head of its bearer presents a somewhat of wood, such as is used in a guard-room disparaging contrast. Here is another, for the temporary resting-place of solwho, promptly availing himself of the diers on duty, with the difference that opportunity afforded by the departure of the one before us is partitioned off into the billsticker, has stripped off a placard separate cells ! Each cell has now its from the hoarding, while yet the paste is inmate, for it is close on midnight ; and damp and reeking. The little wretch here you may perchance recognise the has replaced it, but only after having little face which this morning grinned carefully turned it upside down ; and its quaint appeal, comic in spite of all now, standing on his own head, reads the that hunger and dirt could do to sadden contents to the passers-by, who are some it. The tiny tumbler has played his what bewildered by the inversion of the play out—the marshal of the crossing infant Daniel and the writing which he has laid aside his baton—the song of professes to expound. The performance the mudlark has ended, and its dactylic is, of course, concluded with the usual refrain, “Give ŭs å ’āpěnný, plēase sīr," appeal for a “’apenny;" for note that the has sunk into silence; and there they street urchin's is no golden dream of lie, with all that is comic, merged in the wealth. It is invariably limited to the awfulness of sleep-a deep sleep evisum above specified, neither more nor dently, for it is unbroken by even that less—“only a ’apenny.”

never-ceasing, hacking cough, which Throughout the livelong day we shall rings forth throughout the livelong meet him, go where we will, and (should night-a sound which proclaims, in sadthe spectator be of a thoughtful cast) der eloquence than that of words, whence never without experiencing the some- the sleepers have come, and whither what mingled sensation produced by they are surely hastening. listening to a tale half humorous, half No statistics of the Registrar-General, pathetic, or gazing at an actor whose however elaborate, no testimony of Blueperformance, Robson-like, is semi-gro- books and Boards of Health, however tesque, semi-tragic. But the night ad- weighty and convincing, could point vances, and, if we follow the little animal the moral more strongly than that neverto his lair, the serious element may per- ceasing cough, the sound of which only chance somewhat preponderate. A visit dies away as we pass into the open air, to the Refuge in Field-lane will form absorbed, perchance, in the deep vibrano bad frigidarium, or mental douche, tion of the bell of St. Paul's. Heard after the tepidarium of a crowded “at under these circumstances, that midnight home.” It may, as a Turkish bath, vibration may remind us of certain produce a not unhealthy reaction upon realities, perhaps as important as the the mind blazé with the glare, and re- fact that the ball-rooms of the West laxed by the heat of the crush we have are even now brimming over in a highquitted in time, to arrive at the Refuge tide of arrivals, and glittering in the while it yet wants a few minutes of noontide of their brilliancy. twelve. Enter, and you will witness a Two questions, meanwhile, have possomewhat singular phase of the night sibly crossed our mind—the first, What side of street-nature. This is the rest. becomes of these children when sick? ing-place of our pariah of the street, the second, What is their destiny when the only resting place, save the one convalescent ? As regards the first, the which awaits him when “a longer night case of the sick child of the streets, unable is near."

to find a refuge in the hospital, is one The sleeping accommodation can for which kind Nature furnishes a speedy hardly be termed luxurious. A rug, and solution. To him whose acquaintance of a sort of counter, not very unlike that Earth has been almost wholly derived in the Morgue of Paris, on which the from the mud of the streets, the ansuicide and the murderer sleep their last nouncement, “dust thou art," sounds sleep! A raised and sloping platform almost a truism, and the sentence, “to

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.

Such as have done so, if they have been readers of “Little Dorrit,” will be at no loss to understand how naturally poor Maggy, of the Marshalsea, summed up her notions of comfort in the expres. sive term “Hospitally," derived from her recollections as an in-patient. Now 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. able article in Household Words, April, 1852.

“ And, when I did descend again,

The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load-
It 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 correspondingly corres

limited. Had you, O reader, to prescribe for the darling of your own nursery just recovered from sickness, would it not be in three wordschange 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 “ aʼmost 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, 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 per

petuum, Candent lilia, rubescit crocus, sudat

balsamum, Virent prata, vernant sata, rivi mellis

influunt, Pigmentorum spirat odor, liquor et

aromatum, Pendent floridorum non lapsura ne

morum, Non alternat Luna vices, Sol vel cursus


The last work of the painter Martin, on which he was engaged just before his death.

Agnus est fælicis urbis lumen inno

ciduum.” 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 dowńs, 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. Throughout all this tract of country, in pure air and the undimmed light of the sun, is freely proffered God's own medicine 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

allway will transport you to it in half the time. Its locality is Mitcham, and the visitor

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."




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 saying 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 :

It 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.

But Britain, unfortunately, cares 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


lie the remains of
Of the Bengal Civil Service,

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.
Thus fell these two young public servants,

At the ages of 25 and 28 years,
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
Of Britain's royal banner gained

Its blazoning of gold;
They tell us we've inherited

A great and glorious name From iron-belted sires of yore,

Who founded England's fame; And we hear of deeds of daring,

Seeming more than mortal might, Done with boiling blood of battle

Midst the fever of the fight,
Like levin bolts illumining

The gloomy storm of war;
Such deeds too story India's plains

From Ava to Lahore.
And are we then degenerate,

Are our hearts not as bold ?
Find we no hand to grasp the brand

Our fathers held of old ?
Now, brothers, learn of bearing bold

As ever yet was shown,
Since those olden days of glory,

Since our blazoned flag has flown.
Ah, would 'twere mine to tell it,

So that endless years to come It would stir our hero spirit

Like the reveille of the drum! Ah, would 'twere mine to tell it,

So that every hamlet, town, Every fertile glade of England,

Should hear of its renown!
And would that I could tell it

As its history should be told,
So 'twould fire the young for honour,

So 'twould renovate the old !
Have you seen the Ocean sleeping

On a quiet summer's day,
And the tall ships scarcely cleaving

The waters of the bay-
All nature resting tranquilly,

All danger far away?
Have you known the distant rising

Of some dark and spreading cloud ? Then breezy gusts come rippling by ;

Then a wind that moans aloud ; Soon the sullen roll of thunder,

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,

And silks of every shade.
They gaily guide that human tide,

These warriors of Ind,
Their crined and broidered ensigns

Free fluttering in the wind;
And shirts of mail, and casques of steel,

Are gleaming in the sun,
Their harness plates and corselets

All ringing as they run.
A little band of spearmen, too,

All travel-worn appear,
Who bear St. George's ensign

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

And the Norman "name we bear,"
Has seldom been a stranger scene

Than shows before us there :
A pair of Europe's fair-browed sons,

Amidst that swarthy throns,
In the simple garb of England

Pass fearlessly along-
All fearless and all proudly,

Yet with fixed and thoughtful eye; We meet no shifting glance in youths

Schooled in responsibility.
They scorn to heed the lowering looks,

Their swart companions show,
Nor seem to hear the muttered curse

Which follows where they go.
In the magic might of England,

In a name the world wide known, They wander ’midst a hostile crowd, .

Nigh armless and alone.
They bring in truth a khalsa guard,

A band of conquered foes,
Whose swords retain the blood-rust

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