The usual hour for the jail delivery is 9 A.M., when gangs, varying from ten to a hundred, are daily discharged. As they pass the wicket one by one, each man is presented with a breakfast order, entitling him to an unlimited supply of coffee and bread-and-butter at an adjoining tavern. This kindly act takes its origin from a private source that cannot be too highly commended, and though I failed in discovering its identity, understand it is in no way connected with the “Prisoners’ Aid Society.” Every detail connected with a prisoner on discharge reflects credit on the Government. A vagrant enters prison hungry, filthy, and penniless. He again emerges with his linen washed, his clothes fumigated, money in his pocket, and provided with an ample breakfast. Such treatment has not its parallel in any other country in Europe, and I cannot refrain from offering my testimony in opposition to the usually accepted and erroneous impression, and confidently assert that the British criminal is, if anything, far too generously treated in every respect. On my way I stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought the biggest cigar I could find. It was, I believe, a good one, though for aught I knew it might have been brown paper. My sense of taste had apparently forsaken me, and it was days before I lost the sensation of having sucked a halfpenny. A friend I met soon after did not at first recognise me. “Good gracious!” he said, as he looked at my diminished circumference, “you’re not half the size you were.” “My dear fellow,” I replied, “you forget I’ve been lately _confined_.” The sense of taste that had apparently forsaken me was for a time accompanied by a loss of voice; at least it seemed so, for acting on the force of habit, I could not bring myself to speaking above a whisper; and a waiter at the — Hotel seemed to think he was serving a lunatic as I asked him in a mysterious whisper for a pint of champagne. But the events of the day were too much for my strength, and before 7 that evening I had fainted, and was again in bed, under the care of an eminent physician. A careful examination next day confirmed the opinion of the prison surgeons, and I was ordered forthwith to the South of France, or anywhere from cruel London. Door handles caused me considerable surprise for days: they appeared, indeed, as superfluous additions that I was totally unaccustomed to. A morbid craving for old newspapers now seized me, and I again discovered the importance that seemed to attach itself to my late escapades. I am happily not a vain or unreasonable being: had I been so I might have found ample grounds for either when called upon to pay sixpence for a _Daily Telegraph_, and one shilling for a _Truth_ at their respective offices, for copies containing references to my case. As it was, I merely concluded that the bump of avarice was equally developed in the Jew and the Gentile newsvendor.