It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

      So Mr. Williams drove home to Ashtown Park, and had to sit down to dinner with his own small family party.

      Mr. Williams' mutton consisted of first a little strong gravy soup lubricated and gelatinized with a little tapioca; vis-a-vis the soup a little piece of salmon cut out of the fish's center; lobster patties, rissoles, and two things with French names, stinking of garlic, on the flank.

      Enter a boiled turkey poult with delicate white sauce; a nice tongue, not too green nor too salt, and a small saddle of six-tooth mutton, home-bred, home-fed; after this a stewed pigeon, faced by greengage tart, and some yellow cream twenty-four hours old; item, an iced pudding. A little Stilton cheese brought up the rear with a nice salad. This made way for a foolish trifling dessert of muscatel grapes, guava jelly and divers kickshaws diluted with agreeable wines varied by a little glass of Marasquino & Co., at junctures. So far so nice!

      But alas! nothing is complete in this world, not even the dinner of a fair round justice with fat capon lined. There is always some drawback or deficiency here below—confound it! The wretch of a cook had forgotten to send up the gruel a la Josephs.

      Next day, after Mr. Williams had visited the female prisoners and complimented Hawes on having initiated them into the art of silence, he asked where the chaplain was. Hawes instantly dispatched a messenger to inquire, and remembering that gentleman's threatened remonstrance, parried him by anticipation, thus:

      “By-the-by, sir, I have a little complaint to make of him.”

      “Indeed!” said Mr. Williams, “what is that?”

      “He took a prisoner's part against the discipline; but he doesn't know them, and they humbug him. But, sir, ought he to preach against me in the chapel of the jail?”

      “Certainly not! Surely he has not been guilty of such a breach of discipline and good taste.”

      “Oh! but wait, sir,” said Hawes, “hear the whole truth, and then perhaps you will blame me. You must know, sir, that I sometimes let out an oath. I was in the army, and we used all to swear there; and now a little of it sticks to me in spite of my teeth, and if his reverence had done me the honor to take me to task privately about it, I would have taken off my hat to him; but it is another thing to go and preach at me for it before all the jail.”

      “Of course it is. Do you mean to say he did that?”

      “He did, sir. Of course, he did not mention my name, but he preached five-and-thirty minutes all about swearing, and they all knew who he was hitting. I could see the warders grinning from ear to ear, as much as to say, 'There's another rap for you, governor!'”

      “I'll speak to him.”

      “Thank you, sir; don't be hard on him, for he is a deserving officer; but if you would give him a quiet hint not to interfere with me. We have all of us plenty to do of our own in a jail, if he could but see it. Ah! here comes the chaplain, sir. I will leave you together, if you please;” and Mr. Hawes made off with a business air.

      The chaplain came up and bowed to Mr. Williams, who saluted him in turn somewhat coldly. There was a short silence. Mr. Williams was concocting a dignified rebuke. Before he could get it out the chaplain began:

      “I wished to speak with you yesterday, sir.

      “I am at your service, Mr. Jones. What is it?”

      “I want you to look into our punishments; they are far more numerous and severe than they used to be.”

      “On the contrary I find them less numerous.”

      “Why, there is one punished every day.”

      “I have been carefully over the books, and I assure you there is a marked decrease in the number of punishments.”

      “Then they cannot be all put down.”

      “Nonsense, Mr. Jones, nonsense!”

      “And, then, the severity of these punishments, sir! Is it your wish that a prisoner should be strapped in the jacket so tight that we cannot get a finger between the leather and his flesh?”

      “Not unless he is refractory.”

      “But prisoners are very seldom refractory.”

      “Indeed! that is news to me.”

      “I assure you, sir, there are no quieter set of men than prisoners generally. They know there is nothing to be gained by resistance.”

      “They are on their good behavior before you. You don't see through them, my good sir. They are like madmen—you would take them for lambs till they break out. Do you know a prisoner here called Josephs?”

      “Yes, sir, perfectly well.”

      “Well, now, what is his character, may I ask?”

“HE IS A MILD, QUIET, DOCILE LAD.”

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      “Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. Prisoners are the refuse of the earth. The governor knows them, and how to manage them. A discretion must be allowed him, and I see no reason to interfere between him and refractory prisoners except when he invites us.”

      “You are aware that several attempts at suicide have been made within the last few months?”

      “Sham attempts, yes.”

      “One was not sham, sir,” said Mr. Jones, gravely

      “Oh, Jackson, you mean. No, but he was a lunatic, and would have made away with himself anywhere—Hawes is convinced of that.”

      “Well, sir, I have told you the fact; I have remonstrated against the uncommon seventies practiced in this jail—seventies unknown in Captain O'Connor's day.”

      “And I have received and answered your remonstrance, sir, and there that matter ought to end.”

      This, and the haughty tone with which it was said, discouraged and nettled the chaplain; he turned red and said:

      “In that case, sir, I have no more to say. I have discharged my conscience.” With these words he was about to withdraw, but Mr. Williams stopped him.

      “Mr. Jones, do you consider a clergyman justified in preaching at people?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “The pulpit surely ought not to be made a handle for personality. It is not the way to make the pulpit itself respected.”

      “I don't understand you, sir.”

      “Mr. Hawes is much hurt at a sermon you preached against him.”

      “A sermon against him—never!”

      “I beg your pardon; you preached a whole sermon against swearing—and he swears.”

      “Oh—yes! I remember—the Sunday before last. I certainly did reprobate in my discourse the habit of swearing, but no personality to Hawes was intended.”

      “No personality intended when you know he swears!”

      “Yes, but the warders swear, too. Why should Mr. Hawes take it all to himself?”

      “Oh! if the turnkeys swear, then it was not so strictly personal.”

      “To be sure,” put in Mr. Jones inadvertently, “I believe they learned it of the governor.”

      “There you see! Well, and even if they did not, why preach against the turnkeys? why preach at any individuals or upon passing events at all? I can remember the time no clergyman throughout the length and breadth of the land noticed passing events from the pulpit.”

      “I am as far from approving the practice as you are,