superiority (in clothes if not in morals) drew notice on me; and many a scoundrel as he limped by 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.