in writing, talking, smoking and walking, whilst the clank of chains, the shouts of prisoners and the constant din of a disorderly establishment, add to the disgusting sounds and demeanor within.
Passing through several iron and wood barred gates, you enter a lofty corridor, running around a quadrangular court-yard, in the centre of which, below, is a fountain of troubled water. The whole of this area is filled with human beings,—the great congress of Mexican crime,—mixed and mingling, like a hill of busy ants swarming from their sandy caverns. Some are stripped and bathing in the fountain;—some are fighting in a corner;—some making baskets in another. In one place a crowd is gathered around a witty story-teller, relating the adventures of his rascally life. In another, a group is engaged in weaving with a handloom. Robbers, murderers, thieves, ravishers, felons of every description, and vagabonds of every grade or aspect, are crammed within this dismal court-yard; and, almost free from discipline or moral restraint, form, perhaps, the most splendid school of misdemeanor and villany on the American continent.