e of a Sunday where the services--there are two,
morning and afternoon--are Protestant, and Protestant according to the
Church of England. As the worthy chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Owen, is now
about to preach, let us accompany him. We follow him up a flight of
stairs, and are at church and in jail. To most of us it is to be hoped
the sensation is a novel one.

In a small gallery, under which is the clerk and in the middle of which
is the pulpit, we take our seat. The chaplain, of course, is seen by
all. A red curtain, which we are requested not to remove, hides us from
the congregation. However, we can see them nevertheless. On the right
of the preacher, partitioned off so as to be seen by none but himself,
are the women prisoners; on his left, in another recess, are the boys,
little lads for whose offences against society others and older ones are
certainly more responsible than themselves. Before us, in rows gradually
ascending, are ranged the male adults--pale, melancholy-looking men, who
form the principal portion of this sad community. While they are seating
themselves let us note the cheerful, neat appearance of the place. Not a
speck of dirt is anywhere visible. You might, to use a common but
expressive form of speech, eat your dinner off the floor. The wooden
ceiling is very light and airy; the windows are plain and plentiful; the
walls are bare, but of snowy whiteness. Underneath is the
communion-table, and once a quarter such as the chaplain considers truly
penitent are permitted to partake of it. Some dozen officials, in
uniform, on raised seats, are ranged in different parts of the chapel,
and when all have taken their places the service is commenced by singing,
in which generally the wife of the chaplain--a lady not unknown in the
literary world--assists by instrumental performance. This part of the
service is especially remarkable. The prisoners are fond of singing.
There is weekly a class for this purpose, and they enter into it with all
their heart and soul. Of course the tunes are very simple and
old-fashioned, such as we used to hear, but they are sung with a fervour
of which few outsiders can have an idea. One could not help thinking of
Longfellow's lines:

"Loud he sang the Psalms of David,
He a negro and enslaved."

The book used is the collection of Psalms and Hymns issued by the
Religious Tract Society, and those selected are chiefly of a penitential
and consolatory charac