one can not fail to feel in what is to be one’s home for years.

Home!  Frightful misnomer for that place, warm and well-ventilated as it was, and supplied with the latest products of civilization.  The gas was burning brightly; fresh cool water flowed at his will; at his touch a bell rang, and instantly, outside his door, an iron plate sprang out, and indicated to the warder in what cell his presence was required.  “How clean and comfortable!” says the introduced-by-special-order visitor, to his obsequious acquaintance the governor, on observing these admirable arrangements.  “How much better are these scoundrels cared for,” cries the unthinking public, “than are our honest poor!” It is not, however, that the convict is pampered; but for this unkindly care he would not be able to endure the punishment which justice has decreed for him.  Science has meted out to him each drop of gruel, each ounce of bread, each article of clothing, and each degree of warmth.  Not one of all the recipients of this cruel benevolence but would gladly have exchanged places with the shivering tramp or the work-house pauper.  To cower under the leafless branches of Bergen Wood, while the November night-blasts made them grind and clang, would have seemed paradise compared with that snug lodging; nay, the grave itself, with its dim dread Hereafter, has been preferred before it.

Life at Lingmoor was existence by machinery—­monotony that sometimes maddened as well as slew.  To read of it is to understand nothing of this.  The bald annals of the place reveal nothing of this terrible secret.

Richard rose at five at clang of bell, cleaned out his cell, and folded up his bed more neatly than did ever chamber-maid; at six was breakfast—­porridge, and forty minutes allowed for its enjoyment; then chapel and parade; then labor—­mat-making was his trade, at which he became a great proficient.  His fingers deftly worked, while his mind brooded.  At twelve was dinner—­bread and potatoes, with seventy minutes allowed for its digestion; then exercise in the yard, and mat-making again till six in summer, and four in winter; prayers, supper, school till eight; when the weary day was done.  On Sunday, except two hours of exercise and chapel, Richard was his own master, to brood as much as he would.  There were also no less than three holidays in the year, on which it has been whispered with horror that the convicts have pudding.  There was, however, no such excess at Lingmoor.