ons, many of whom, it is but justice to say, were
enjoying the small talk of certain oily-haired young missionaries, and
quite unconscious of being the objects of admiring glances from below.

Supper took exactly an hour, and then came another hymn, Ned Wright
telling his guests that the tune was somewhat difficult, but that the
gallery would sing it for them first, and then they would be able to do
it for themselves. Decidedly, Mr. Wright is getting "aesthetic." This
hymn was, in fact, monopolized by the gallery, the men listening and
evidently occupied in digesting their supper. One would rather have
heard something in which they could join. However, it was a lively
march-tune, and they evidently liked it, and kept time to it with their
feet, after the custom of the gods on Boxing Night. At this point Ned
and five others mounted the little railed platform, Bible in hand, and
the host read what he termed "a portion out of the Good Old Book,"
choosing appropriately Luke xv., which tells of the joy among angels
over one sinner that repenteth, and the exquisite allegory of the
Prodigal Son, which Ned read with a good deal of genuine pathos. It
reminded him, he said, of old times. He himself was one of the first
prisoners at Wandsworth when "old Brixton" was shut up. He had "done"
three calendar months, and when he came out he saw an old grey-headed
man, with a bundle. "That," said Ned, "was my godly old father, and the
bundle was new clothes in place of my old rags."

The country magistrate then came forward, and drew an ironical contrast
between the "respectable" people in the gallery and the "thieves" down
below. "God says we have all 'robbed Him.' All are equal in God's sight.
But some of us are pardoned thieves." At this point the discourse became
theological, and fired over the heads of the people down below. They
listened much as they listen to a magisterial remark from the bench; but
it was not their own language, such as Ned speaks. It was the "beak,"
not the old "pal." It was not their vernacular. It did for the
gallery--interested the ladies and the missionaries vastly, but not the
thieves. It was wonderful that they bore it as well as they did. The
magisterial dignity evidently overawed them; but they soon got used to
it, and yawned or sat listlessly. Some leant their heads on the rail in
front and slept. The latest arrivals left earliest. They had come to
supper, not to sermon.

Another of Ned Wright's hymns