Some five years after our friend was startled by being requested to come up to Doctors' Commons, and tell the worthy Civilians there all about his uncle's will--which one of the legatees, after receiving all he was entitled to under it, and probably spending the money--suddenly took it into his head to dispute the validity of. Meanwhile the Court of Chancery also stepped in, and ordered him (pending the ecclesiastical suit) to pay over into court "that little trifle" he had received. What could the poor man do? His Catholic Majesty had got the money--he, the legatee, had not a farthing of it, nor of any other money whatsoever. He was in contempt! An officer tapped him on the shoulder, displayed a little piece of parchment, and he found that he was the victim of an unfortunate "attachment." He was walked to the Fleet Prison, where, and in the Queen's Prison, he has remained ever since--a period of twenty-eight years! Yet no less a personage than a Lord Chancellor has pronounced his opinion that the will, after all, was a good and valid will--though the little family party of Doctors' Commons thought otherwise. There is another miserable-looking object yonder--greasy, dirty, and slovenly. He, too, is a Chancery prisoner. He has been so for twenty years. Why, he has not the slightest idea. He can only tell you that he was found out to be one of the relations of some one who had left "a good bit of money." The lawyers "put the will into Chancery; and at last I was ordered to do something or other, I can't recollect what, which I was also told I couldn't do nohow if I would. So they said I was in contempt, and they took and put me into the Fleet. It's a matter of twenty years I have been in prison; of course I'd like to get out, but I'm told there's no way of doing it anyhow." He is an artisan, and works at his trade in the prison, by which he gains just enough to keep him without coming upon the county-rate. In that room over the chapel is the infirmary. There was a death lately. The deceased was an old man of sixty-eight, and nearly blind; he had not been many years in prison, but the confinement, and the anxiety, and the separation from his family, had preyed upon his mind and body. He was half-starved, too; for after being used to all the comforts of life, he had to live in jail on sixpence a-day. Yet there was one thousand pounds in the hands of the Accountant-General of the Court of Chancery, which was justly due to him. He was in contempt for not paying some three hundred pounds. But Death purged his contempt, and a decree was afterwards made for paying over the one thousand pounds to his personal representatives; yet himself had died, for want of a twentieth part of it, of slow starvation!