consisted of a billycock hat—not a good, honest, disreputable one, but one of your shabby-genteels, so infinitely more fatal—a coat that suggested Crosse and Blackwell’s cut, and boots suspiciously resembling the prison make. He interrogated me in my turn, though I fear his curiosity was far from satisfied. His mania was the ceremony of “confirmation,” and when he discovered I had omitted that essential form, I at once passed into his black books. Happily, I was perfectly indifferent to his displeasure or his patronage—indeed the latter would have been the most unbearable. He never forgave me, however, as a discreditable tiff we had long after conclusively proved. As I got to see more of this shining light I began to suspect that he must have been a Jesuit, he did so much to make Protestantism obnoxious. I was next passed on to a schoolmaster—a gradual improvement in accordance with the system is here apparent—who amused me by inquiring if I could read, how I spelt “oxen,” if I could write, and if I thought I could “write a letter?” This latter question was very conclusively set at rest a week later by an incident that occurred in which I was the chief culprit, and which necessitated the collective wisdom of the Home Office and a full bench of the Visiting Justices to adjudicate upon. Meanwhile, I had “passed” this scorching examination, and had to sit quietly by and listen to illiterate costermongers and rascally pickpockets being severally questioned. It had its amusing features, although I felt how degrading it was for a public school-boy and a gentleman by birth and education to be compelled under any combination of circumstances to submit to be catechized by such a trio. The next person to appear was the doctor—the dearest, kindest old gentleman I ever met. His manner to all was alike considerate and kind; one, moreover, who seemed to be aware that the position of a gentleman (unless usurped by a cad) loses nothing of its dignity by a courteous bearing towards inferiors or men placed in a painful position—a manner that inspired respect and yet precluded the possibility of a liberty, a refreshing contrast to a nondescript that had preceded him, and the beau idéal of a fine old English gentleman. Stripped to the waist and behind a screen, we were one by one subjected to a minute examination. A schemer had a very sorry look-out with this eminent physician; no dodge could possibly avail, for he was intimate with every “ailment” that criminal flesh is heir to. It was amusing, after hearing some rascal relate the numerous complaints from which he was suffering, to hear the surgeon quietly say with a smile, “Oh, you’ll soon be all right,” and to see the hospital warder write down, “Fit, hard labour.” This short and apparently informal ceremony is the most momentous in one’s future career, and though unaware of it at the time, I was not surprised later on at the importance attached to it by the experienced criminal. By it one’s