een written by some Irish
loyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran,--

"God save our good King William,
Be his name for ever blest;
He's the father of all his people,
And the guardian of all the rest."

In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust
that our successors make as much of her present Majesty, and, having
regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written
other songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honour.

Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth and
fifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall,
on either side of the great fires, the middle-fifth and upper-school
boys round the long table in the middle of the hall, and the
lower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table, which
ran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found
himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at all fit
for prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself serious,
but couldn't, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head
the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite,
wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what
sort of fellows they were. The steps of the head-porter are heard on the
stairs, and a light gleams at the door. "Hush!" from the fifth-form boys
who stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, book
in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the
middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names.
The Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book
and finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book,
looking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to
look, and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there's
been lots of noise and no harm done--nothing but beer drunk, and nobody
the worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the
Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he
stands there, and reads out the psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching
voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after
the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and
turning round, sees East.

"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?"

"No," said Tom; "why?"

"'Cause there'