appeared to cheer up, and took up a sort of gin-and-water refrain which they buzzed out—“Ho moy littul tarling, ’ow are yew?” The wretch who composed it deserves a month. It is impossible to describe the monotony of these days without occupation—for my deputy did my task—and without books. The religious tract, as a leaflet was officially styled, had to last a fortnight; and I knew by heart all about “The Sweet Recollections of a Sweep,” and “The Converted Charwoman of Goswell Road.” “What Pickest Thou, you Wretch?” and “How are your Poor Fingers, you Blackguard?” were also works contained in this religious repertoire, and altogether of a more thrilling description. They were generally understood to have been the work of a local divine, as indeed their style suggested. The library books are a very sorry lot, though probably well adapted to the capacities of their readers. The rule, too, that permits their change only once a fortnight is in itself a species of torture unworthy of the system that sanctions them at all. The type for the most part is large, and such as an educated man can read in a day. Why, then, spoil a gracious act by limiting its very innocent scope. Such, too, is the reckless supervision of these literary treasures that I received no less than seven school histories of England during my career. I felt this as almost a reflection on the Dean of W— and my classical education generally. There was, however, a reserve library for the special benefit of the “serious” minded, and men of education with strict Episcopalian proclivities. This issue, and its attendant patronage, is vested entirely in the hands of the chaplain—a custom it is high time to alter—and considering I had never been confirmed, it is a marvel how I was ever included in its favoured ranks. The blessing was not, however, an entirely unmitigated one; and “Locke’s Essay on the Mind,” “The Theory of Sturm,” and such light reading usually fell to my share. Happily I was independent of it all, although an amusing and undignified squabble some months later deprived me of even this modified clerical patronage. I must mention one incident connected with my “three card” acquaintance before leaving the oakum district. It was after chapel, and he was in my cell, when, after sundry enquiries as to how I liked the service, etc., he said— “I calls it bad, very bad taste, the way they goes on, even in chapel, at a chap about his work. Didn’t you hear this morning about the oakum?” “Oakum,” I said; “I don’t remember any allusion to it.” “O yes you do,” he replied. “D’you mind my nudging you?” and then I recollected receiving a dig in the ribs, which I failed to understand at the time, as they began to sing, “O Come, let us sing,” etc. The racing man had made a mistake in the spelling, and very properly resented the allusion.