A GREASY cold chop, smelling as if it had been cooked in “Benzine collas,” and with about as much warmth as would be imparted to it by a flat iron, a slice of bread that had evidently been cut in the early part of the day, with salt, mustard, a lump of cheese, and a potato piled up beside it, and a pint of the flattest, blackest, nastiest ale in a yellow jug without a spout, with my name pasted on it and the plate, constituted my meal, and nothing but philosophy and a certain amount of hunger could have induced me to attempt to tackle it. I did, however, and bolted the food and gulped down the liquid, and continued the contemplation of my cell. A few minutes later my warder again appeared with the “special” and removed my “tray;” and the ringing of the most melancholy-toned bell I had ever heard up to then warned me that bed-time had arrived, and I proceeded to turn in for my first night under lock and key. Believe me, reader, there is more in this than my words can convey. Writing as I now am, in a comfortable bed at six in the morning (for my past experience has instilled very early habits into me), with the window open, and the sea within a few yards of me, surrounded by every luxury and comfort that an affectionate mother can think of, and in a genial climate in the South of France, I cannot even now look back without a shudder to that fearful first night of less than a year ago; and the chop and the hammock, and the key turning, and the “settling down” appear as vividly before me as the most hideous nightmare of an hour’s previous occurrence.