There is a horrible practice in England to trick out in ridiculous uniforms, and as it were to brand in mass, not only convicts but military prisoners, and even the children in charity schools.

I think some malignant genius had found his masterpiece of irony in the dress which we were condemned to wear: jacket, waistcoat, and trousers of a sulphur or mustard yellow, and a shirt or blue-and-white striped cotton.

It was conspicuous, it was cheap, it pointed us out to laughter--we, who were old soldiers, used to arms, and some of us showing noble scars,--like a set of lugubrious zanies at a fair.

The old name of that rock on which our prison stood was (I have heard since then) the _Painted Hill_.

Well, now it was all painted a bright yellow with our costumes; and the dress of the soldiers who guarded us being of course the essential British red rag, we made up together the elements of a lively picture of hell.