Their lamentations were worthy of a Conservative orator at a rural meeting.

The present was a poor thing compared with the past, and they sighed for "the tender grace of a day that is dead." After exercise I went to chapel.

Parson Plaford preached a seasonable sermon, which would have been more heartily relished on a full stomach.
He told us what a blessed time Christmas was, and that people did well to be joyful on the anniversary of their Savior's birth.

Before dismissing us with his blessing to our "little rooms," which was his habitual euphemism for our cells, he remarked that he could not wish us a happy Christmas in our unhappy condition, but he would wish us a peaceful Christmas; and he ventured to promise us that boon if, after leaving chapel, we fell on our knees and besought pardon for our sins.
Most of the prisoners received this advice with a grin, for their cell floors were black-leaded, and genuflexions in their "little rooms" gave them too much knee-cap to their trousers.
At six o'clock I had my third instalment of Christmas fare, the last mouthfuls being consumed to the accompaniment of church bells.

The neighboring Bethels were announcing their evening performance, and the sound penetrated into my cell.