screw attached. On our right is the engineer's
office, at one end of which lies a magnificent
specimen of the fossil trees that abound in
the dirt-bed stratum. This tree-trunk measures
almost three feet across; and, when found,
was more than thirty feet in length. About
a hundred yards beyond the entrance gate a
broad ladder brings us up to the staging, or
Cage itself, where we at once get a more
enlarged notion of what is going on. A great
space, covered with workshops, lies close by,
just under the hill; and, among the workshops,
are large masses of dressed stone, upon which
the masons and stone-cutters are hard at
work. Up the hill to the right run the
inclines; the heavy four-wagon trains rattle
down them and flit by us, each with Prince
Albert or Prince Alfred puffing away behind,
and dashing them off rapidly to the far
end of the cage. A mile of this fine stagework
is complete, and one cannot do better
than start off and walk the mile. A good
railed passage is provided, leading between
two of the live broad-gauge roads which run
to the end of the inner breakwater abreast
over open rafters. The large blocks of
heaped stone, which at first underlie the
rafters, soon become dashed with surf, and
then give way entirely to the sea, which, if
the day be at all fresh, will give the visitor a
sprinkling. Six hundred yards from the
shore the inner breakwater ends in a noble
bastion-like head, rising, with smooth round
sides, some thirty feet above the waves. A
space of four hundred feet separates this
head from its partner, the precisely similar
work at the end of the outer breakwater.
The staging at this point is carried out a
little to the right (not passing over the heads,
but swerving slightly from them) and is narrowed
to three lines of road instead of five;
but, upon reaching the outer limb of the
work, the five lines immediately re-assemble,
and go on together all the rest of the way.
This intervening piece of three-line staging
is the perfect part of the whole cage. Its
firm unyielding timbers will bear, almost
without vibration, the forty-eight tons of the
four loaded wagons, and the weight of the
engine, too. The case is far different as they
pass over the older timbers near the shore,
which are also unsupported by the iron rods
found further on, and over which the trains
dance up and down as they pass, and seem to
hover about the extremest limit of safe
passage.

From the point where the five lines reassemble,
the whole course is free from interruption
to the further end. It is a scene of
bustle. Here, we pass a gang of men preparing
timber for the shores and brackets
that support the road-pieces; there, we see a
man running along the narrow footway of
the workmen—a single plank laid on each
side of the rails—as much at ease as if
a false step would not tumble him thirty feet
down into the sea, or, worse, upon the rugged
rubbly heap; which, now emerging from the
waves, indicates what the nature of this
outer arm is hereafter to be. The inner
breakwater is already being cased with
dressed stone; but the outer portion is to be
left—at least, according to the present estimate—
as a rough slope of rubble, which will
keep the sea out quite as well. Every two
or three minutes comes rumbling behind us a
train, with its four loaded wagons, each
wagon averaging twelve tons in weight. An
ordinary load consists of a large block in the
centre, some two or three feet in diameter,
around which are heaped fragments of
smaller sizes, the whole rising to a considerable
height in the wagon. It is a fine thing
to watch the tipping of the rubble through
the open rafters of the cage. Every wagon
has a dropping-floor, slanting downwards
from back to front, but with its iron-work
lighter and less massive in front than behind.
It is so contrived that a brakesman, with a
few blows of his hammer, knocks away the
check, and sets the floor free to drop; the
front drops at once, because, owing to its
greater depth, it is pressed by the greater
weight of stone; the whole mass tumbles
with a confused uproar upon the rubble-heap
below, and then the heavy iron-work behind
causes the floor at once to return to its
natural position, in which it is immediately
re-fastened. A puff or two of the engine
brings each wagon in succession over the
required spot; and, unless the large stone
should become jammed, the whole load is
tipped, and the empty train is on its way
back, in less than a minute. The jamming,
when it happens, is an awkward business,
and men are sometimes at work for hours
with picks and crowbars before some obstinate
mass will slip between the iron sides.
Such accidents are almost always the result
of careless packing on the part of the convicts
at the top of the inclines: the process
being, indeed, one that demands not a little
art and skill. When the rubble embankment
was still below the surface, the effect of
the tipping was greatly heightened by the
fine hollow roar of the great plunge into the
water, and by the column of spray that was
dashed high into the air.

As you come near the present limit of the
works, poles may be seen stuck upright and
painted in plain black and white, which indicate
the precise direction to be taken by the
remainder of the work; and the eye, following
the line of sight, will rest upon the hills
on the coast of Weymouth Bay, just at the
point where a colossal figure of George the
Third on horseback has been scooped out in
the chalk. Standing upon the pathway over
the last tier of piles, and looking down, we
may observe a weather-beaten old man in a
boat. His boat is moored to one of the piles,
and his duty is to keep watch, and be ready
for action in the event of anything or anybody
falling over. There he sits chewing his