A man that has committed some crime, and has then taken his gruel in both senses, who faces the world, and by pluck, perseverance, and rectitude regains his footing in life, is to me a hero; for I can appreciate his difficulties, and appreciate, too, his moral worth. It is my privilege to know such men, and it is my joy sometimes to meet them. When I pass one of them in the street, I always feel inclined to cry, "There goes a man." Thank God, men of this sort are more numerous than might be expected, and it is only fair to our prison authorities to say that among a number that I know none complain of their treatment. Whilst undergoing sentence they did not like prison, of course, but they had to put up with it, and made the best of it. But while I am writing this--on July 16, between 9 and 10 p.m.--I have been called three times to speak to young men who claimed--and I have no doubt in their cases truly claimed--to be discharged prisoners. Each time it was a young man under thirty that required help; two were absolute strangers to me; one I had known previously, for, unfortunately, six years ago I met him before he was consigned to prison, and also after he came out. At that time I did my best for him, and gave him a suit of clothes, and procured him, after great difficulties, some employment. During the last year he had called on me several times, when I had resolutely declined to assist him. He seemed astonished, and said, "But you helped me before." To-night I was a bit angry, and said, "Oh, is it you again? You are troubling me too often; I can do nothing for you." He resented the idea that he was a too frequent visitor. "Why, it is six weeks since I was here." My next visitor was a strong, healthy young man, who promptly touched his forehead with his fingers by way of salute. "Just come out of prison, sir." "Well, what of that?" "I am a married man, with two children." "I am sorry for your wife and children." He misunderstood me. "I thought you would be. We must pay our rent to-night, or we shall be put out in the street." "Where are you living?" "In Campbell Road, Finsbury Park. We have furnished apartments; we have been there one week, and they want the rent." I said, "You came out of prison a week ago, and paid a deposit on your room?" "Yes, sir." "You pay, or should pay, seven shillings a week for that wretched room. You have not paid, so you ask me to help you; but I cannot do it: I know nothing whatever of you. Please go away: I am busy." He looked at me and said: "But I stole boots, you know, and I got three months. What are my wife and children to do?" "Well," I said, "if you did steal boots, you were a thief, and I cannot think the better of you on that account. You may or may not have a wife and two children; I do not know. Furnished apartments in Campbell Road are too dear and too nasty. I cannot give away money to keep the landlord of Campbell Road." With great difficulty