The labour of the prison consists, in the first place, of all the domestic work of the establishment, its cleansing, painting and repairs, its cooking, and the manufacture of every article worn by the inmates; and secondly, of yarn spinning, weaving and making shirts for the little navy of Belgium,[25] and drawers for the soldiers, together with other similar articles suited for public sale. Prisoners who have learned no trade, are permitted to make their choice, and are taught one. The cleanliness of every corner is really incredible, and such are its effects upon the health of the inmates, that the deaths, on an average, do not exceed, annually, one in a hundred. After paying all its expenses of every description, the profits of the labour done in the prison leaves a surplus to the government, annually, to an amount which I do not precisely remember, but which is something considerable. Amongst the prisoners, one very old man was pointed out to me, named Pierre Joseph Soëte, seventy-nine years of age, sixty-two of which he had spent within the walls of this sad abode. He was condemned, at the age of seventeen, for an atrocious offence; in a fit of jealousy, he had murdered a girl, to whom he was about to have been married, by tying her to a tree and strangling her. He entered the jail when a boy, and had grown to manhood and old age within its melancholy walls; and the tenor of his life, I was told, had been uniformly mild and inoffensive. Five years since, the father of our friend, Count D’Hane, who was then Governor of Ghent, had represented the story to King Leopold, and the unfortunate old man was set at liberty; but in a few weeks, he presented himself at the door of the prison, and begged to be permitted to enter it again, and to die there as he had lived. I asked him why he had taken this extraordinary resolution, and he told me that the world had nothing to detain him; he had no longer a relative or a living face within it that he knew; he had no home, no means of support, no handicraft by which to earn it, and no strength to beg, what could he do, but return to the only familiar spot he knew, and the only one that had any charms for him! Poor creature! his extraordinary story, and his long life of expiation, rendered it impossible to remember or resent his early crime, and yet I could not look at such a singular being without a shudder.