And now, praps, I ot to dixcribe to you the humors of the prizn of Sainte Pelagie, which is the French for Fleat, or Queen's Bentch: but on this subject I'm rather shy of writing, partly because the admiral Boz has, in the history of Mr. Pickwick, made such a dixcripshun of a prizn, that mine wooden read very amyousingly afterwids; and, also, because, to tell you the truth, I didn't stay long in it, being not in a humer to waist my igsistance by passing away the ears of my youth in such a dull place. My fust errint now was, as you may phansy, to carry a noat from master to his destined bride. The poar thing was sadly taken aback, as I can tell you, when she found, after remaining two hours at the Embassy, that her husband didn't make his appearance. And so, after staying on and on, and yet seeing no husband, she was forsed at last to trudge dishconslit home, where I was already waiting for her with a letter from my master. There was no use now denying the fact of his arrest, and so he confest it at onst: but he made a cock-and-bull story of treachery of a friend, infimous fodgery, and heaven knows what. However, it didn't matter much; if he had told her that he had been betrayed by the man in the moon, she would have bleavd him. Lady Griffin never used to appear now at any of my visits. She kep one drawing-room, and Miss dined and lived alone in another; they quarld so much that praps it was best they should live apart; only my Lord Crabs used to see both, comforting each with that winning and innsnt way he had. He came in as Miss, in tears, was lisning to my account of master's seazure, and hoping that the prisn wasn't a horrid place, with a nasty horrid dunjeon, and a dreadfle jailer, and nasty horrid bread and water. Law bless us! she had borrod her ideers from the novvles she had been reading! “O my lord, my lord,” says she, “have you heard this fatal story?” “Dearest Matilda, what? For heaven's sake, you alarm me! What--yes--no--is it--no, it can't be! Speak!” says my lord, seizing me by the choler of my coat. “What has happened to my boy?” “Please you, my lord,” says I, “he's at this moment in prisn, no wuss,--having been incarserated about two hours ago.” “In prison! Algernon in prison! 'tis impossible! Imprisoned, for what sum? Mention it, and I will pay to the utmost farthing in my power.” “I'm sure your lordship is very kind,” says I (recklecting the sean betwixgst him and master, whom he wanted to diddil out of a thowsand lb.); “and you'll be happy to hear he's only in for a trifle. Five thousand pound is, I think, pretty near the mark.” “Five thousand pounds!--confusion!” says my lord, clasping his hands, and looking up to heaven, “and I have not five hundred! Dearest Matilda, how shall we help him?” “Alas, my lord, I have but three guineas, and you know how Lady Griffin has the--” “Yes, my sweet child, I know what you would say; but be of good cheer--Algernon, you know, has ample funds of his own.”