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BRITAIN'S EARNEST-MONEY FOR THE PROVINCES WHICH

SAVED HER INDIAN EMPIRE IN THE MUTINY.

A STORY OF MOOLTAN.

and

It is little more than twelve years since would not obliterate the debt of gratithe British officers then acting for the tude due to their devotion—that their young Maharaja Dulleep Sing, of Lahore, friends and family at home would hear sent envoys to Mooltan to effect the of them from their countrymen, and the transfer of its proconsulata from the guerdon of honour be scrupulously paid Dewan Moolraj to a more trustworthy by Government to those who, in the ruler.

performance of their glorious duty, sucThose envoys were Patrick Vans ceeded in all but saving their own lives. Agnew, of the Bengal Civil Service, and This account was written soon after Lieutenant Anderson, of the 1st Bom- Agnew and Anderson died, and in bay Fusileers.

Britain little or nothing is now known The momentous events which have or heard of them ; but the exile in India, crowded our history since that time at the scene of their deaths, may find make the episode of their murders

appear the following inscription on an obelisk like some incident long passed away, over their graves :while the high-souled endurance which, in their case, elicited the involuntary

“BENEATH THIS MONUMENT

lie the remains of admiration of men of another colour,

PATRICK ALEXANDER VANS AGNEW, and other sympathies, has been repeated

Of the Bengal Civil Service, in infinite phases during the late great Indian mutiny, telling a nobler tale of

WILLIAM ANDERSON,

Lieutenant, ist Bombay Fusileer Regiment, devotion and duty than had ever yet

Assistants to the Resident at Lahore, been heard in any nation's history, and Who, being deputed by the Government to relieve, at

his own request, illustrating at least one argument of

Dewan Moolraj, Viceroy of Mooltan, the following attempt to recall and re

Of the Fortress and authority which he held, present their services—that there is a were attacked and wounded by the Garrison

on the 19th April, 1843, purer heroism in the calm and enduring

And, being treacherously deserted by the Sikh Escort, valour of English men and women, like

were on the following day, those of Cawnpore and Lucknow, of In flagrant breach of National Faith and Hospitality, Bandah and Hissar, of Jhansi and

barbarously murdered

In the Eedgah, under the Walls of Mooltan. Shajehanpore, of many unrecorded sta

Thus fell these two young public servants, tions, than any ancient or modern feat

At the ages of 25 and 28 years, of fighting performed in the intoxication

Full of high hopes, rare talents, and promise of future

usefulness; of action.

Even in their deaths doing their country honor, But Britain, unfortunately, cares Wounded and forsaken, they could offer no resistance, little for dead heroes. Her monuments,

but hand in hand calmly awaited the onset

of their assailants. even on the field of Waterloo (till last

Nobly they refused to yield, year only), were to persons who survived Foretelling the day when thousands of Englishmen the battle ; while the Germans, both

Should come to avenge their death

And destroy Moolraj, his army and fortress. there and in the capitals, built their

History records how the prediction was fulfilled. monuments to those who died.

Borne to their grave by their victorious brother soldiers It would surely be an encouragement

and countrymen, they were buried with

military honours to men so perilously placed by their duty

Here, on the summit of the captured citadel, to their country as those whose fate we

On the 26th January, 1849. have attempted to represent, if they

The annexation of the Punjab to the British Empire,

was the result of the War could feel confident that their deaths

Of which their assassination was the commencement."

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 'lwould 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, And whitening sheets of driving foam

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

faith,”
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 throng,
In the simple garb of England

Pass fearlessly alongAll 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 ʼmidst 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

stain

Of Moodkee and Feroz ; As though they'd seized a grisly boar,

First tamed his rage, and then Had led him forth to be their guard,

And face the lion's den.

All slowly and all solemnly,

Like some sad funeral train, Pass those who bear our envoys

Back to their tents again. With bodies weak and bleeding,

But with souls yet undismayed, Pass the youths we saw so lately

’Midst that joyous cavalcade. Yet the pageant of the morning

Scarce had lived beyond the noon; It had risen like the rainbow cloud

And passed away as soon ;
But this seeming sad returning,

All Christendom may own
To yield, I gage, the proudest page

In India's annals known !

Full fiercely does the Indian vaunt;

Full hardy does he seem
Where'er no British drums are heard,

No British bayonets gleam.
What wonder that the muttered curse

Should louder accents find ?
We mark the cloud, the rising breeze,

The sadly-moaning wind.
Then sudden as the thunder-clap,

Or ripple on the tide,
With
eager,
startled

gaze the crowd Throngs round on every side. Some sudden and untoward chance

Seems fallen on them there ;
Strange broken cries of fear and hate

Come borne along the air.
In surging waves yon angry crowd

Is tossing to and fro,
While through the streets that tumult-

storm Does sterner, wilder grow. Then shining blades and coward knives

On every side are bared,
As though to meet some armèd host
Their

weapons were prepared. Oh, highly swells the courage

Of the braggart Indian then,
With sword and spear, with shout and

cheer,
Against two fenceless men.

As the weary beat of billows,

Sounding ever drear and dull; As the sighing winds of ocean,

When the storm begins to lull ; So a ceaseless hum of voices,

From the crowds within the town, Yield a sorrow-sounding cadence

Till at last the sun goes down. Then again the tumult rises,

As the wild winds again With fiercer might in reckless flight

To sweep across the main.

Were five to one the odds they meet,

And they, too, sword in hand,
The spirit of their sires might crown

With laurel-wreaths their brand.
But what avails that Wallace-blood

Which flows in Agnew's veins ? What worth the Anglo-Saxon nerve

Which English calm sustains ?
For onward like the tidal-wave

Their wild assailants throng,
And those who lead by after crowds

Are driven fast along,
As melting snows and autumn rain

Drive th' Indus' swollen flood,
Till Mooltan streets are crimson-stained

With Europe's knightly blood.

Now where are they whose funeral knell

Is rung by the tumult there?
Do they read aright the lurid light

Which its crested breakers bear ?
Oh, they bide together as brethren

should For the fate they meet that day ; And they speak together in kindly tones

Of those that are far away ; And they kneel for the hope of their

Christian faith As they knelt by a mother's knee'Tis the selfsame prayer they whisper

there Where they kneel 'neath the tama

rind tree. They seek for no help of the souls to be

shriven, Save the grace that from Calvary

smiled; Nor need they for shrift of a hero's

death
But the prayer of an English child

Ah! gaily day dawns on a far-off scene But we die not unremembered, Where their memory carries them And not unrevenged we die, now;

For our brothers here in thousands That sun which is setting for their last Will seek us where we lie. day,

The storm of Britain's iron hail And shedding its lurid glow

Will sweep your city round, On dusty plain and heated town, And soon her dread artillery And bathes in gold as 'tis sinking Will raze it with the ground."

down Each minaret tower and dome,

What wonder an they trembled Is rising in streams of joyous light

At the stern reply he gave, O'er misty wold and moorland bright,

Or deem'd the light of prophecy O'er the meadow fields of home.

Shone on him from the grave ? That force which can scatter the shades For many a father thought, I ween, of time

When that proud speech was done, Clears the mists from years gone by ;

“I would yon Kaffir's lion heart And the scenes of a life crowd round Was placed within my son!”

them again,
Round the pallet where bleeding they Ah! hide the fearful vision
lie.

Which opens to us now;
Hide their fiendish scowls of triumph ;

Veil his calm and fearless brow !
Then like enchantment, broken
By some unearthly spell,

But all sickening sounds of horror

Still echo through the air ;
Wild forms, and wilder voices
Fill the “ Eedgah ” where they dwell.

A craven mob that cries for blood,

And none to reason there! And a darkening circle henis them round; Oh, the leaden sound of murderous No help or hope of freedom shows,

blows; Sa one clear path above them,

The proudly stifled cry! Which no earthly power can close.

Oh, the fearful sweep of sabres ; Britain's envoys hold high audience

The shudder and the sigh ! Of a strange and solemn kind,

Then the spirit all unconquered Looking dauntlessly for severance

Has no partner left to die. Of the body and the mind.

Lying wounded and forsaken, Then fearless spoke Vans Agnew,

Lying “ face to face with death,” While before his flashing eye

Yet upholding Britain's honour A moment quail'd the rabble rout

Till life's last ebbing breath, That came to see him die.

Far from sympathy or succour, “'Tis well,” he said; “I hail the sign With no fond friends standing by,

That ye, with your own hand, But all frowning eyes around them, Should use the stain of Saxon blood Did our martyred heroes die.

To redden this fair land;
It has been said the Saxon red

What aching hearts may bleed for them Will cover India o'er,

Let other annals say ; That India's chart shall need to trace What happy British hearths may turn Its native States no more.

As hapless from to-day. And we, the least of England's sons,

Do mothers live to mourn their sons May gladly die to claim

As only mothers may ? Fresh conquests for our country

Will gentle sisters weep for them Fresh honour for our name.

In their homes far, far away?

R. H. W. D.

THE ASHEN FAGGOT.

A TALE FOR CHRISTMAS.

BY THOMAS HUGHES, AUTHOR OF “TOM BROWN AT OXFORD," &c.

CHAPTER 1.

“ There, you see, Herbert, I wasn't

far wrong," said the younger. At about four o'clock on Christmas Eve, “A mile out, Johnny-never mind. a year or two back, two men trudged Now what do you say I shall we push briskly up the little village-street of on at once, or stop and feed ?” Lilburne, in the county of Wilts. They “What should you like ?” were both dressed in rough shooting “That has nothing to say to it. suits, and one carried a common game You're in command, you know, since bag, and the other a knapsack. Each this morning." of them had a stout stick in his hand. “ Well, I shouldn't like to be there The elder, who might be six or seven very early. I'm sure you would feel and twenty, wore

a strong reddish yourself—" brown beard. The rest of his rather “ Then we call a halt,” interrupted broad face was well tanned by exposure the elder, leading the way into the to weather; he had a clear, merry grey

house; “this cold air of yours has given eye, and an air of very British self me a deuce of an appetite. Now, landreliance about him. The younger, in his lord, what can we have to eat, directly? twentieth year, or thereabouts, wore also Some cold meat, or whatever you can as much beard as nature had yet be give us at once. Mind, sharp's the stowed on him, and was tanned a ruddy word ! Or, never mind, no, you go and brown. He was darker than his com draw us some of your best tap. You'll panion, and his complexion would have help us, ma'am, I can see, about the been sallow, but for the work of sun eatables, and I'm sure we couldn't be and air on it. There was the possibility in better hands." of great nervous irritability and excita This speech, begun in the street, , bleness in the look of him ; but this ended in the tiny bar of “The Wagnatural tendency of his constitution and goner's Rest,” in which the hostess stood, temperament seemed, at least for the

a tidy well-looking woman, in Sunday present, to be counteracted by robust cap and ribbons, donne in honour of health.

the season, and of the rush of guests The two stopped at the door of “The whom she was expecting as the day Waggoner's Rest," the only public-house of Lilburne village.

She was flattered by the compliment "Well, here we are then, at the last of her off-hand guest, who clearly was stage. How much further do you say it not in the habit of letting the grass grow is ?

on his own heels, or on those of any one “ Just six miles."

else with whom he had to do. He had “I'm never quite at ease about your sent her bustling off in a minute or two arithmetic, Johnny. Hullo here. House! to cook rashers of bacon on toast, and to landlord ! who's at home here ?and run round to the yard in the forlorn hope he gave a thump or two on the door that one of the hens might have so forpost, which brought mine host out with gotten herself as to lay in such weather,

in that cold, dark little stable of “The “How far do you call it to Avenly, Waggoner's Rest." Meanwhile, he had landlord ?

taken possession of the bar, heaped up “A matter o seven miles, sir.” the fire, seated his companion opposite

wore on.

a run.

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