FRESH arrivals appear to come to this awful place at every hour of the day and night. The police courts belch forth their motley loads on an average about twice a day, and when the Sessions are “on,” prisoners arrive as late as nine and ten of a night, and the rumbling of “Black Marias,” the shouting of warders, the turning of keys, the slamming of doors, and a hundred other “regulations” that make night hideous, lead one to imagine oneself in a third-class hostelry alongside a railway station. The absence of clocks, too, that strike (for even they are on the silent system), combined with the primitive hour of retiring to rest, bewilders one in arriving at anything like an approximate idea of time between the bell at night and the bell at 6 A.M. After my first interview with Mr. Vaughan, and with the sound of his melodious voice still ringing in my ears, I found myself about 6 P.M. alighting from the police van inside a dismal courtyard. We had just passed through a massive gate, and had been “backed” on to the entrance of a long and uninviting-looking corridor, but beyond that I had not the faintest idea of where I was; and if I had been told that the House of Detention was situated in the centre aisle of the British Museum, I should not have been in a position to dispute it. As we stepped out, carefully assisted by an official actuated apparently rather by precaution than courtesy, and carefully scanned and counted, I found myself with eight or nine others standing in a row on a huge mat. There was an entire absence of “dressing” in this ragged line, and thus destiny placed me between a ragamuffin with a wooden leg and an urchin of about twelve. My bulk, sandwiched between them, formed a charming picture, and filled up the mat, if not the “background.” My friend, the police sergeant, with a courtesy that officialism failed to rob him of, handed us over to the “Detentionite” barbarian, who, first inspecting us, and then “righting” us, went through the offensive and unnecessary formula of catechizing us—such as “What is your name?” “Who ga”—I mean, “Your age,” &c., &c. This to me was the first and greatest humiliation; the iron entered my very soul, and I realized how awful it all was. Implacable enemies, vindictive tradesmen, revengeful women, chuckle and shout; but time is short, and seventeen days will find me in clover, surrounded by every consideration that is possible, and as happy as circumstances will permit. When we had all been counted and booked, we were escorted downstairs and thrust into very small and separate cells. These cells were literally not more than three feet square, and their only furniture consisted of a block of stone intended for a seat. The turnkey, who showed and carefully locked me in, explained that I should only be there a few minutes, as we were merely awaiting the arrival of the chief warder. After the lapse of a few minutes, we were taken one by one into