These strictures were taken in very bad part by some Neapolitan writers, who retorted with bitter denials and countercharges, expatiating upon the imperfections of the British penal system which inflicted the horrible punishment of the lash and had no reason to be proud of its prisons. The attack made no great impression, for the humane and intelligent management of the British prisons was too well known, and corporal punishment, indefensible no doubt, was but rarely administered. A better argument by way of denying the charges was to point to another Neapolitan prison, that of San Francisco, with which no great fault could be found. Nothing could better its position; it was well lighted, well ventilated, and it was kept perfectly clean,--a statement presently contradicted by the amazing admission that the Neapolitans did not mind a little dirt. Where so much diversity of opinion prevailed, more evidence of an independent kind must be brought to bear, and we may quote from another eye-witness who visited the Vicaria soon after Mr. Gladstone and whose account was strongly corroborative. This was written by another member of Parliament, Mr. Alexander Baillie-Cochrane, who was given full permission in 1851 to inspect the prisons of Naples, and published a book, “Young Italy,” in which he relates: “It is situated in the worst part of Naples, near the filthy, debauched quarter called the Porta Capuana. When we arrived there a sleety rain was falling and the outside, with its massive walls, triple bars and dirty aspect, conveyed most painful sensations of misery and wretchedness. From the upper stories, where the prisoners were confined for minor offences, they were leaning against the bars, their features distorted, indulging in foul and brutal observations. On entering we were met by the authorities, who at once proceeded to open those tiers of dungeons where, up to this time, no Englishman had ever penetrated. The large court into which we drove was surrounded by a portico, which must, at one time, have been handsome; but it all seemed to have caught the contagion of vice and infamy; it smelled of crime. The staircase was wide but reeking with dirt--a fitting approach to the apartments we were about to enter. At the top of the stairs a mob of tattered, decrepit, loathsome figures were collected; they were the relations of some of the prisoners, who were permitted to see them from time to time, and were admitted one by one through a small wicket, a man sitting at the desk and calling out their names; the man, wicket desk and all being in momentary danger of being carried away, from the struggles of the mob. It was with difficulty that the officers cleared a way for us; but at last the huge bars were withdrawn and we entered the outer room, which was separated from the long gallery in which the prisoners were confined by iron gates, to which they all pressed with eager curiosity: some of