Chapter II: Part 2

In St. Anne Street, one of the worst and filthiest purlieus of the district, stands a house somewhat larger and cleaner than the miserable, rickety, and greasy-looking tenements around it. Over the door are painted, in large legible characters, the following words: “The Ragged Dormitory and Colonial Training School of Industry.” On one of the shutters it is indicated, in similar characters, that the house is a refuge for “Youths who wish to Reform.” None are admitted under sixteen, as those under that age can get admission to one or other of the schools. Those eligible are such vagrants and thieves as are between sixteen and twenty-two, and desire to abandon their present mode of life, and lead honest and industrious courses for the future.

It is obvious that such an institution, if not carefully watched, would be liable to being greatly abused. The pinching wants of the moment would drive many into it, whose sole object was to meet there, instead of to subject themselves to the reformatory discipline of the establishment. Many would press into it whose love of idleness had hitherto been their greatest vice. As it is, this latter class is deterred, to a great extent, from applying, by the Institution confining its operations to the thief and the vagrant. Each applicant, by applying for admission, confesses himself to belong to one or other of these classes, or to both. If he is found to be a subject coming within the scope of the establishment, he is at once admitted, and subjected to its discipline. The natural inference would be, that the avowed object of it would turn applicants from its doors. But this is far from being the case; upwards of two hundred having applied during the past year, the second of its existence.

To distinguish those who are sincere in their application from those who merely wish to make a convenience, for the time being, of the establishment, each applicant, on admission, is subjected to a rigid test. In the attic story of the building is a small room, the walls and ceiling of which are painted with yellow ochre. Last year, for it is only recently that the house has been applied to its present purpose, this room was occupied by a numerous and squalid family, some of whose members were the first victims of cholera, in Westminster. The massive chimney-stack projects far into the room, and in the deep recesses between it and the low walls on either side are two beds formed of straw, with a coarse counterpane for a covering. Beyond this there is not a vestige of furniture in the apartment. This is the Probation-room, the ordeal of which every applicant must pass ere he is fully received into the Institution. But he must pass a whole fortnight, generally alone, his fare being bread and water. His allowance of bread is a pound a-day, which he may dispose of as he pleases, either at a meal or at several. He does not pass the entire day in solitude, for during class-hours he is taken down to the school-room, where he is taught with the rest. But, with that exception, he is not allowed to mingle with the rest of the inmates, being separated from them for the remainder of the day, and left to his own reflections in his lonely cell.

A man, compulsorily subjected to solitude and short commons, may make up his mind to it, and resign himself to his fate. But no one will voluntarily subject himself to such a test who is not tired of a dishonest life, and anxious to reform. In nearly nine cases out of ten it unmasks the impostor. Many shrink at once from the ordeal, and retire. Others undergo it for a day or two, and then leave; for, as there was no compulsion on them to enter, they are at all times at liberty to depart. Some stay for a week, and then withdraw, whilst instances have been known of their giving up after ten or twelve days’ endurance. The few that remain are readily accepted as objects worthy the best efforts of the establishment.

The applicants, particularly the vagrants, are generally in the worst possible condition, as regards clothing. In many cases they are half-naked, like the wretched objects who make themselves up for charity in the streets. Their probation over, they are clad in comparatively decent attire, consisting chiefly of cast-off clothing, furnished by the contributors to the institution. They are then released from their solitary dormitory, and admitted to all the privileges of the house.

The tried and accepted inmates of the Institution have, for the two past years, averaged about thirty each year. They get up at an early hour, their first business being to clean out the establishment from top to bottom. They afterwards assemble at breakfast, which consists of cocoa and bread, of which they make a hearty meal. The business of instruction then commences, there being two school-rooms on the first floor, into one of which the more advanced pupils are put by themselves, the other being reserved for those that are more backward and for the new comers. It is into this latter room that the probationers are admitted during school-hours. During school-hours they are instructed in the fundamental doctrines of religion, and in the elements of education, including geography—particularly the geography of the colonies. The master exercises a general control over the whole establishment. The upper class is taught by a young man, who was himself one of the earliest inmates of the Institution, and who is now being trained for becoming a regular teacher. The other class is usually presided over by a monitor, also an inmate—but one who is in advance of his fellows. Most of those now in the house are able to read, and many to read well. Such as have been thieves are generally able to read when they enter, having been taught to do so in the prisons; those who cannot read being generally vagrants, or such as have been thieves without having been apprehended and convicted. They present a curious spectacle in their class-rooms. Their ages vary from twenty-one to sixteen, there being two in at present under sixteen, but they were admitted under special circumstances. With the exception of the probationers, they are all dressed comfortably, but in different styles, according to the character and fashion of the clothing at the command of the establishment. Some wear the surtout, others the dress-coat; some the short jacket, and others again the paletot. They are all provided with shoes and stockings, each being obliged to keep his own shoes scrupulously clean. Indeed, they are under very wholesome regulations as to their ablutions, and the general cleanliness of their persons. As they stand ranged in their classes, the diversity of countenances which they exhibit is as striking as are the contrasts presented by their raiment. In some faces you can still trace the brutal expression which they wore on entering. In others, the low cunning, begotten by their mode of life, was more or less distinguishable. You could readily point to those who had been longest in the establishment, from the humanising influences which their treatment had had upon their looks and expressions. The faces of most of them were lit up with new-born intelligence, whilst it was painful to witness the vacant and stolid looks of two of them, who had but recently passed the ordeal of the dormitory. Generally speaking, they are found to be quick and apt scholars, their mode of life having tended, in most instances, to quicken their perceptions.

Between the morning and afternoon classes they dine,—their dinner comprising animal food three times a week, being chiefly confined on other days to bread and dripping. They sup at an early hour in the evening, when cocoa and bread form again the staple of their meal. After supper, they spend an hour or two in the training school, which is a large room adjoining the probationers’ dormitory, where they are initiated into the mysteries of the tailors’ and shoemakers’ arts, under the superintendence of qualified teachers. They afterwards retire to rest, sleeping on beds laid out upon the floor, each bed containing one. When the house is full, the two class-rooms are converted at night into sleeping apartments. They are also compelled to attend some place of worship on the Sunday, and, in case of sickness, have the advantage of a medical attendant. During a part of the day they are allowed to walk out, in different gangs,—each gang under the care of one of their number. In their walks they are restricted as to time, and are required to avoid, as much as possible, the low neighbourhoods of the town. Should any of them desire to learn the business of a carpenter; they have the means of doing so; and two are now engaged in acquiring a practical knowledge of this useful trade.

Such is the curriculum which they undergo after being fully admitted into the house. They are so instructed as to wean them as much as possible from their former habits, to inspire them with the desire of living honest lives, and to fit them for becoming useful members of society, in the different offices for which they are destined. They must be six months at least in the house before they are deemed ready to emigrate. Some are kept longer. They are all eager to go,—being, without exception, sickened at the thought of recurring to their previous habits of life. From twenty to thirty have already been sent abroad. The committee who superintend the establishment are anxious to keep forty on the average in the house throughout the year, in addition to sending twenty each year abroad. This, however, will require a larger fund than they have at present at their disposal.

Such is the Institution which, for two years past, has been silently and unostentatiously working its own quota of good in this little-known and pestilential region. It is designed for the reclamation of a class on which society turns its back. Its doors are open alike to the convicted and the unconvicted offender. Five-sixths of its present inmates have been the denizens of many jails—and some of them have only emerged from the neighbouring Penitentiary. It is not easy to calculate the amount of mature crime which, in the course of a few years, it will avert from society, by its timely rescue of the precocious delinquent. It is thus an institution which may appeal to the selfishness, as well as to the benevolence, of the community for aid: though not very generally known, it is visited by many influential parties; and some of the greatest ornaments of Queen Victoria’s Court have not shrunk from crossing its threshold and contributing to its support.

Curious indeed would be the biographies which such an institution could furnish. The following, extracted from the Master’s Record, will serve as a specimen. The name is, for obvious reasons, suppressed.

“John ——, 16 years of age. Admitted June 3rd, 1848. Had slept for four months previously under the dry arches in West-street. Had made his livelihood for nearly five years by picking pockets. Was twice in jail—the last time in Tothill-Fields Prison. The largest sum he ever stole at a time, was a sovereign and a half. Could read when admitted. Learnt to write and cipher. Remained for eight months in the house. Behaved well. Emigrated to Australia. Doing well.”

It is encouraging to know that the most favourable accounts have been received both of and from those who have been sent out as emigrants, not only from this, but also from the Pear Street School. It is now some time since a lad, who, although only fourteen, was taken into the latter, was sent to Australia. He had been badly brought up; his mother, during his boyhood, having frequently sent him out, either to beg or to steal. About a year after her son’s departure, she called, in a state of deep distress, upon the missionary of the district, and informed him that her scanty furniture was about to be seized for rent, asking him at the same time for advice. He told her that he had none to give her but to go and pay the rent, at the same time handing her a sovereign. She received it hesitatingly, doubting, for a moment, the evidence of her senses. She went and paid the rent, which was eighteen shillings, and afterwards returned with the change, which she tendered to the missionary with her heartfelt thanks. He told her to keep the balance, as the sovereign was her own—informing her, at the same time, that it had been sent her by her son, and had that very morning so opportunely come to hand, together with a letter, which he afterwards read to her. The poor woman for a moment or two looked stupified and incredulous, after which she sank upon a chair, and wept long and bitterly. The contrast between her son’s behaviour and her own conduct towards him, filled her with shame and remorse. She is now preparing to follow him to Australia.

Another case was that of a young man, over twenty years of age, who had likewise been admitted, under special circumstances, to the same Institution. He had been abandoned by his parents in his early youth, and had taken to the streets to avert the miseries of destitution. He soon became expert in the art of picking pockets, on one occasion depriving a person in Cornhill of no less than a hundred and fifty pounds in Bank notes. With this, the largest booty he had ever made, he repaired to a house in the neighbourhood, where stolen property was received. Into the room into which he was shown, a gloved hand was projected, through an aperture in the wall, from an adjoining room, into which he placed the notes. The hand was then withdrawn, and immediately afterwards projected again with twenty sovereigns, which was the amount he received for the notes. He immediately repaired to Westminster, and invested ten pounds of this sum in counterfeit money, at a house not a stone’s throw from the Institution.

For the ten pounds he received, in bad money, what represented fifty. With this he sallied forth into the country with the design of passing it off—a process known amongst the craft as “shuffle-pitching.” The first place he went to was Northampton, and the means he generally adopted for passing off the base coin was this:—Having first buried in the neighbourhood of the town all the good and bad money in his possession, with the exception of a sovereign of each, so that, if detected in passing a bad one, no more bad money would be found upon his person; he would enter a retail shop, say a draper’s, at a late hour of the evening, and say that his master had sent him for some article of small value, such as a handkerchief. On its being shown him, he would demand the price of it, and make up his mind to take it; whereupon he would lay down a good sovereign, which the shopkeeper would take up, but, as he was about to give him change, a doubt would suddenly arise in his mind as to whether his master would give the price asked for the article. He would then demand the sovereign back, with a view to going and consulting his master, promising, at the same time, to be back again in a few minutes. Back again he would come, and say that his master was willing to give the price, or that he wished the article at a lower figure. He took care, however, that a bargain was concluded between him and the shopkeeper; whereupon he would again lay down the sovereign, which, however, on this occasion, was the bad and not the good one. The unsuspecting shopkeeper would give him the change, and he would leave with the property and the good money. Such is the process of “shuffle-pitching.” In the majority of instances he succeeded, but was sometimes detected. In this way he took the circuit twice of Great Britain and Ireland; stealing as he went along, and passing off the bad money, which he received, for good. There are few jails in the United Kingdom of which he has not been a denizen. His two circuits took him nine years to perform, his progress being frequently arrested by the interposition of justice. It was at the end of his second journey that he applied for admission to the Pear Street School. He had been too often in jail not to be able to read; but he could neither write nor cipher when he was taken in. He soon learnt, however, to do both; and, after about seven months’ probation, emigrated to America from his own choice. The missionary of the district accompanied him on board as he was about to sail. The poor lad wept like a child when he took leave of his benefactor, assuring him that he never knew the comforts of a home until he entered the Pear Street School. Several letters have been received from him since his landing, and he is now busily employed, and—doing well!

Instances of this kind might be multiplied, if necessary, of what is thus being done daily and unostentatiously for the reclamation of the penitent offender, not only after conviction, but also before he undergoes the terrible ordeal of correction and a jail.

“PRESS ON.”

A RIVULET’S SONG.

“Just under an island, ’midst rushes and moss,
I was born of a rock-spring, and dew;
I was shaded by trees, whose branches and leaves
Ne’er suffered the sun to gaze through.

“I wandered around the steep brow of a hill,
Where the daisies and violets fair
Were shaking the mist from their wakening eyes,
And pouring their breath on the air.

“Then I crept gently on, and I moistened the feet
Of a shrub which enfolded a nest—
The bird in return sang his merriest song,
And showed me his feathery crest.

“How joyous I felt in the bright afternoon,
When the sun, riding off in the west,
Came out in red gold from behind the green trees
And burnished my tremulous breast!

“My memory now can return to the time
When the breeze murmured low plaintive tones,
While I wasted the day in dancing away,
Or playing with pebbles and stones.

“It points to the hour when the rain pattered down,
Oft resting awhile in the trees;
Then quickly descending it ruffled my calm,
And whispered to me of the seas!

“’Twas _then_ the first wish found a home in my breast
To increase as time hurries along;
’Twas then I first learned to lisp softly the words
Which I now love so proudly—‘_Press on!_’

“I’ll make wider my bed, as onward I tread,
A deep mighty river I’ll be—
‘_Press on_’ all the day will I sing on my way,
Till I enter the far-spreading sea.”

It ceased. A youth lingered beside its green edge
Till the stars in its face brightly shone;
He hoped the sweet strain would re-echo again—
But he just heard a murmur,—“_Press on!_”

ADDRESS FROM AN UNDERTAKER TO THE TRADE.

(STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.)

I address you, gentlemen, as an humble individual who is much concerned about the body. This little joke is purely a professional one. It must go no further. I am afraid the public thinks uncharitably of undertakers, and would consider it a proof that Dr. Johnson was right when he said that the man who would make a pun would pick a pocket. Well; we all try to do the best we can for ourselves,—everybody else as well as undertakers. Burials may be expensive, but so is legal redress. So is spiritual provision; I mean the maintenance of all our reverends and right reverends. I am quite sure that both lawyers’ charges and the revenues of some of the chief clergy are very little, if any, more reasonable than our own prices. Pluralities are as bad as crowded gravepits, and I don’t see that there is a pin to choose between the church and the churchyard. Sanitary revolutionists and incendiaries accuse us of gorging rottenness, and battening on corruption. We don’t do anything of the sort, that I see, to a greater extent than other professions, which are allowed to be highly respectable. Political military, naval, university, and clerical parties of great eminence defend abuses in their several lines when profitable. We can’t do better than follow such good examples. Let us stick up for business, and—I was going to say—leave society to take care of itself. No; that is just what we should endeavour to prevent society from doing. The world is growing too wise for us, gentlemen. Accordingly, this Interments Bill, by which our interests are so seriously threatened, has been brought into Parliament. We must join heart and hand to defeat and crush it. Let us nail our colours—which I should call the black flag—to the mast, and let our war-cry be, “No surrender!” or else our motto will very soon be, “Resurgam;” in other words, it will be all up with us. We stand in a critical position in regard to public opinion. In order to determine what steps to take for protecting business, we ought to see our danger. I wish, therefore, to state the facts of our case clearly to you; and I say let us face them boldly, and not blink them. Therefore, I am going to speak plainly and plumply on this subject.

There is no doubt—between ourselves—that what makes our trade so profitable is the superstition, weakness, and vanity of parties. We can’t disguise this fact from ourselves, and I only wish we may be able to conceal it much longer from others. As enlightened undertakers, we must admit that we are of no more use on earth than scavengers. All the good we do is to bury people’s dead out of their sight. Speaking as a philosopher—which an undertaker surely ought to be—I should say that our business is merely to shoot rubbish. However, the rubbish is human rubbish, and bereaved parties have certain feelings which require that it should be shot gingerly. I suppose such sentiments are natural, and will always prevail. But I fear that people will by and by begin to think that pomp, parade, and ceremony are unnecessary upon melancholy occasions. And whenever this happens, Othello’s occupation will, in a great measure, be gone.

I tremble to think of mourning relatives considering seriously what is requisite—and all that is requisite—for decent interment, in a rational point of view. Nothing more, I am afraid Common Sense would say, than to carry the body in the simplest chest, and under the plainest covering, only in a solemn and respectful manner, to the grave, and lay it in the earth with proper religious ceremonies. I fear Common Sense would be of opinion that mutes, scarfs, hatbands, plumes of feathers, black horses, mourning coaches, and the like, can in no way benefit the defunct, or comfort surviving friends, or gratify anybody but the mob, and the street-boys. But happily, Common Sense has not yet acquired an influence which would reduce every burial to a most low affair.

Still, people think now more than they did, and in proportion as they do think, the worse it will be for business. I consider that we have a most dangerous enemy in Science. That same Science pokes its nose into everything—even vaults and churchyards. It has explained how grave-water soaks into adjoining wells, and has shocked and disgusted people by showing them that they are drinking their dead neighbours. It has taught parties resident in large cities that the very air they live in reeks with human remains, which steam up from graves; and which, of course, they are continually breathing. So it makes out churchyards to be worse haunted than they were formerly believed to be by ghosts, and, I may add, vampyres, in consequence of the dead continually rising from them in this unpleasant manner. Indeed, Science is likely to make people dread them a great deal more than Superstition ever did, by showing that their effluvia breed typhus and cholera; so that they are really and truly very dangerous. I should not be surprised to hear some sanitary lecturer say, that the fear of churchyards was a sort of instinct implanted in the mind, to prevent ignorant people and children from going near such unwholesome places.

It would be comparatively well if the mischief done us by Science—Medicine and Chemistry, and all that sort of thing—stopped here. The mere consideration that burial in the heart of cities is unhealthy, would but lead to extramural interment, to which our only objection—though even that is no very trifling one—is that it would diminish mortality, and consequently our trade. But this Science—confound it!—shows that the dead do not remain permanently in their coffins, even when the sextons of metropolitan graveyards will let them. It not only informs Londoners that they breathe and drink the deceased; but it reveals how the whole of the defunct party is got rid of, and turned into gases, liquids, and mould. It exposes the way in which all animal matter—as it is called in chemical books—is dissolved, evaporates, and disappears; and is ultimately, as I may say, eaten up by Nature, and goes to form parts of plants, and of other living creatures. So that, if gentlemen really wanted to be interred with the remains of their ancestors, it would sometimes be possible to comply with their wishes only by burying them with a quantity of mutton—not to say with the residue of another quadruped than the sheep, which often grazes in churchyards. Science, in short, is hammering into people’s heads truths which they have been accustomed merely to gabble with their mouths—that all flesh is indeed grass, or convertible into it; and not only that the human frame does positively turn to dust, but into a great many things besides. Now, I say, that when they become really and truly convinced of all this; when they know and reflect that the body cannot remain any long time in the grave which it is placed in; I am sadly afraid that they will think twice before they will spend from thirty to several hundred pounds in merely putting a corpse into the ground to decompose.

The only hope for us if these scientific views become general, is, that embalming will be resorted to; but I question if the religious feeling of the country will approve of a practice which certainly seems rather like an attempt to arrest a decree of Providence; and would, besides, be very expensive. Here I am reminded of another danger, to which our prospects are exposed. It is that likely to arise from serious parties, in consequence of growing more enlightened, thinking consistently with their religious principles, instead of their religion being a mere sentimental kind of thing which they never reason upon. We often, you know, gentlemen, overhear the bereaved remarking that they trust the departed is in a better place. Why, if this were not a mere customary saying on mournful occasions—if the parties really believed this—do you think they would attach any importance to the dead body which we bury underground? No; to be sure: they would look upon it merely as a suit of left-off clothes—with the difference of being unpleasant and offensive, and not capable of being kept. They would see that a spirit could care no more about the corpse it had quitted, than a man who had lost his leg, would for the amputated limb. The truth is—don’t breathe it, don’t whisper it, except to the trade—that the custom of burying the dead with expensive furniture; of treating a corpse as if it were a sensible being; arises from an impression—though parties won’t own it, even to themselves—that what is buried, is the actual individual, the man himself. The effect of thinking seriously, and at the same time rationally, will be to destroy this notion, and with it to put an end to all the splendour and magnificence of funerals, arising from it. Moreover, religious parties, being particular as to their moral conduct, would naturally consider it wrong and wicked to spend upon the dead an amount of money which might be devoted to the benefit of the living; and no doubt, when we come to look into it, such expenditure is much the same thing with the practice of savages and heathens in burying bread, and meat, and clothes, along with their deceased friends.

I have been suggesting considerations which are very discouraging, and which afford but a poor look-out to us undertakers. But, gentlemen, we have one great comfort still. It has become the fashion to inter bodies with parade and display. Fashion is fashion; and the consequence is that it is considered an insult to the memory of deceased parties not to bury them in a certain style; which must be respectable at the very least, and cost, on a very low average, twenty-five or thirty pounds. Many, such as professional persons and tradespeople, who cannot afford so much money, can still less afford to lose character and custom. That is where we have a pull upon the widows and children, many of whom, if it were not for the opinion of society, would be only too happy to save their little money, and turn it into food and clothing, instead of funeral furniture.

Now here the Metropolitan Interments Bill steps in, and aims at destroying our only chance of keeping up business as heretofore. We have generally to deal with parties whose feelings are not in a state to admit of their making bargains with us—a circumstance, on their parts, which is highly creditable to human nature; and favourable to trade. Thus, in short, gentlemen, we have it all our own way with them. But this Bill comes between the bereaved party and the undertaker. By the twenty-seventh clause, it empowers the Board of Health to provide houses and make arrangements for the reception and care of the dead previously to, and until interment; in order, as it explains in a subsequent clause, to the accommodation of persons having to provide the funerals—supposing such persons to desire the accommodation. Clause the twenty-eighth enacts “That the said Board shall make provision for the management and conduct, by persons appointed by them, of the funerals of persons whose bodies are to be interred in the Burial Grounds, to be provided under this Act, where the representatives of the deceased, or the persons having the care and direction of the funeral, desire to have the same so conducted; and the said Board shall fix and publish a scale of the sums to be payable for such funerals, inclusive of all matters and services necessary for the same, such sums to be proportioned to the description of the funeral, or the nature of the matter and services to be furnished and rendered for the same; but so that in respect of the lowest of such sums, the funerals may be conducted with decency and solemnity.” Gentlemen, if this enactment becomes law, we shall lose all the advantages which we derive from bereaved parties’ state of mind. The Board of Health will take all trouble off their hands, at whatever sum they may choose to name. Of course they will apply to the Board of Health instead of coming to us. But what is beyond everything prejudicial to our interests, is the proviso “that in respect of the lowest of such sums, the funerals may be conducted with decency and solemnity.” Hitherto it has been understood that so much respect could not be paid in the case of what we call a low affair as in one of a certain style. We have always considered that a funeral ought to cost so much to be respectable at all. Therefore relations have gone to more expense with us, than they would otherwise have been willing to incur, in order to secure proper respect. But if proper respect is to be had at a low figure, the strongest hold that we have upon sorrowing relatives, will be taken away.

It is all very fine to say that we are a necessary class of tradesmen, and if this Bill passes must continue to be employed. If this Bill does pass we shall be employed simply as tradesmen, and shall obtain, like other tradesmen, a mere market price for our articles, and common hire for our labour. I am afraid that it will be impossible to persuade the public that this would not be perfectly just and right. I think, therefore, that we had better not attack the Bill on its merits, but try to excite opposition against it on the ground of its accessary clauses. Let us oppose it as a scheme of jobbery, devised with a view to the establishment of offices and appointments. Let us complain as loudly as we can of its creating a new rate to defray the expenses of its working, and let us endeavour to get up a good howl against that clause of it which provides for compensation to incumbents, clerks, and sextons. We must cry out with all our might upon its centralising tendency, and of course make the most we can out of the pretence that it violates the sanctity of the house of mourning, and outrages the most fondly cherished feelings of Englishmen. Urge these objections upon church-wardens, overseers, and vestrymen; and especially din the objection to a burial rate into their ears. Recollect, our two great weapons—like those of all good old anti-reformers—are cant and clamour. Keep up the same cry against the Bill perseveringly, no matter how thoroughly it may be refuted or proved absurd. Literally, make the greatest noise in opposition to it that you are able, especially at public meetings. There, recollect a groan is a groan, and a hiss a hiss, even though proceeding from a goose. On all such occasions do your utmost to create a disturbance, to look like a popular demonstration against the measure. In addition to shouting, yelling, and bawling, I should say that another rush at another platform, another upsetting of the reporters’ table, another terrifying of the ladies, and another mobbing the chairman, would be advisable. Set to work with all your united zeal and energy to carry out the suggestions of our Central Committee for the defeat of a Bill which, if passed, will inflict a blow on the undertaker as great as the boon it will confer on the widow and orphan—whom we, of course, can only consider as customers. The Metropolitan Interments Bill goes to dock us of every penny that we make by taking advantage of the helplessness of afflicted families. And just calculate what our loss would then be; for, in the beautiful language of St. Demetrius, the silversmith, “Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth.”

THE TWO SACKS.

IMITATED FROM PHÆDRUS.

At our birth, the satirical elves
Two sacks from our shoulders suspend:
The one holds the faults of ourselves;
The other, the faults of our friend:

The first we wear under our clothes
Out of sight, out of mind, at the back;
The last is so under our nose,
We know every scrap in the sack.

THE MODERN “OFFICER’S” PROGRESS.

I.—JOINING THE REGIMENT.

“I have got some very sad news to tell you,” wrote Lady Pelican to her friend, Mrs. Vermeil, a faded lady of fashion, who discontentedly occupied a suite of apartments at Hampton Court; “our Irish estates are in such a miserable condition—absolutely making us out to be in debt to _them_, instead of adding to _our_ income, that poor George—you will be shocked to hear it—is actually obliged to go into the Infantry!”

The communication of this distressing fact may stand instead of the regular Gazette, announcing the appointment of the Hon. George Spoonbill to an Ensigncy, by purchase, in the 100th regiment of foot. His military aspirations had been “Cavalry,” and he had endeavoured to qualify himself for that branch of the service by getting up an invisible moustache, when the Irish agent wrote to say that no money was to be had in that quarter, and all thoughts of the Household Brigade were, of necessity, abandoned. But, though the more expensive career was shut out, Lord Pelican’s interest at the Horse Guards remained as influential as before, and for the consideration of four hundred and fifty pounds which—embarrassed as he was—he contrived to muster, he had no difficulty in procuring a commission for his son George, in the distinguished regiment already named. There were, it is true, a few hundred prior claimants on the Duke’s list; “but,” as Lord Pelican justly observed, “if the Spoonbill family were not fit for the army, he should like to know who were!” An argument perfectly irresistible. Gazetted, therefore, the young gentleman was, as soon as the Queen’s sign-manual could be obtained, and, the usual interval for preparation over, the Hon. George Spoonbill set out to join. But before he does so, we must say a word of what that “preparation” consisted in.

Some persons may imagine that he forthwith addressed himself to the study of Polybius, dabbled a little in Cormontaigne, got up Napier’s History of the Peninsular War, or read the Duke’s Despatches; others, that he went down to Birdcage-Walk, and placed himself under the tuition of Colour-Sergeant Pike, of the Grenadier Guards, a warrior celebrated for his skill in training military aspirants, or that he endeavoured by some other means to acquire a practical knowledge, however slight, of the profession for which he had always been intended. The Hon. George Spoonbill knew better. The preparation _he_ made, was a visit, at least three times a day, to Messrs. Gorget and Plume, the military tailors in Jermyn Street, whose souls he sorely vexed by the persistance with which he adhered to the most accurate fit of his shell-jacket and coatee, the set of his epaulettes, the cut of his trowsers, and the shape of his chako. He passed his days in “trying on his things,” and his evenings—when not engaged at the Casino, the Cider Cellar, or the Adelphi—in dining with his military friends at St. James’s Palace, or at Knightsbridge Barracks. In their society he greatly improved himself, acquiring an accurate knowledge of lansquenet and ecarté, cultivating his taste for tobacco, and familiarising his mind with that reverence for authority which is engendered by the anecdotes of great military commanders that freely circulate at the mess-table. His education and his uniform being finished at about the same time, George Spoonbill took a not uncheerful farewell of the agonised Lady Pelican, whose maternal bosom streamed with the sacrifice she made in thus consigning her offspring to the vulgar hardships of a marching regiment.

An express train conveyed the honourable Ensign in safety to the country town where the “Hundredth” were then quartered, and in conformity with the instructions which he received from the Assistant Military Secretary at the Horse Guards—the only instructions, by the bye, which were given him by that functionary—he “reported” himself at the Orderly-room on his arrival, was presented by the Adjutant to the senior Major, by the senior Major to the Lieutenant-Colonel, and by the Lieutenant-Colonel to the officers generally when they assembled for mess.

The “Hundredth,” being “Light Infantry,” called itself “a crack regiment:” the military adjective signifying, in this instance, not so much a higher reputation for discipline and warlike achievements, as an indefinite sort of superiority arising from the fact that no man was allowed to enter the _corps_ who depended upon his pay only for the figure he cut in it. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip, who commanded, was very strict in this particular, and, having “the good of the service” greatly at heart, set his face entirely against the admission of any young man who did not enjoy a handsome paternal allowance or was not the possessor of a good income. He was himself the son of a celebrated army clothier, and, in the course of ten years, had purchased the rank he now held, so that he had a right, as he thought, to see that his regiment was not contaminated by contact with poor men. His military creed was, that no man had any business in the army who could not afford to keep his horses or tilbury, and drink wine every day; _that_ he called respectable, anything short of it the reverse. If he ever relaxed from the severity of this rule, it was only in favour of those who had high connections; “a handle to a name” being as reverently worshipped by him as money itself; indeed, in secret, he preferred a lord’s son, though poor, to a commoner, however rich; the poverty of a sprig of nobility not being taken exactly in a literal sense. Colonel Tulip had another theory also: during the aforesaid ten years, he had acquired some knowledge of drill, and possessing an hereditary taste for dress, considered himself, thus endowed, a first-rate officer, though what he would have done with his regiment in the field is quite another matter. In the meantime he was gratified by thinking that he did his best to make it a crack corps, according to his notion of the thing, and such minor points as the moral training of the officers, and their proficiency in something more than the forms of the parade ground, were not allowed to enter into his consideration. The “Hundredth” were acknowledged to be “a devilish well-dressed, gentlemanly set of fellows,” and were looked after with great interest at country balls, races, and regattas; and if this were not what a regiment ought to be, Colonel Tulip was, he flattered himself, very much out in his calculations.

The advent of the Hon. George Spoonbill was a very welcome one, as the vacancy to which he succeeded had been caused by the promotion of a young baronet into “Dragoons,” and the new comer being the second son of Lord Pelican, with a possibility of being graced one day by wearing that glittering title himself, the hiatus caused by Sir Henry Muff’s removal was happily filled up without any derogation to the corps. Having also ascertained, in the course of five minutes’ conversation, that Mr. Spoonbill’s “man” and two horses were to follow in a few days with the remainder of his baggage; and the young gentleman having talked rather largely of what the Governor allowed him (two hundred a-year is no great sum, but he kept the actual amount in the back ground, speaking “promiscuously” of “a few hundreds”), and of his intimacy with “the fellows in the Life Guards;” Colonel Tulip at once set him down as a decided acquisition to the “Hundredth,” and intimated that he was to be made much of accordingly.

When we described the regiment as being composed of wealthy men, the statement must be received with a certain reservation. It was Colonel Tulip’s hope and intention to make it so in time, when he had sufficiently “weeded” it, but _en attendant_ there were three or four officers who did not quite belong to his favourite category. These were the senior Major and an old Captain, both of whom had seen a good deal of service, the Surgeon, who was a necessary evil, and the Quartermaster, who was never allowed to show with the rest of the officers except at “inspection,” or some other unusual demonstration. But the rank and “allowance” of the first, and something in the character of the second, which caused him to be looked upon as a military oracle, made Colonel Tulip tolerate their presence in the corps, if he did not enjoy it. Neither had the Adjutant quite as much money as the commanding officer could have desired, but as his position kept him close to his duties, doing that for which Colonel Tulip took credit, he also was suffered to pass muster; he was a brisk, precise, middle-aged personage, who hoped in the course of time to get his company, and whose military qualifications consisted chiefly in knowing “Torrens,” the “Articles of War,” the “Military Regulations,” and the “Army List,” by heart. The last-named work was, indeed, very generally studied in the regiment, and may be said to have exhausted almost all the literary resources of its readers, exceptions being made in favour of the weekly military newspaper, the monthly military magazine, and an occasional novel from the circulating library. The rest of the officers must speak for themselves, as they incidentally make their appearance. Of their character, generally, this may be said; none were wholly bad, but all of them might easily have been a great deal better.

Brief ceremony attends a young officer’s introduction to his regiment, and the honourable prefix to Ensign Spoonbill’s name was anything but a bar to his speedy initiation. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip took wine with him the first thing, and his example was so quickly followed by all present, that by the time the cloth was off the table, Lord Pelican’s second son had swallowed quite as much of Duff Gordon’s sherry as was good for him. Though drinking is no longer a prevalent military vice, there are occasions when the wine circulates rather more freely than is altogether safe for young heads, and this was one of them. Claret was not the habitual “tipple,” even of the crack “Hundredth;” but as Colonel Tulip had no objection to make a little display now and then, he had ordered a dozen in honour of the new arrival, and all felt disposed to do justice to it. The young Ensign had flattered himself that, amongst other accomplishments, he possessed “a hard head;” but, hard as it was, the free circulation of the bottle was not without its effect, and he soon began to speak rather thick, carefully avoiding such words as began with a difficult letter, which made his discourse somewhat periphrastic, or roundabout. But though his observations reached his hearers circuitously, their purpose was direct enough, and conveyed the assurance that he was one of those admirable Crichtons who are “wide awake” in every particular, and available for anything that may chance to turn up.

The conversation which reached his ears from the jovial companions who surrounded him, was of a similarly instructive and exhilarating kind, and tended greatly to his improvement. Captain Hackett, who came from “Dragoon Guards,” and had seen a great deal of hard service in Ireland, elaborately set forth every particular of “I’ll give you my honour, the most remarkable steeple-chase that ever took place in the three kingdoms,” of which he was, of course, the hero. Lieutenant Wadding, who prided himself on his small waist, broad shoulders, and bushy whiskers, and was esteemed “a lady-killer,” talked of every woman he knew and damaged every reputation he talked about. Lieutenant Bray, who was addicted to sporting and played on the French horn, came out strong on the subject of hackles, May-flies, grey palmers, badgers, terriers, dew-claws, snap-shots and Eley’s cartridges. Captain Cushion, a great billiard-player, and famous—in every sense—for “the one-pocket game,” was eloquent on the superiority of his own cues, which were tipped with gutta percha instead of leather, and offered, as a treat, to indulge “any man in garrison with the best of twenty, one ‘up,’ for a hundred aside.” Captain Huff, who had a crimson face, a stiff arm, and the voice of a Stentor, and whose soul, like his visage, was steeped in port and brandy, boasted of achievements in the drinking line, which, fortunately, are now only traditional, though he did his best to make them positive. From the upper end of the table, where sat the two veterans and the doctor, came, mellowed by distance, grim recollections of the Peninsula, with stories of Picton and Crawford, “the fighting brigade” and “the light division,” interspersed with endless Indian narratives, equally grim, of “how our fellows were carried off by the cholera at Cawnpore,” and how many tigers were shot, “when we lay in cantonments at Dum-dum;” the running accompaniment to the whole being a constant reference to so-and-so “of _ours_,” without allusion to which possessive pronoun, few military men are able to make much progress in conversation.

Nor was Colonel Tulip silent, but his conversation was of a very lofty and, as it were, ethereal order,—quite transparent, in fact, if any one had been there to analyse it. It related chiefly to the magnates at the Horse Guards,—to what “the Duke” said to him on certain occasions specified,—to Prince Albert’s appearance at the last levee,—to a favourite bay charger of his own,—to the probability that Lord Dawdle would get into the corps on the first exchange,—and to a partly-formed intention of applying to the Commander-in-Chief to change the regimental facings from buff to green.

The mess-table, after four hours’ enjoyment of it in this intellectual manner, was finally abandoned for Captain Cushion’s “quarters,” that gallant officer having taken “quite a fancy to the youngster,”—not so much, perhaps, on account of the youngster being a Lord’s youngster, as because, in all probability, there was something squeezeable in him, which was slightly indicated in his countenance. But whatever of the kind there might indeed have been, did not come out that evening, the amiable Captain preferring rather to initiate by example and the show of good fellowship, than by directly urging the neophyte to play. The rubber, therefore, was made up without him, and the new Ensign, with two or three more of his rank, confined themselves to cigars and brandy and water, a liberal indulgence in which completed what the wine had begun, and before midnight chimed the Hon. George Spoonbill was—to use the mildest expression,—as unequivocally tipsy as the fondest parent or guardian could possibly have desired a young gentleman to be on the first night of his entering “the Service.”

Not yet established in barracks, Mr. Spoonbill slept at an hotel, and thither he was assisted by two of his boon companions, whom he insisted on regaling with devilled biscuits and more brandy and water, out of sheer gratitude for their kindness. Nor was this reward thrown away, for it raised the spirits of these youths to so genial a pitch that, on their way back—with a view, no doubt, to give encouragement to trade—they twisted off, as they phrased it, “no end to knockers and bell-handles,” broke half a dozen lamps, and narrowly escaping the police (with whom, however, they would gloriously have fought rather than have surrendered) succeeded at length in reaching their quarters,—a little excited, it is true, but by no means under the impression that they had done anything—as the articles of war say—“unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman.”

In the meantime, the jaded waiter at the hotel had conveyed their fellow-Ensign to bed, to dream—if he were capable of dreaming—of the brilliant future which his first day’s experience of actual military life held out.

PICTURES OF LIFE IN AUSTRALIA.

GOING TO CHURCH.

There is something in the dress of an Australian Settler that is no less characteristic than becoming,—what a splendid turn-out of this class may be seen at some of the townships as they meet on the Sunday for Divine service. I have looked at such assemblages in all parts of the colony, until my eyes have dimmed with national pride, to think that to England should belong the right to own them; the old-fashioned Sunday scenes and manners of England, seen in her younger colonies, being thus revived. The gay carts, the dashing gigs, that are drawn round the fence of the churchyard enclosures,—the blood-horses, with side saddles, that are seen quietly roaming about, add much to the interest of the scene. True, there are no splendid equipages, but, then, there are no poor. The dress,—the appearance of the men,—the chubby faces of the children,—the neat and comfortable habiliments of the women (and here let me remark,—for the information of some of the gay young bachelors of England, that, among these Sabbath meetings may be seen here and there the blooming native maiden in a riding habit of the finest cloth, and of the newest fashion, the substantial settler’s daughter riding her own beautiful and pet mare; I say “pet mare,” because some of these maidens have a little stud of their own)—all these realities of rural life strongly impress a stranger with the real comforts which these people enjoy.

CHRISTIAN CHARITY.

As people of different religions meet at times on the highway, somewhere near their respective places of worship, it is delightful to observe that, whatever faith they possess, Christian charity reigns. As neighbours, the men group together, sitting upon, or resting their backs against the fence, whilst a brilliant sun smiles on them. At the same time, their children may be seen decorating themselves with flowers, or dragging a splendid creeper, in order to beautify the horses, and make fly-brushes for them. After the weather has been commented upon, a political shade is seen to pass over the countenances of the assembly. There is great earnestness amongst them. The females arrange for their own comfort, by resting on the shafts of the carts, or seating themselves on the grass. Matrimony and muslins, births and milch cows, by turns engross their attention, while the men make free with matters of State.