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.