is all settled; but it is due to my character to show you that I had no intention of pointing at you or any living creature from the pulpit.”
“Well, make me believe that.”
“If you will do me the favor to come to my room I can prove it to you.”
The chaplain took the governor to his room and opened two drawers in a massive table.
“Mr. Hawes,” said he, “do you see this pile of sermons in this right-hand drawer?”
“I see them,” said Hawes, with a doleful air, “and I suppose I shall hear some of them before long.”
“These,” said Mr. Jones, smiling with perfect good-humor at the innocuous sneer, “are sermons I composed when I was curate of Little-Stoke. Of late I have been going regularly through my Little-Stoke discourses, as you may see. I take one from the pile in this drawer, and after first preaching it in the jail I place it in the left drawer on that smaller pile.”
“That you mayn't preach it again by accident; well, that is business.”
“If you look into the left pile near the top, you will find the one I preached against profane discourse, with the date at which it was first composed.”
“Here it is, sir—Little-Stoke, May 15, 1847.”
“Well, Mr. Hawes, now was that written against you?—come!”
“No! I confess it could not; but look here, if a man sends a bullet into me, it doesn't matter to me whether he made the gun on purpose or shot me out of an old one that he had got by him.”
“But I tell you that I took the sermon out in its turn, and knew no more what it was about until I opened it in the pulpit, than I knew what this one is about which I am going to preach next Sunday morning—it was all chance.”
“It was my bad luck, I suppose,” said Hawes a little sulkily.
“And mine, too. Could I anticipate that a discourse composed for and preached to a rural congregation would be deemed to have a personal application here?”
“Well, no!”
“I have now only to add that I extremely regret the circumstance.”
“Say no more, sir. When a gentleman expresses his regret to another gentleman, there is an end of the grievance.
“I will take care the sort of thing never happens again.”
“Enough said, sir.”
“It never can, however, for I shall preach but one more Sunday here.”
“And I'm very sorry for it, Mr. Jones.”
“And after this occurrence I am determined to write both sermons for the occasion, so there is sure to be nothing personal in them.”
“Yes, that is the surest way. Well, sir, you and I never had but this one little misunderstanding, and now that is explained, we shall part friends.”
“A glass of ale, Mr. Hawes?”
“I don't care if I do, sir.” (The glasses were filled and emptied.) “I must go and look after my chickens; the justices have ordered Gillies to be flogged. You will be there, I suppose, in half an hour.”
“Well, if my attendance is not absolutely necessary—”
“We will excuse you, sir, if not convenient.”
“Thank you—good-morning!” and the reconciled officials parted.
Little Gillies was hoisted to receive twenty lashes; at the twelfth the governor ordered him down.
He broke off the tale as our magazines do, with a promise—“To be continued.”
Little Gillies, like their readers, cried out, “No, sir. Oh, sir! please flog me to an end, and ha' done with it. I don't feel the cuts near so much now—my back seems dead like.”
Little Gillies was arguing against himself. Hawes had not divided his punishment with the view of lessening his pain. It was droll, but more sad than droll to hear the poor little fellow begging Hawes to flog him to an end, to flog him out; with similar idioms.
“Hold your [oath] noise!” Hawes shrunk with disgust from noise in his prison, and could not comprehend why the prisoners could not take their punishments without infringing upon the great and glorious silence of which the jail was the temple and he the high priest. “The beggars get no good by kicking up a row,” argued he.
“Hold your noise!—take him to his cell!”
Whether it was because he had desecrated the temple with noise, or from the accident of having attracted the governor's attention, the weight of the system fell on this small object now.
Gillies was ordered to make a fabulous number of crank revolutions—fabulous, at least, in connection with his tender age; he was put on the lightest crank, but the lightest was heavy to thirteen years. Not being the infant Hercules, he could not perform this labor; so Hawes put him in jacket and collar almost the whole day. His young and supple frame was in his favor, but once or twice he could hardly help shamming, and then they threw half a bucket over him.
The next day he was put on the crank, and not being able to complete the task that was set him before dinner, he was strapped up until the evening. The next day the governor tried another tack. He took away his meat soup and gruel, and gave him nothing but bread and water. Strange to say, this change of diet did not supply the deficiency; he could not do the infant Hercules his work even on bread and water. Then the governor deprived the obstinate little dog of his chapel. “If you won't work, I'm [participle] if you shall pray.” The boy missed the recreation of hearing Mr. Jones hum the Liturgy; missed it in a way you cannot conceive. Your soporific was his excitement; think of that.
Little Gillies became sadly dispirited, and weaker at the crank than before; ergo, the governor sentenced him to be fourteen days without bed or gas.
But when they took away his bed and did not light his gas little Gillies began to lose his temper; he made a great row about this last stroke of discipline. “I won't live such a life as this,” said little Gillies, in a pet. “Why don't the governor hang me at once?”
“What is that noise?” roared the governor, who was in the corridor and had long ears.
“It is No. 50 kicking up a row at having his bed and gas taken,” replied a turnkey, with a note of admiration in his voice.
The governor bounced into the cell. “Are you grumbling at that, you rebellious young rascal? you forget there are a dozen lashes owing you yet.” Now the boy had not forgotten, but he hoped the governor had. “Well, you shall have the rest to-morrow.”
With these words ringing in his ears, little Gillies was locked up for the night at six o'clock. His companions darkness and unrest-for a prisoner's bed is the most comfortable thing he has, and the change from it to a stone floor is as great to him as it would be to us—darkness and unrest, and the cat waiting to spring on him at peep of day. Quae cum ita erant,
