head of its bearer presents a somewhat disparaging contrast. Here is another, who, promptly availing himself of the opportunity afforded by the departure of the billsticker, has stripped off a placard from the hoarding, while yet the paste is damp and reeking. The little wretch has replaced it, but only after having carefully turned it upside down; and now, standing on his own head, reads the contents to the passers-by, who are somewhat bewildered by the inversion of the infant Daniel and the writing which he professes to expound. The performance is, of course, concluded with the usual appeal for a "'apenny;" for note that the street urchin's is no golden dream of wealth. It is invariably limited to the sum above specified, neither more nor less" only a 'apenny." Throughout the livelong day we shall meet him, go where we will, and (should the spectator be of a thoughtful cast) never without experiencing the somewhat mingled sensation produced by listening to a tale half humorous, half pathetic, or gazing at an actor whose performance, Robson-like, is semi-grotesque, semi-tragic. But the night advances, and, if we follow the little animal to his lair, the serious element may perchance somewhat preponderate. A visit to the Refuge in Field-lane will form no bad frigidarium, or mental douche, after the tepidarium of a crowded "at home." It may, as a Turkish bath, produce a not unhealthy reaction upon the mind blazé with the glare, and relaxed by the heat of the crush we have quitted in time, to arrive at the Refuge while it yet wants a few minutes of twelve. Enter, and you will witness a somewhat singular phase of the night side of street-nature. This is the resting-place of our pariah of the streetthe only resting-place, save the one which awaits him when "a longer night is near." can The sleeping accommodation hardly be termed luxurious. A rug, and a sort of counter, not very unlike that in the Morgue of Paris, on which the suicide and the murderer sleep their last sleep! A raised and sloping platform of wood, such as is used in a guard-room for the temporary resting-place of soldiers on duty, with the difference that the one before us is partitioned off into separate cells! Each cell has now its inmate, for it is close on midnight; and little face which this morning grinned here you may perchance recognise the its quaint appeal, comic in spite of all that hunger and dirt could do to sadden play out-the marshal of the crossing it. The tiny tumbler has played his the mudlark has ended, and its dactylic has laid aside his baton-the song of refrain, "Give us ǎ 'āpěnný, please sir,' lie, with all that is comic, merged in the has sunk into silence; and there they awfulness of sleep-a deep sleep evidently, for it is unbroken by even that rings forth throughout the livelong never-ceasing, hacking cough, which night-a sound which proclaims, in sadder eloquence than that of words, whence they are surely hastening. the sleepers have come, and whither No statistics of the Registrar-General, books and Boards of Health, however however elaborate, no testimony of Blueweighty and convincing, could point the moral more strongly than that neverceasing cough, the sound of which only dies away as we pass into the open air, absorbed, perchance, in the deep vibration of the bell of St. Paul's. 'Heard under these circumstances, that midnight realities, perhaps as important as the vibration may remind us of certain fact that the ball-rooms of the West tide of arrivals, and glittering in the are even now brimming over in a highnoontide of their brilliancy. sibly crossed our mind-the first, What Two questions, meanwhile, have posbecomes of these children when sick? the second, What is their destiny when convalescent? As regards the first, the case of the sick child of the streets, unable to find a refuge in the hospital, is one for which kind Nature furnishes a speedy solution. To him whose acquaintance of Earth has been almost wholly derived from the mud of the streets, the analmost a truism, and the sentence, "to nouncement, "dust thou art," sounds dust shalt thou return," breathes more of mercy than unkindness. And thus the ministry of the parish undertaker is in truth no ungentle one, as he consigns him to his first and last cradle, that little coffin which the creed of certain political economists would teach us to regard as the dust-bin of surplus population-the fit and proper vehicle for the removal of such-like "incumbrances." But happily there are very many of these little ones (and as charity enlarges her bounds their number is very rapidly increasing) who, in sickness, are enabled to take shelter in one of those noble charities of which London may well be proud. One, indeed (and would that its powers were equal to the demand for their exercise), is exclusively devoted to the care of sick children; and only those who have inspected such an asylum can form an adequate idea of the contrast which the care and tenderness lavished on its little inmates present to the destitution from which they step as they cross its threshold.1 it is to those who are dismissed from these asylums as convalescent that question number two applies, with very serious importance. For, the greater the comfort of the hospital, the greater the shock to one suddenly deprived of it. Such a change and shock is just what the convalescent is peculiarly unfitted to bear. True, the patient has been rescued from the dust! What avails it if he is preserved only to return to the mud. from whence he came, and to droop, if somewhat more slowly, not the less surely! Must his lot once more sadly form a parallel with that of Bonnivard 1 This institution is situate at 49, Great Ormond-street. For a description of it and its inmates the reader is referred to an admir "And, when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy loadIt was as is a new-dug grave Closing on one we sought to save." Is there no alternative, no remedy, no means of preventing the unravelling of so noble a piece of work so nearly brought to a successful completion? Truly the remedy is so simple, so inexpensive, that it is only marvellous to learn that it has been but recently adopted, and, from the limited acquaintance of the public with its existence, on a scale Had you, correspondingly limited. O reader, to prescribe for the darling of your own nursery just recovered from sickness, would it not be in three words"change of air?" In the case of the child of the streets, the necessity and craving for this "breath of life" can hardly be overstated. Who can fail to sympathise with the longing of the dying boy, who, on hearing the description of the city "whose gates are of pearl, and the pavement of fine gold," meekly expressed the hope that he should be allowed to go into the beautiful country about it, for he was "a'most tired of biding in the streets?" What wonder that one who life-long had been pent up in the narrow alley he was at last about to quit should yearn after the Plains of Heaven,1 and that, even as the starving are wont to dream of feast, his glazing eye should be haunted by visions of that bright country described in the "sweet song of St. Augustine". "Flos perpetuus rosarum ver agit perpetuum, Candent lilia, rubescit crocus, sudat balsamum, Virent prata, vernant sata, rivi mellis influunt, Pigmentorum spirat odor, liquor et aromatum, Pendent floridorum non lapsura nemorum, Non alternat Luna vices, Sol vel cursus syderum, 1 The last work of the painter Martin, on Agnus est fælicis urbis lumen innociduum." Now, cannot we do something to meet this craving for fresh air, which, as it is the last instinct of the dying, is also the first and most natural instinct of the convalescent? Take a map of London and its environs, and you will by a short survey convince yourself that the neighbourhood of few of our large towns is supplied with better and purer air. Its immediate suburbs for miles and miles form one vast nursery garden. These, again, are circled with a golden belt of commons, yellow throughout the greater part of the year with the everblooming furze. Yet a little farther, and you will find a breezy range of downs, purple with heather, and fragrant with bee-haunted thyme, the emerald of their velvet carpet thick studded with the darker green boss of the juniper. Nay, within a dozen years the black cock has actually been sprung within sight of the golden cross of St. Paul's.1 Throughout all this tract of country, in pure air and the undimmed light of the sun, is freely proffered God's own medi cine to the convalescent-a medicine doubly potent in the case of those to whom these elements have been hitherto "forbidden fare." There is a certain old farmhouse on the margin of one of these seas of furzy gold, within but an hour's drive from the very heart of London; the railway will transport you to it in half the time. Its locality is Mitcham, and the visitor will have no difficulty in finding it, on asking the way to Rumbold's farm. There may be witnessed a practical experiment, worked by the simple common-sense of one in whose benevolent efforts many will surely be thankful to become sharers. "She has done what she could," and the result of her efforts will be best appreciated by an inspection of this asylum for convalescent 1 On Leith Hill, in Surrey, where it may possibly still be found. children. It is an old farmhouse, which, at much expense in the requisite alterations, has been thoroughly adapted for the purpose it now fulfils. An able military authority has lately recommended the site for defences of a very different kind-a fort for the protection of London. And yet this, too, may fulfil a like office against a foe which attacks a class most defenceless, and the cost-how trifling compared with that of our military estimates! The price of a single Armstrong gun would double the efficiency of this asylum, and defray its working expenses for an entire year. Or, to vary the terms of our calculations, the rent of three feet of space during some four or five hours, in the form of an opera stall, would suffice to restore a feeble little brother to health: it would cost as much to bury him! Of the entire success of the experiment the reader would do well to satisfy himself by personal inspection rather than from a necessarily imperfect description. The matron of the establishment, herself the personification of health, cheerfulness, and tidiness, will proudly point to the difference, visible at a glance, between the looks of the new comer and of one who has sojourned, though only for a few days, under her care. The most heedless will be struck by the wonders worked through the agency of the fresh breeze of the common, and the liberal though simple diet by which it is aided. The entire place, indeed, breathes a healthy atmosphere, one in which the feeble and neglected may, perhaps, for the first time, learn that he has brothers who care for him on earth, for the sake of Him whom we all in common address as Our Father in Heaven. And surely the blessing promised to the giver of the cup of cold water will not be wanting to those who minister the life-draught of pure air to the least of these little ones, of whom it is recorded "that it is not His will that one of these should perish." BRITAIN'S EARNEST-MONEY FOR THE PROVINCES WHICH SAVED HER INDIAN EMPIRE IN THE MUTINY. A STORY OF MOOLTAN. Ir is little more than twelve years since the British officers then acting for the young Maharaja Dulleep Sing, of Lahore, sent envoys to Mooltan to effect the transfer of its proconsulate from the Dewan Moolraj to a more trustworthy ruler. Those envoys were Patrick Vans Agnew, of the Bengal Civil Service, and Lieutenant Anderson, of the 1st Bombay Fusileers. The momentous events which have crowded our history - since that time make the episode of their murders appear like some incident long passed away, while the high-souled endurance which, in their case, elicited the involuntary admiration of men of another colour, and other sympathies, has been repeated in infinite phases during the late great Indian mutiny, telling a nobler tale of devotion and duty than had ever yet been heard in any nation's history, and illustrating at least one argument of the following attempt to recall and represent their services-that there is a purer heroism in the calm and enduring valour of English men and women, like those of Cawnpore and Lucknow, of Bandah and Hissar, of Jhansi and Shajehanpore, of many unrecorded stations, than any ancient or modern feat of fighting performed in the intoxication of action. cares But Britain, unfortunately, little for dead heroes. Her monuments, even on the field of Waterloo (till last year only), were to persons who survived the battle; while the Germans, both there and in the capitals, built their monuments to those who died. It would surely be an encouragement to men so perilously placed by their duty to their country as those whose fate we have attempted to represent, if they would not obliterate the debt of gratitude due to their devotion-that their friends and family at home would hear of them from their countrymen, and the guerdon of honour be scrupulously paid by Government to those who, in the performance of their glorious duty, succeeded in all but saving their own lives. This account was written soon after Agnew and Anderson died, and in Britain little or nothing is now known or heard of them; but the exile in India, at the scene of their deaths, may find the following inscription on an obelisk over their graves :— "BENEATH THIS MONUMENT PATRICK ALEXANDER VANS AGNEW, and WILLIAM ANDERSON, Lieutenant, 1st Bombay Fusileer Regiment, Assistants to the Resident at Lahore, Who, being deputed by the Government to relieve, at his own request, Dewan Moolraj, Viceroy of Mooltan, Of the Fortress and authority which he held, were attacked and wounded by the Garrison on the 19th April, 1848, And, being treacherously deserted by the Sikh Escort, were on the following day, In flagrant breach of National Faith and Hospitality, barbarously murdered In the Eedgah, under the Walls of Mooltan. Full of high hopes, rare talents, and promise of future usefulness; Even in their deaths doing their country honor. Wounded and forsaken, they could offer no resistance, but hand in hand calmly awaited the onset of their assailants. Nobly they refused to yield, Foretelling the day when thousands of Englishmen Should come to avenge their death And destroy Moolraj, his army and fortress. History records how the prediction was fulfilled. Borne to their grave by their victorious brother soldiers and countrymen, they were buried with military honours Here, on the summit of the captured citadel, On the 26th January, 1849. The annexation of the Punjab to the British Empire, was the result of the War All honour to Herbert Edwardes, and his companions, who paid such a tribute to their memory! They sing the deeds of olden days, When first the silken fold The gloomy storm of war; Are our hearts not as bold? Our fathers held of old? Now, brothers, learn of bearing bold Since our blazoned flag has flown. So that endless years to come It would stir our hero spirit Like the reveille of the drum! As its history should be told, Have you seen the Ocean sleeping On a quiet summer's day, you known the distant rising Levin lights across the sky, As the tempest wind sweeps by. Near the Chenaub's silent river See an eastern city rise, And its citadel lies basking 'Neath the burning eastern skies; With embrasures sternly frowning As a fortress-strength should be; But yon city resting tranquilly As sleeps the summer sea. Lo! along its widest causeway Comes a gallant cavalcade Of horsemen decked in cloth of gold, Their crined and broidered ensigns All ringing as they run. All travel-worn appear, O'er their motley Indian gear, While Sikhs and Moslems swell the crowd, From camp and temple near. Now, "by the hope of our Christian faith," And the Norman " name we bear," Yet with fixed and thoughtful eye; We meet no shifting glance in youths Schooled in responsibility. They scorn to heed the lowering looks, In a name the world wide known, They bring in truth a khalsa guard, |