Most travellers by the Great Northern Railway must have been struck with a feudal castle apparently, just what you might expect to see on the Rhine, but certainly not such a building as you would look for in the immediate vicinity of the Cattle Market and of Mr. Mark Wilks’s overflowing congregation. As you approach it, all around you are genteel villas and desirable residences; the neighbourhood has an air of comfort and respectability; the inhabitants seem substantial and well to do—in short, to belong to the upper strata of that middle class which in our land, at any rate since the last of the Barons fell on Barnet Common, has been a powerful influence for good in England and all over the world. You would scarce fancy that feudal castle, with its “jutty, frieze, and coigne of vantage,” was a jail, or that inside it there were shut up between three and four hundred rogues and vagabonds, old and young, male and female, who have outraged the laws of their country, and have been sent there, if possible, to receive punishment for their offences, and to learn to do better for the future. Yet such in reality is the case. You are standing outside the City House of Correction, which was built some few years ago at a cost of 100,000_l._ Into this place it is rare for good characters to obtain an admission. They may knock at the door, but it will not be opened unless they are furnished with an order from the Secretary of State, or one of the visiting magistrates, who are aldermen of London city.