the Crimea just six months, until the dogs of
war were muzzled, and during that period
paid off ninety pounds of the amount; and,
considering that my entire pay was under a
pound a day, and I had a wife and child to
support, I do not think I can be accused of
extravagance. I received two months'
gratuity in Pera, as a final acknowledgment of
my services, and had to await the Paymaster's
good pleasure for three weeks at the Hotel
de l'Europe, which made a considerable hole
in the sum total. When I arrived at home,
I was worse than penniless, for I had sixty
pounds of debt hanging over me. I naturally
applied to the War-Office to carry out the
arrangement under which I entered, and
was laughed at for my pains. My agreement
was verbal, so I had no appeal: while
a portion of the men who had served under
me, having secured a written agreement, were
bought off with six months' gratuity. Mind,
I do not desire to raise any compassionate
capital by complaining of government: I
know that government, to exist, must be
unjust, and that individual hardships weigh
but little against the common weal. I, therefore,
determined to work off any incubus of
debt by my own labours, and fortunately
succeeded in recovering a portion of my literary
engagements. My tailor brought me a
bill to accept for the amount I owed him,
which has been renewed until it has reached
fifty pounds, while my bootmaker took out a
writ. With the latter I arranged for
payments by instalments, and set to work. In
February last, I was attacked by a dangerous
illness which confined me to my bed for a
month; and when I recovered, I was ordered
to the sea-side as my only chance of a permanent
cure.

I need not remark that, in many
callings besides literature, a man may make
a comfortable livelihood while on the spot,
but once gone, his place is soon filled up.
Editors of papers have something better to
do than writing to contributors, and my work
fell off. Still I succeeded in keeping my head
above water. I worked very hard at a novel
and was so fortunate as to sell it; and this,
with periodical contributions, kept the wolf
from the door till the day before yesterday. I
was arrested without a moment's warning by
my bootmaker, and carried off to Lewworth
Gaol, with just five shillings in my pocket,
my wife and child being left to starve, or go
to the workhouse. I was carried off eighteen
miles in a gig, and handed over to the governor,
who, I am happy to say, I found absorbed in
It is Never Too Late to Mend, and doubtlessly
profiting by its lessons. By him I was
transferred to a turnkey, and soon found myself
the only first-class debtor in the place. But
I may as well describe my habitat more
closely.

I was seated in a room, bearing considerable
resemblance to the kitchen of a country
inn, minus the beery smell; there are two
semi-circular windows, heavily cased with
bars, two deal tables (on one of which I am
writing), a large range with no fire, and a
few wooden benches. Not a single article
for accommodation, save a sink to wash up
plates, and a tin bowl in which to perform my
ablutions. Had it not been for a good
Samaritan, in the shape of the sheriff's-officer who
arrested me, I must have eaten such food as
my five shillings, allowed me to buy, off the
table. I had not even the resource of chop-
sticks. In this day-room there are two
doors with immense locks, and in the centre
another open door leading into the exercising-
yard, which is just thirty paces long, as I
can tell, from my repeated pacing, to a
nicety. Were I a pedestrian—in training to
walk a thousand miles in a thousand hours
—I could not desire a better ground; but
as a poor scribe, I cannot appreciate the
advantage. In this room, I am locked
up, without books, almost without money—
for what object I cannot presume to say—for
if my bootmaker thinks to obtain his money
by these means, I can only remind him that
a man who has nothing and can gain nothing,
can pay nothing.

I must say that the turnkeys do their
spiriting gently. One of them has lent me a
volume of the Illustrated Times, as mental
food, while another buys me mutton-steaks,
which he fries, I dare not ask in what sort of
grease, as my bodily sustenance. Otherwise
I am perfectly alone. It is only fashionable
bootmakers who, now-a-days take advantage
of imprisonment for debt, and to my punishment
is added solitary confinement. If a
sweep were to be locked up with me, I would
be proud to shake his sooty hand, for his
presence, at any rate, would dispel many evil
thoughts. I have entrusted my razor to the
care of the turnkey, as I might succumb
to the whisperings of the demon, and think it
better to remove temptation. But if the day
time is bad, night is incomparably worse. At
nine o'clock I am conducted to a white-
washed cell, twelve feet by eight, containing
an iron-bedstead with a straw mattrass,
and the usual appurtenances, I presume, of a
criminal's cell. Here I am left to sleep,
if I can, till six in the morning, securely kept
in by an iron open-work door and a heavy
wooden one locked over that again. I shudder
to think what would be my fate if I were
taken ill, for no shouts would penetrate the
walls of what is justly termed a cell. At
nine in the morning, I am expected to attend
chapel, and I may find solace for the
remainder of the day in tobacco and a quart of
strong ale. If time hang heavy on my hands,
I can scrub out the day-room, which the
regulations order me to do once a day.
However, so long as my five shillings last, I
prefer hiring a poor debtor to do this for me,
as well as to make up my bed, which is so
mysteriously packed up that I cannot yet
learn the modus operandi. During daylight