I knew one good jail, in Michigan, that was very hard to break into. A man could beg with impunity at private houses or in the public streets without being arrested, and tramps had to resort to other methods to attain their ends. They would go boldly and take things from the doorways of shops, and would then, to their delight, be arrested, charged with petty larceny, and sentenced to from twenty to sixty days. They did not snatch the things and run, but deliberately took them under people's eyes. When they were in their much-coveted jail, they had nothing to do but play cards, smoke, read, eat and sleep. There was some difference between that place and the Old Prison at New Orleans. When I was arrested there, with six others, for sleeping in a freight car, we were all sentenced to thirty days. The judge--an old Southerner, who could never forgive the North for freeing the slaves without giving their owners some compensation--this old judge commented very severely and bitterly on our coming South, to live on its charity, instead of staying where we belonged. "We don't want you down here," he said; "but now that you are here, we will keep you for a time." Only niggers and the poorest white people were sent to this Old Prison, for there was a new place for the better-class prisoners. Indeed as there were no clothes supplied, there could not be any mistake as to the class of prisoners. No such a thing as a bath, no work, and no discipline. At night we were lodged in large cells that had a number of bunks in each, and we could not sleep for the cold. In the day we walked about in a large yard, several hundred prisoners. Some of the new prisoners, not yet tamed by cold and hunger, would laugh, sing, and dance, and fights were not unusual. Our food consisted of a small quantity of bread and some greasy water, almost starvation. The men that had been confined there for a month or more were like skeletons. The object seemed to be to keep us alive, and no more, so as to save the expense of burying us. A number of prisoners had gone simple of mind. There was one--a Chinaman--and no one seemed to know how long he had been there or what for, as he could not speak a word of English. I often think of the poor wretch--the most pathetic figure I have ever seen. When he was walking up and down the yard, he would suddenly come to a standstill and, in a very clear, high voice sing his grief like a bird. Every prisoner would be startled by this sudden and unexpected wail, and a dead silence would come, which before was all buzz. But, as can be expected, this effect would not last long, for some simple prisoner, as mad as the Chinaman himself, would begin to shout and laugh, and others would soon join him. Then the poor Chinaman would stop and, wrapping his loose garment about him, begin again his silent walk to and fro. In an hour or two after, the place would be again startled by that high, clear voice, and the same silence would come, and the