mely scarce, but producible to the
demands of patience and perseverance, I should imagine, if anybody will
be so obliging as to pass a week or so over the catalogue of the British
Museum. My fertile pencil has delineated the characters I met with,
at that period of my life, with a force and distinctness which my pen
cannot hope to rival--has portrayed them all more or less prominently,
with the one solitary exception of a prisoner called Gentleman Jones.
The reasons why I excluded him from my portrait-gallery are so honorable
to both of us, that I must ask permission briefly to record them.

My fellow-captives soon discovered that I was studying their personal
peculiarities for my own advantage and for the public amusement. Some
thought the thing a good joke; some objected to it, and quarreled with
me. Liberality in the matter of liquor and small loans, reconciled a
large proportion of the objectors to their fate; the sulky minority I
treated with contempt, and scourged avengingly with the smart lash of
caricature. I was at that time probably the most impudent man of my age
in all England, and the common flock of jail-birds quailed before the
magnificence of my assurance. One prisoner only set me and my pencil
successfully at defiance. That prisoner was Gentleman Jones.

He had received his name from the suavity of his countenance, the
inveterate politeness of his language, and the unassailable composure of
his manner. He was in the prime of life, but very bald--had been in the
army and the coal trade--wore very stiff collars and prodigiously long
wristbands--seldom laughed, but talked with remarkable glibness, and was
never known to lose his temper under the most aggravating circumstances
of prison existence.

He abstained from interfering with me and my studies, until it was
reported in our society, that in the sixth print of my series, Gentleman
Jones, highly caricatured, was to form one of the principal figures. He
then appealed to me personally and publicly, on the racket-ground, in
the following terms:

"Sir," said he, with his usual politeness and his unwavering smile, "you
will greatly oblige me by not caricaturing my personal peculiarities. I
am so unfortunate as not to possess a sense of humor; and if you did my
likeness, I am afraid I should not see the joke of it."

"Sir," I returned, with my customary impudence, "it is not of the
slightest importance whether _you_ see the joke of it or not. The public