Curiously enough, it was the sober and serious Colenso who gave me my one restless night in Holloway Gaol.

I puzzled over one pretty problem, and the bed-bell rang before I could solve it.

Directly my gas was turned out the method of solution flashed on my mind, and I was so vexed at being unable to work it out immediately that it was hours before I could fall asleep.

During that time my brain made desperate but futile efforts to reach the answer by mental arithmetic, and when I woke in the morning I felt thoroughly fagged.
Having had no writing materials for two months the slate and pencil looked very inviting.

I composed a few pieces of verse, including a sonnet on Giordano Bruno and some epigrams on Parson Plaford, Judge North, Sir Hardinge Giffard, and other distasteful personages.