NUMBER OF HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

[Conducted by

of " nabbing'' the eldest son of a peer of the
realm, who, however, escaped from him through
a second-floor window, and over the tiles.
That he was once commissioned io "nab" the
celebrated Mr. Wix, of the Theatres Royal.
That Mr. Wix, being in the act of playing the
Baron Spolaccio, in the famous tragedy
"Love, Ruin, and Revenge," he, Crabstick,
permitted him, in deference to the interests
of the drama, to play the part out, station-
ing an assistant at each wing to prevent
escape. That the delusive Wix " bilked "him,
by going down a trap. That he, Crabstick,
captured him, notwithstanding, under the
stage, though opposed by the gigantic Wix
himself, two stage carpenters, a demon, and
the Third Citizen. That Wix rushed on the
stage and explained his position to the
audience, whereupon the gallery (Wix being
an especial favourite of theirs) expressed a
strong desire to have his (Crabstick's) blood;
and, failing to obtain that, tore up the
benches; in the midst of which operation the
recalcitrant Wix was removed. With these
and similar anecdotes of the nobility, gentry,
and the public in general, he was kind enough
to regale me, until the cab stopped. I
alighted in a narrow dirty street; was hur-
ried up a steep flight of steps; a heavy door
clanged behind me; and Crabstick, pocketing
his small gratuity, wished me a good night
and a merry Christmas. A merry Christmas:
ugh!

That night I slept in a dreadful place,
called the Reception ward,–––on an iron bed-
stead, in a room with a stone floor. I was
alone, and horribly miserable. I heard the
Waits playing in the distance, and dreamed
I was at a Christmas party.

Christmas morning in Whitecross Street
Prison! A turnkey conducted me to the
' Middlesex side "–––a long dreary yard–––on
either side of which were doors leading into
wards, or coffee-rooms, on the ground floor,
and, by stone-staircases, to sleeping apart-
ments above. It was all very cold, very
dismal, very gloomy. I entered the ward
allotted to me, Number Seven, left. It was
a long room, with barred windows, cross
tables and benches, with an aisle between;
a large fire at the farther end; " Dum spiro,
spero," painted above the mantel-piece.
Twenty or thirty prisoners and their friends
were sitting at the tables, smoking pipes,
drinking beer, or reading newspapers. But
for the unmistakeable jail-bird look about the
majority of the guests, the unshorn faces, the
slipshod feet, the barred windows, and the
stone floor, I might have fancied myself in a
tap-room.

There was holly and mistletoe round the
gas-pipes; but how woful and forlorn they
looked! There was roast beef and plum-
pudding preparing at the fire-place; but they
had neither the odour nor the appearance of
free beef and pudding. I was thinking
of the cosy room, the snug fire, the well-

drawn curtains, the glittering table, the happy
faces, when the turnkey introduced me to the
sfe ward of the ward (an officer appointed by
the prisoners, and a prisoner himself) who
"tallies you off," i.e., who allotted me a seat
at one of the cross-tables, which was hence-
forward mine for all purposes of eating,
drinking, writing, or smoking; in considera-
tion of a payment on my part of one guinea
sterling. This sum made me also free of the
ward, and entitled to have rriy boots cleaned,
my bed made, and my meals cooked. Sup-
posing that I had not possessed a guinea
(which was likely enough), I should have
asked for time, which would have been granted
me; but, at the expiration of three days,
omission of payment would have constituted
me a defaulter; in which case, the best thing
I could have done would have been to declare
pauperism, and remove to the poor side of the
prison. Here, I should have been entitled to
my " sixpences," amounting, in the aggregate,
to the sum of three shillings and sixpence a
week towards my maintenance.

The steward, a fat man in a green " wide-
awake " hat, who was incarcerated on remand
for the damages in an action for breach of
promise of marriage, introduced me to the
cook (who was going up next week to the
Insolvent Court, having filed his schedule
as a beer-shop keeper). He told me, that
if I chose to purchase anything at a species of
everything shop in the yard, the cook would
dress it; or, if I did not choose to be at the
trouble of providing myself, I might break-
fast, dine, and sup at his, the steward's, table,
"for a consideration," as Mr. Trapbois has it.
I acceded to the latter proposition, receiving
the intelligence that turkey and oyster-sauce
were to be ready at two precisely, with melan-
choly indifference. Turkey had no charms for
me now.

I sauntered forth into the yard, and passed
fifty or sixty fellow-unfortunates, sauntering
as listlessly as myself. Strolling about, I
came to a large grating, somewhat similar
to Mr. Blowman's bird-cage, in which was a
heavy gate called the " lock," and which
communicated with the corridors leading to
the exterior of the prison. Here sat, calmly
surveying his caged birds within, a turnkey–––
not a repulsive, gruff-voiced monster, with a
red neckerchief and top boots, and a bunch
of keys, as turnkeys are popularly supposed
to be–––but a pleasant, jovial man enough, in
sleek black. He had a little lodge behind,
where a bright fire burned, and where Mrs.
Turnkey, and the little Turnkeys lived. (I
found a direful resemblance between the
name of his office, and that of the Christ-
mas bird). His Christmas dinner hung to
the iron bars above him, in the shape of a
magnificent piece of beef. Happy turnkey,
to be able to eat it on the outer side of that
dreadful grating! In another part of the
yard hung a large black board, inscribed
in half-effaced characters, with the enumera-