asked me, in a gin-and-water voice, what I was “in for,” and whether it was the “first” time.  I, however, ignored their delicate overtures towards sociability, and longed for daylight and its accompanying breakfast.  The hour’s exercise eventually passed by, and I returned to my den, where shortly afterwards my breakfast appeared.  This came from the eating-house over the way, and a nastier, colder, or more revolting conglomeration of roll sliced and buttered, a fried egg, and a piece of bacon that must have spent the night in a rat-trap, and a pint of chicory in a yellow jug, I never saw.  I ventured to draw the warder’s attention to the proximity that existed between these various delicacies, but he explained that mine was only one of some seventy other breakfasts of “privileged” prisoners, and that they had been in the passage for over an hour.  Assuming, therefore, that my déjeûner had probably been sandwiched between a burglar’s tripe and onions and some other brother malefactor’s tea and shrimps, I held my breath and “laid on,” and was surprised what a hole I had made in all the good things in an incredibly short period.  But time (especially in Houses of Detention) waits for no man, and in a twinkling my breakfast things were removed, and a bell summoned us to chapel.  I now found myself in church, and after a ten minutes’ farce, which embraced every modern religious improvement—such as singing, a sermon, and a chaplain in a white surplice—we were again escorted back, and awaited the visit of the Governor.

The chaplain at the “House of Detention” was, I should say, rather a good sort; he and I had frequent conversations, and as he was the man who had once put a spoke into Bignell’s “Argyll” wheel, and as I was the humble instrument that had “smashed, defeated, and utterly pulverized” Barnabas Amos and his night-house, a bond of mutual interest at once sprang up between us as enemies of immorality in general, and Bignell and Amos in particular.  This reverend gentleman was, I should say, decidedly High Church; he wore all day (and for aught I know all night) a black skull-cap and gown, and possessing an enormous red beard, that came down to his waist, he invariably inspired me with much the same amount and sort of reverence that I entertain when contemplating stained-glass likenesses of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  His manner at first was a little pompous, especially when he was telling me of the sort of books he would permit and not permit me to order in; he was, however, despite these peculiarities, unmistakably a gentleman, both in manner and appearance—two qualifications I subsequently discovered were sadly deficient in more than one of his species.  And now the door was opened with a terrific bang, and I was told by a turnkey with bated breath and evidently suffering from excessive mental excitement, that “the Governor” was coming round, and before I had time to shake myself together, and rise to receive him, the great man was in my cell.  Captain — was the beau ideal of a plunger, and had served many years in the K.D.G.’s.  He eventually exchanged from soldiering to “prisoning,” and had served his time as “Deputy” of Exeter and Cold Bath Fields prisons.  I was told at this latter retreat that he was in those days excessively zealous in the matter of dust, and that his great height enabled him to extract infinitesimal atoms of this irrepressible commodity from shelves and ventilators that men more of the “Zachæus” type would never have noticed.  Like most men, however, time had blunted his zeal for these trifles, and when I saw him he had grown out of these absurdities of his novitiate, and appeared as one who had an unpleasant duty to perform, and who was anxious to do it as pleasantly as possible.  He accosted me as one might expect a gentleman would, and asked me if there was anything he could do to ameliorate my condition?  I mentioned certain things, and he at once gave the necessary orders for my being permitted newspapers, pen, ink, and paper, my gas at night, and exemption from chapel and exercise.  All this brought it to near twelve o’clock, when dinners commenced being “served;” and without detailing all the horrors I ate, suffice it to say that another plateful of offal, such as a hyæna would jib at, duly made its appearance, and was as duly demolished, more or less.  The first day in this terrible place is perhaps more awful than any subsequent one; for, irrespective of the novelty of the situation and not having “settled down,” it must be taken into consideration that one has barely had time to communicate with friends and solicitors, and thus the day passes wearily away, affording ample time for reflection and the realisation of the fact that one may be in the heart of London and yet as far away from friends and relatives as if in the middle of the Desert of Sahara.  The above sketch will pretty accurately convey an idea of a day’s routine in the House of Detention, excepting perhaps a visit from a friend daily, a restriction that is as iniquitous as it is illogical, and which I trust the authorities will consider worthy of alteration.  Visits from solicitors constitute another feature of this existence.  Visits from friends are made as uncomfortable as can well be conceived; the drop window in the cell door, 12 inches by 8, and carefully covered with zinc netting, is opened, and with the visitor on the one side in the cold and dark passage, and the prisoner on the other in his cell, it is really difficult to hear all that is said, for the echo and shouting that is going on throughout requires a very practised ear to catch the muffled sounds.  If any reader has ever put his head into a sack (which I haven’t) and tried to talk, or heard the ghost speak at a transpontine theatre, some idea of the extraordinary hollow change in the voice may be imagined.  A more inconsiderate system could hardly be adopted, and absolutely debars respectable persons from submitting to the ordeal entailed by such visits.  The visits of solicitors are, however, far better managed, and permitted with a degree of comfort that quite surprised me.  A private room is placed at your disposal, where you can say (and, as I found, do) pretty much what you please without let or hindrance; and beyond having a badge temporarily placed on your arm to indicate the number of your cell, and having the door carefully locked, you might fancy yourself having a tête-à-tête on a rainy day in the second class refreshment-room of the Crystal Palace.  Only two unusual circumstances occurred to vary the monotony of my daily life; the one was the being served with a writ by a foolish tailor in Pall Mall, or rather his executors, for poor old Morris had long since paid the penalty of affluence and good feeding.  That any men of the world, such as I supposed them to be, should have lent themselves to anything so childish as to serve a man with a “writ” who was awaiting his trial on a charge that might involve a seclusion “for years or may be for ever” passes my comprehension.  I often felt I owed an apology to the unhappy deputy of these irrepressible snips, for he must have found it cold and very miserable whilst awaiting my arrival in that cheerless corridor, and I registered a vow, when the opportunity occurred, to express my regret for the scant comfort and apparent want of courtesy he received at my hands; but I was the victim of cruel circumstances over which I had no control.  Another event that intruded itself on the even tenor of