"IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH."

There are some of whom we might be ready to say, they dwell in that valley;—that the shadow of death lies darkling before them, constantly enwrapping them,—enshrouding them in gloom. We are accustomed to think so of persons suffering from what we call incurable diseases, some of which are painful, occasionally agonising, others susceptible of relief from the suffering that attends them.

We are so apt to forget that we are every one of us incurable. Though we may not at present be aware of the disease that will bear us farther and farther into that valley, where the wings of the great angel, so seeming dark as to overshadow all things, may yet be revealed to us as glowing with the brightness of the light which our unaccustomed eyes cannot behold, we are none the less certain to succumb to it. It may be that some of us will live to be conscious of no other than the most fatal of all diseases—because no mortal cure has been or ever will be found for it—incurable old age. There have been those who lived long enough to look calmly at the slowly lengthening shadow in the valley, and almost to wonder if Death had forgotten and were departing from them, leaving only the black trail behind; but the time at last came, perhaps when they had learnt to see more than shadow, to catch the glint of the heavenly glory beyond.

It is a happy thought that many poor afflicted children of God have seen this too, and continue to see it daily, although, like St. Paul, they also die daily. It is comforting to believe that many who know what their disease is—who are pronounced to be "hopelessly incurable" in a rather different sense to that in which we may all be declared to be hopelessly incurable also—do not dwell perpetually in the Valley of the Shadow. Christ has come to them and taken them out of it, that even in this life, where He is they may be also, secure in the love of the Father, having already, if one may so speak, overcome death through Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. The great, the essential difference between these sufferers and the rest of mankind is that they are almost always conscious of the disease which is incurable because of its accompanying pain, and that they are disqualified for many of the ordinary uses, and also most of the ordinary enjoyments of life. Perhaps the chief poignant sense of their condition is that they are no longer capable of fulfilling the ordinary duties of life either. They must be dependent always; and to many souls the suspicion that they may live only to be a burden on others, to take instead of giving, to lean upon instead of supporting, is itself almost intolerable, until they learn to look higher, and acknowledge that not only all the things of the world, but we ourselves, they and theirs, belong to God, and that life and death, height and depth, principalities and powers, are but His creatures, incapable of separating us from His love. The same reflection, coupled with that of our own incurability and our own constant liability to be stricken down with hopeless and painful malady, should surely lead us to recognise the duty of helping some among the thousands who have not only lost health, but with it the means of maintaining life, and, more sadly still, the hope of restoration to former strength, or even temporary recovery.

I have already spoken of the work done by convalescent homes and hospitals; but there are those who, being sick unto death, yet do not soon die—those who must be discharged from hospitals uncured, in order to make room for the curable, and who, unable to work, unaccustomed to beg, and almost ready to meet death itself rather than sink into sordid abject pauperism, know not whither to turn in their dire necessity. It was to aid these that an appeal was written twenty years ago, asking for funds to establish an institution for the reception of those suffering from hopeless disease. It is to see what has been the result of that appeal that I visit the Royal Hospital for Incurables at Putney Heath to-day.

It was in 1854 that Doctor Andrew Reed—to whose indicating hand we are indebted for the installation of many of our noblest charities—made an urgent appeal on behalf of those who, being discharged as incurable from various hospitals, were left helpless, and often destitute, since, amidst all the institutions which beneficence had founded, there was none to which they could prefer a claim.

Let us see what has been done in twenty years to alleviate what might seem to be almost hopeless suffering.

Let us, coming face to face with the mystery of pain, and looking as it were from afar on that dark shadow which yet always lies so near to every one of us, note how in the heart of the mystery there is hidden a joyful hope for humanity, how in the very shadow of death there is a light that never yet has shone on land or sea.

It is a still autumnal day, and, as we turn up the wooded lane on the left of the hill leading from the Putney Railway Station to Wimbledon, a tender gleam in the grey clouds betokens coming rainfall. A light, hanging drift descends upon the distant hills, and breaks into pale vaporous shapes amidst the wooded slopes and valleys. The yellow leaves that strew the ground lie motionless, as though they waited for their late companions to fall gently from the branches overhead and join their silent company.

Coming into a broader roadway, and passing through the gate of a lodge, we come almost suddenly upon a glorious sloping lawn, adorned with goodly trees, worthy of the great building—meant for a ducal residence, and now put to nobler uses—which, for all its stately look, has about it a home-likeness that is full of promise. Even the matchless landscape lying around it—the expanse of wood and dale, the soft slopes of Surrey hills, the deep-embowered glades where the bronze-and-gold of moving tree-tops takes a changeful sheen from slowly-drifting clouds, or reflects strange gleams of colour from the glistening silver of the rain—will not hold us from the nearer glow of windows bright with flowers, which give a festal look to the place, although it is so quiet that we stand and imagine for a moment what it is that we have come to see. For this great mansion, with its long rows of windows and wide-spreading wings, is the home of a hundred and fifty-four men and women, some of whom have been suddenly stricken down, others having slowly fallen day by day into a condition of incurable disease, and, in many cases, also into a condition of utter bodily helplessness. They, and the attendants whose constant kindly services are essential for their relief, constitute the family of what is known, plainly enough, as "The Royal Hospital for Incurables." There are no distinctions among its members, though in their previous lives they have belonged to various grades—no distinctions, at least, except those which arise from personal qualifications.

The claim for election to the benefits of the charity is the necessity which is implied in the name of the institution itself: and once within its sheltering walls the patients, whose failing eyes brighten, and whose wan cheeks flush with every loving mention of it as their home, are all alike sharers in its benefits.

Not only the 154 at present within its walls, however, but 327 of those who, having family and friends with whom to dwell, receive pensions of £20 a year each, and so cease to be a heavy burden to others.

Do you think at first sight, and from the external appearance of the building, that charity here has gone beyond precedent in providing such a place—a palatial pile standing amidst scenery that one might well come far to see? Remember what is the need of those who have to be lifted out of the dark, hopeless depths of what is almost despair; of those who, finding themselves banished from hospital wards, unable to earn their bread, feeling themselves a burden upon those for whom they would almost consent to die rather than live upon their poverty; of those who, in the midst of hourly pain, have the mental anguish of knowing that the long calendar of darkening days may find them utterly dependent on the toil of others most dear to them, and whose few expedients can bring little ease, and will not serve to hide the ever-present sense of disappointment and distress.

Think how much wealth is wasted daily in the world, and what a small part of it suffices to lighten by every available means the burden of such lives as these; the sorrow of those who, in the dreadful deprivation of what to us seems almost all that makes life dear, have no resource between that provided for them in such a place as this and the infirmary-ward of a workhouse, amidst sordid surroundings and the hard, mechanical, unfeeling officialism which in such cases is little more than organised neglect.

There are people who would reduce all charitable institutions—yes, even such as this, of which living personal interest and the care that comes of more than merely casual benevolence are the very foundation and corner-stone—to a dead level of official rule, in which benevolence should be represented by a mechanical department, and the sentiment of charity by a self-elected board of control, dealing with public subscriptions as though they were a poor-rate, and recognising neither individual interest nor the right of contributors to give it expression. Such a system would lack the very qualification most needed here, and to be found only in that voluntary personal interest that brings to the recipients of bounty more than the mere bounty itself, the heart-throb of sympathy, the feeling that the gift means more than the cold official recognition of a national duty, that it is the expression of loving-kindness ever active and living; and so making for the helpless, the destitute, and the dying, not a mere asylum, but a home.

The entrance into the hall of a cheerful, genial gentleman, with a kindly, brisk manner, and a reassuring expression of deliberation and repose in his observant face and easy bearing, rouses us from melancholy fancies, and with a few words of courteous welcome we are at once conducted to the door that is to open to us the first scene in this wonderful visit.

A spacious assembly room—let us call it by the good old name of "parlour," for there is much quietly animated talk going on—talk, and needlework of all kinds, from the knitting of a warm woollen shawl to the manipulation of delicate lace, and the deft handling of implements for making those exquisite tortures of society known as antimacassars. With ever so wide an experience of halls, salons, suites, or drawing-rooms, the visitor can see nothing resembling this wonderful parlour elsewhere. A room of noble proportions, one end of which is occupied by an organ; the great windows reaching almost from floor to ceiling, and overlooking a broad expanse of lawn, with a glorious view of hill and woodland beyond; on the tables flowers, books, ornaments; in every kind of couch and chair—many of which are comfortable beds on wheels and springs—a company of women, with bright, cheerful, intelligent faces, full of a recent interest, and, even in cases where some paroxysm of pain is passing, with a certain serene satisfaction which it is infinitely good to see.

There has been a morning service, conducted by a visiting clergyman, and there is a general expression of approval which, if the reverend gentleman himself were present to witness it, would surely prove highly gratifying. The congregation has settled down to easy talk, and has resumed its occupation of plain and fancy needlework. Here is an old lady whose silver hair adds to her natural grace and dignity, who is busy with wool-knitting, and at the same time engages in a discriminating criticism of the address to one of the many visitors who sit and spend an hour of their afternoon in agreeable chat. There is a pretty but rather sad-eyed mignon lady, whose excellently-fitting silk dress, delicate hands, and general "niceness" of appearance, quite prepare us to see the beautiful examples of all kinds of fancy work of which she never seems to tire. Every year, in June, they hold a grand bazaar at the hospital, so that those who are skilful and capable are able to earn enough money to clothe themselves as they please—everything except clothing being found by the charity, except to two or three inmates who are able to pay for their own maintenance. Now we hear the low tones of cheerful talk, the pleasant ripple of laughter—note the brightening glance, the quick smile, the feeble but earnest finger-clasp which greets the cheerful salutation of the house governor, Mr. Darbyshire, or the presence of his wife, the lady matron of this great happy family of incurables, we begin to wonder at our gloomy estimate of the place before this visit.

Nor is the revelation of cheerfulness, of light in shadow, less remarkable in the dormitories themselves. But then what rooms they are! Each bed is, as it were, set in an alcove of its own snow-white hangings, relieved by bits of colour which would delight an artist's eye—pieces of embroidery, framed illuminated texts, bright flecks of Berlin woolwork, or glistening designs in beads, or deep glowing knick-knacks wrought in silk and lace. Each little bedside table, though it may hold medicine and diet—drink and requisites for the sick—is decked with flowers and little framed pictures, gaily-bound books, and bright-hued toys and trifles, that make it look like a miniature stand at a fancy fair. In some cases the sense of combined purity and glow of colour is so great, that it is difficult to realise that we are in one or other of a series of sick-rooms. Everything is so spotless, so exquisitely clean and orderly, that nothing less than perfect nursing could explain it—for be it remembered that the place is open to visitors every day—and amidst some of the most terrible afflictions from which humanity can suffer there is nothing revolting. Expressions of pain and of utter prostration and weakness there are, of course; but even these are only alternative with the general placid contentment and thankfulness that is the prevailing characteristic.

Even in two severe cases of cancer the terrible effects of the malady are less notable, because of the surrounding conditions. A sprightly and engaging girl, with features and social life alike marred and obliterated by this dreadful malady, is surely one of the saddest of all the sad sights in such an institution; but here the brightness and genial influence of the place, and of those who are its ministrants, have had their effect, and even the half-obliterated features gain a grateful, loving, cheerful expression; the poor eyes beam with pleasure as the governor starts some reminiscence of that pleasant summer water-party of his, in which one of the two sufferers had to be carried to the boat in his arms, and both of them, deeply veiled, were rowed by those same guarding arms for a glorious voyage on the river, where the summer's sunshine and gladness stole into the hearts of the sufferers, and left a halo of remembrance that is not perhaps so very far from the anticipations of that stream which maketh glad the children of God.

Here are rooms wherein only two or three beds are placed, while few of them contain more than six, but all of them are bright, airy, lofty, full of space, and with the same sense of purity. And from every window some fresh and lovely view of the surrounding landscape, with all its changeful aspects, may be seen—the beds being so placed that every patient has her own special expanse of territory to solace her waking hours, even though she be unable to go down to the assembly-room. Here, in a room particularly bright and cheerful, lies a young woman with a wealth of dark hair on the pillow where her intelligent face beams with a certain courage, although her body and limbs have been for years immovable—only one arm, for an inch or two, and three fingers of the right hand, can be stirred—and yet, as we stand and talk with her, some small simple jest about her own condition causes her to laugh till the bed shakes. She has learnt to write by holding a pencil in her mouth, and inscribes neat and legible letters on paper placed on a rest just in front of her face. She is not only cheerful, but actually hopeful, though she has been for years in this condition; and her relations, great and small, visit her, to find her always heartily determined to look on the bright side. At the foot of her bed, near the window, is a swing looking-glass on a pedestal, and in this she sees reflected the distant prospect of autumn wood and field, extending miles away. Judging from her nobly equable and smiling face, she must be the life of the room of which she has been so long an occupant. In another apartment a poor schoolmistress suffering from hemorrhage of the lungs lies reading for many hours a day, her face bearing a painful expression, her manner eager, her constant craving to work on, by the study of books concerning the problems of this earthly life and the sciences that strive to demonstrate them and yet only bring us to the barrier of the eternal world. She yearns for one more day amidst her classes, and for the opportunity of testing the results of sick-bed thoughts on a method of education which should adapt itself to the individual temperament and mental peculiarity of each child. Amidst a troubled tide of thoughts that are perhaps sometimes too much for the weary brain, she may learn to recognise the rest that comes after hearing the Divine voice say, "Peace! be still;" and so a great spiritual calm may fall upon her, and give her rest.

Yet another visit, and we find a girl who, from an accidental fall, is as immovable as a statue, her dark questioning eyes and mobile face alone excepted. Yet she is sometimes lifted into a wheel-chair that stands stabled by her bedside, and joins the company in the great parlour downstairs. There is another little parlour, with quite a select coterie, under the presidency of an elderly gentlewoman, who is busily knitting at a table, while her friends recline at the windows, on their special couches; and in several of the dormitories patients are sitting up, reading, working, or looking at the fitful aspect of earth and sky on this October afternoon. Sufferers from heart-disease, with that anxious contracted expression so indicative of their malady, are numerous; but the larger number of the patients seem to suffer from rheumatism, or paralysis—among them one lady, with silvered hair, and yet with bright expressive eyes, and still bonny face, who was once a well-known singer in London. She is unable to rise from couch or bed, but the readiness of repartee, the bright inquiring look, the quick appreciation and retort, remain, as do a certain swift expressive action of head and hands, which is marvellously suggestive of dramatic gesture; for, happily, her hands and arms are still capable of movement, and she has several periodicals on the coverlet—among them the latest monthly part of a magazine, in one of the stories in which she is evidently interested. She, with two or three others, are inmates of the hospital at their own charges.

We have but little time to devote to the men's side of this great institution; but its dormitories and furniture, its large day-room, where daughters sit talking in low voice to fathers, sisters to brothers, wives to husbands—its pleasant out-door contingent, who have just returned from slowly perambulating the grounds in wheel-chairs, or sit basking outside in the latest gleam of sunshine—its club in the rustic hut especially appointed for this purpose—all might bear comment. Here is a sturdy youth, who, falling from a tree, and alighting on his heels, incurably injured his spine, and now lies all day, mostly out of doors, and without a coat, frequently engaged in knitting. There is a poor gentleman, who has for sixteen years been almost immovable, from rheumatism, even his jaw being so fixed that he takes food through an aperture in the teeth. He has been through two or three hospitals, and under the care of the most eminent surgeons, and has come here now as to an ark of refuge, where he can read and talk, and be wheeled about the neighbourhood on occasional visits. Only one case of all those that we witness is startling in its melancholy sense of terrible loss and incurability; that rigid, grimly-set face, in the ward where the corner bed in which the grizzled head lies is the only one occupied this afternoon. The body belonging to that face is almost immovable—the ears are deaf, the tongue is mute, the eyes are nearly sealed—not by sudden calamity, but by gradual yielding to decay or disease. He has been an inmate several years, and is the one case here before which we may almost quail in our solemn sense of affliction; and yet, to the touch of certain loving hands that dead face kindles; that mind, seemingly locked in stupor, wakes to life; that intelligence, encased in a casket iron-bound and motionless, can understand the signs that are made upon his own hands or forehead, and interpret them so as to give some kind of grateful answer. It needs the touch of the lady nurse to bring out this strange music from an instrument so unstrung; but that it should be done at all is an evidence of the hold that loving sympathy and some subtle influence almost beyond mere bodily capacity of expression has taken in these dear souls of the sick and the afflicted. That is where the shadow lifts, even in the darkness of the valley; that is how the Spirit of Christ may abound; and the soul, in recognizing the work of the disciple, may recognise the Lord therein, and remember the Living Word—"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."

"WITH THE HALT AND THE LAME."

I suppose there are few people in England, who are at all accustomed to keep Christmas amidst a loving family circle, who have not during the sacred festivities of the season, and all the household sentiments with which they are inseparably associated, made some reference to the "Christmas Carol," that famous story of the great novelist whose presence in the spirit of his books has brightened so many a Christmas hearth, and moved so many gentle hearts to kindly thoughts and words of loving cheer.

Amongst all the well-known characters to which Mr. Dickens introduced thousands of readers—characters who, to many of us, became realities, and were spoken of as though they were living and among our ordinary acquaintances—there have been none, except perhaps little Nell, who have evoked more sympathetic recognition than Tiny Tim, the poor crippled child of Bob Cratchit—the child, the sound of whose little crutch upon the stair was listened for with loving expectation—the shadow of whose vacant chair in the "Vision of Christmas," gave to the humbled usurer as keen a pang as any sight that he saw afterwards in that strange dream of what might come to pass. So completely do we share the anxiety of Scrooge in this respect, that we can all remember giving a sigh of relief when, at the end of the story, we learn that the poor crippled boy remains to bless the fireside where even his afflictions were felt to be a hallowing influence to soften animosities, and to draw close the bonds of family love.

"Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself" (says Bob Cratchit), "and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas-day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

If I needed an excuse for so long an allusion to that pathetic story, which has stirred so many hearts throughout England, I might find it in the passage I have just quoted; but I seek none. I refer to the "Christmas Carol," because in it the figure of the crippled boy, occupying so small a space, yet is such a living, touching influence as to be one of the household fancies that associate themselves with our thoughts of Christmas-tide in poor homes; because there are so many little crutches the sounds of which are heard—though fewer than there used to be before orthopædic surgery became a special branch of study, and hospitals were founded for its practice; because, though Tiny Tim may represent so many crippled children who are the helpless members of poor families, where they are tended with as kindly care as working fathers and mothers can find time for—there are hundreds of other deformed or maimed lads whose lot is made the harder because of the want of sympathy and ready aid that would lift them out of utter helplessness, or give them such light labour to perform as would diminish their sense of dependence. Finally, because I desire you to bear me company to one place in London where this last need is recognised, and where forty crippled boys, suffering from various incurable deformities, which yet have left them the use of their hands, are not only taught a trade, but are encouraged, fed, and nurtured for the three years during which they are inmates of the home—"The National Industrial Home for Crippled Boys."

Alighting from the railway carriage which conveys us from Mansion House Station to the pleasant old High Street of Kensington, we are close to the place that we have come to see, for the building itself—a quaint old house, with a central doorway between two projecting deep bay-windowed fronts, and built of the reddest of red brick—stands at the end of Wright's Lane, looking us full in the face as we approach it to read the style and title plainly painted across its upper storey.

The house has good reason for looking the world thus bluffly in the face, for it is an independent building, bought and paid for: hearth-stone, roof tree, and chimney, freehold, and without debt or mortgage. Till this was done, all thought of considerable extension was put aside. The question was how to provide, out of voluntary subscriptions and contributions, for the fifty inmates who could be admitted within those sheltering walls. It must be premised, however, that ten pounds a year has to be paid for each boy who is accepted, during the three years that he remains there, to be taught in the evening school and in the workshop, not only how to read and write and cipher, but to become a good workman at tailoring, carpentering, or die-engraving and colour-stamping.

These are at present the only three trades taught in this truly industrial home, but they appear to be very admirably suited to the cases of those who are deformed or crippled in various ways; and they are taught well, as an inspection of the work accomplished will prove. For the workshops are real workshops, where the boys do not play at work, but are taught their trades in a way that will enable them when they leave the institution to gain a decent livelihood, or even, if they can save a little money, to go into business for themselves.

This has been lately done, in fact, by two youths, who, having thoroughly learnt the relief-stamping process, have contrived to buy a press and the materials for their trade, and are now in partnership in a country town, and earning a respectable maintenance. Of sixteen lads who left during the year, twelve were doing well as journeymen at the industries they had learnt; one had set up in business for himself (the relief-stamping gives the greatest facility for this); and two had returned to their friends because of ill health, while one had not reported himself But during the same period forty of the former inmates had been to visit the old home, and gave a very encouraging account of themselves. Let us add, in a whisper, that amongst these visitors were a "team" of old boys who had come to accept the challenge of a "team" of the new boys, to play a match at cricket. Yes, and that these teams of cripples have, over and over again, carried off their bats against opponents who, if they expected an easy victory, found themselves to have been most amazingly mistaken. I don't think this is mentioned in the Report, but it is well to know it, because it serves to prove how truly beneficent a work is being done here, in removing boys from a too often almost "hopeless" condition to one of useful, intelligent, skilled labour, and to healthy self-forgetfulness and association in the ordinary duties and recreations of their fellows. It must be remembered that every boy there is, in a certain sense, incurable. After having been nominated by the person willing to contribute the annual payment of £10, the medical officers of the institution (or if in the country, some qualified practitioner) examine the candidate, who must be above twelve and less than eighteen years of age, and neither blind, deaf and dumb, nor without the use of his hands. The name of the candidate is then added to the list of those waiting for admission—of whom there are now, unfortunately, above seventy—and when there is a vacancy, and funds are sufficient to maintain the full number of inmates, these candidates are taken in succession, without voting, by order of the Committee of Management, of whom the President is the Earl of Shaftesbury, and the Honorary Secretary Mr. S. H. Bibby, of Green Street, Grosvenor Square. There is also an efficient Ladies' Committee for the household management and for advising as to the education of the boys, the visits of the friends of the inmates, and the domestic affairs of the Home generally. There are some severe cases of deformity here—club-foot, spinal curvature, and various distortions of the legs—and in many cases instruments are worn, but the Institution does not profess to provide these. Frequently they are procured by special contributions, and among the latest gifts of this kind is a serviceable wooden leg or two, which have had the happy effect of relieving their recipients from the necessity of using crutches; but it is distinctly insisted on that the Home is not a hospital, and is only curative in the sense of improving the condition of those who, having been pronounced incurable, are yet capable of greatly increased activity and strength by means of nourishing and regular food, interesting occupation, and healthy exercise with companions who themselves are to be numbered among the halt and the lame, and yet are, in a very certain sense, made to walk and to leap and to praise God. For see, at the very moment that I am speaking, a little figure darts out of the passage yonder and scampers across the large open green space at the back of the house on his way to the new range of workshops that are now nearly completed, and are also paid for. Is it possible to apply the term cripple to such an elf, who is out of reach before one can ask his name? Yes; that very elf-like look is the result of a deformity which stops growth, though it leaves the limbs as active as you see them. But come up-stairs to the first of the present workshops, and you may note among the colour-stampers, sitting on their high stools before the dies and presses, cases of more decided deformity or of crippling by accident. These boys follow an artistic, pretty business, and visitors may do worse than give a small or a large order for notepaper and envelopes, stamped with crest, motto, or quaint design. So well is the work executed, that the Home has orders constantly in hand for the trade, and some of the dies are really beautiful examples of engraving. I think that in this long pleasant upper room, with its high bench running along the window, fitted with the presses and implements for the work, there are more severe cases of deformity than will be seen in either in the tailors' department on the same floor, or the carpenters' shop below. One reflects on the numerous accidents to which the children of the poor are liable, such as falls down flights of stairs; to the inhuman neglect of old women who are paid as "minders" by mothers compelled to go out to work in neighbourhoods where no infant crèche, no babies' cradle home, has yet been established, or in country towns where such institutions have scarcely been heard of. One remembers with pity the scores of poor little creatures who have to nurse and tend children almost as big as themselves, so that they and their charges too often become deformed together, the nurse with lateral curvature of the spine and the baby with vertical curvature or with deformities of the feet or legs. One thinks, in short, of the many perils to healthy life and well-formed limb that beset the children of the poor, and then coming back to the figures of this National Home, which yet, with careful management and due economy, can only receive forty or fifty crippled boys—wonders how long it is to be before the ruddy old house in Wright's Lane will expand its broad bosom and stretch out long arms on either side to embrace three-score more lads, taken from present neglect and want and probable ill-usage, to be fed and taught and nurtured for three years, during which the whole future will be changed for them, and their lives redeemed from the degradation that had threatened them just as their bodies expand with renewed health and strange developments of unsuspected strength, and their souls are lighted with hope and the sympathy of loving words and hearty manly encouragement.

A beginning has been made already; for that munificent anonymous benefactor, whose thousand-pound cheques have helped so many of our deserving charities, showed his usual nice discrimination by taking a walk in the direction of Wright's Lane. The result of this has been the erection of those long workshops which extend across one side of the wide green area, with its ornamental trees, at the back of the building—an area which is a good part of the acre on which the property stands, and forms a capital recreation-ground, without quite leaving out of sight the pleasant kitchen-garden beyond, or the little building in the further corner, which is intended as a cottage infirmary in cases of sickness. There are the workshops, quite ready for another contingent of lads, such as are now busily at work in the tailoring department, where they are sitting on the board in the proper tailor-fashion, sewing away at one or other of the many private orders for gentlemen's clothes, or "juvenile suits," which are the better appreciated because they are hand-sewn, instead of being made with that machine, at the end of the room, to learn the working of which is, however, a necessary part of the modern tailor's trade. Quite ready, also, for our friends the relief-stampers, and for an additional crew of young carpenters to join those who are now busy below amidst a fine odour of fresh deal and the cheery sound of hammer, chisel, and plane. One of our young friends of the wooden legs—a strapping fellow of seventeen—is just deftly finishing off a very attractive chest of drawers, which will only need to be taken to the painting and varnishing rooms that form a part of the new building to be a very capital example of the workmanship of the establishment. For it cannot be too strongly insisted on that the customers of the Industrial Cripples get value for their money, whether it be in ornamental stationery, in plain furniture, packing cases, boxes, and general carpentry, or in "superfine suits" to order, or "own materials made up and repairs neatly executed." It is no sham industrial school, but a real practical working establishment, and when the new buildings are quite completed, and the dwelling-house has that other wing added to it, in order to provide proper dormitories and a school-room, dining-room, and lavatory, at all in proportion to the number of boys who are waiting anxiously for admission—

Ah! but the question is, When shall this be? Not till another £5,000 is added to the funds, I am told—about as much money as is sometimes spent in some public display which lasts three or four hours, and going to look at which probably half a dozen men, women, or children are lamed and crippled in the crowd. Judging from the present arrangements, with very little room to spare, and a not very conveniently-adaptable space, the money would be carefully spent; for there is no tendency to undue luxury, and the present household staff would still be sufficient for providing meals and looking after the family needs of these robust and independent young cripples. That it would be a work all the more beneficial, because of this very independence with which it is associated, it needs few arguments to prove; but, should reasons be asked for, let us take three cases for which the benefits of the Home are earnestly sought, and they will speak in suggestive accents of the need of that extension for which an appeal is being made. I need not tell you the names either of those who nominate the cases or the boys themselves; but be assured that the former would be sufficient guarantee of the need which it is sought to relieve:—

Poor, depressed, starved, neglected, hopeless crippled boys, how long will it be before they come here for shelter, for hope, and renewal of life? I should ask the question—though the answer could only be a guess—but I am suddenly diverted by the tremendous ringing of a hand-bell, on which one vigorous young cripple is ringing a peal, which is almost loud enough to announce to all Kensington that it is "tea-time." The sound has the effect of bringing all the forty from their work—a contingent of young carpenters staying behind for a little while to dispose of some waste shavings which have been swept out of some corner where they may have been in the way. Then they come trooping into the big room, where they present so strange a variety of height and appearance, and also so remarkable a diversity of twist and lameness and distortion, that we are impressed at once with the melancholy fact that every boy there is in reality a cripple, and yet with the cheering reflection, inspired by some of the lively smiling faces, that there are vast mitigations of such afflictions—mitigations that come so near to cures as to make our neglect of them a very serious evil, when the means lie near at hand.

In this big room, which is neither dining-room, nor kitchen, nor refectory, but a homely combination of all three, there is no ornament, no sign of luxury, or of unnecessary expenditure-plain deal forms or stools at plain deal tables, on which are arranged a regiment of full-sized mugs of good sound tea, and plates, each containing a substantial half-pound slice of bread from a homely two-pound loaf, spread with butter or dripping. For breakfast the same quantity is provided, with the substitution of coffee for tea; and dinner consists of a half-pound of roast or boiled meat, with plenty of vegetables, and dumplings, pies, or puddings; while bread and cheese, or bread and butter, is served for supper. For it must be remembered that these are working lads, and that they require to be substantially, and, from the nature of their bodily affliction, even generously fed, so that these supplies of pure plain diet are not by any means excessive; and they are such as one very ordinary kitchen can supply—a kitchen, by the bye, which will probably be superseded by a more convenient one when the new wing shall be finished. Yet there is something in these unadorned, bare, almost too plainly appointed places, which brings with it a reassuring conviction that the institution has never been pampered. The dining-room, which has to do duty for a school-room also—the play-room, which is a rather dim kind of retreat on this November evening—and the plain, rather bare, but still clean and airy dormitories (especially those in the big bay-windowed front rooms of the old red brick house), are evidences that the place does not belie its name; that it is really a home, but essentially an industrial home, where work goes on as part of each day's blessing, and the title to play freely and with a light heart is thereby ensured.

WITH THEM WHO HAVE NOT WHERE TO LAY THEIR HEADS.

There is a degree of poverty which, while it is not absolute pauperism, often has deeper needs than those which are alleviated by parochial relief—a destitution which is none the less bitter because those who suffer it cannot stoop to actual mendicancy, and shrink from the degradation of the casual ward and its contaminating influences.

Those of us who at this season of the year are surrounded with comforts, and can meet together to enjoy them, should feel that there is no sadder phase of the life of this great city than that to which our attention is called by the statistics of those same casual wards, and the accompanying certainty that every night there are men, women, and children, who, amidst surrounding luxury and splendour, have not where to lay their heads, and for whom the repellent door of the nearest union workhouse is closed, even if they could summon such courage as comes of desperation, and dared to enter.

Happily, the numbers of those who seek what is called casual relief have diminished in proportion to the general abatement of pauperism; and it is perhaps encouraging to know that the applicants for nightly shelter at Refuges for the homeless and destitute are fewer than they were three or four years ago. This is a fact which should be made public, because some of these Refuges have been accused of offering inducements to casual paupers to seek food and shelter provided by charitable subscriptions, instead of betaking themselves to the night-wards provided for them at metropolitan workhouses. The complaint was made on altogether insufficient grounds, at a time when, during a hard winter, and with a fearful amount of distress among the poorest class of the community, the workhouse night-wards themselves were frequently inadequate to the demands made upon them; while, apart from the persons who were known as casual paupers, there were hundreds of unfortunates suffering from temporary starvation and the want of a place in which to find a night's lodging, who yet were altogether removed from what is known as pauperism, and dreaded the abject hopelessness which they associated with "the Union."

It should not be forgotten, either, that the task which is, and was then, imposed upon the pauper on the morning following his night's lodging and its previous dole of gruel and bread, renders it almost impossible for the recipient to obtain work. Before his job of stone-breaking or oakum-picking is accomplished, the hour for commencing ordinary labour outside the workhouse walls has passed, and his hope of resuming independent employment, and the wages that will provide food and lodging for the next four-and-twenty hours, has passed also. This alone is always sufficient to make a very marked distinction between the regular casual pauper and the temporarily unfortunate man or woman who, having failed to get work, and seeking only the aid that may give rest and strength for a renewed effort, might look in vain for succour but for the existence of places like that admirable Institution to which I wish to take you to-night.

The shameful spectacle of groups, and, in many instances, of crowds, of houseless, starving, and half-naked creatures huddled about the doors of casual wards, to which they had been refused admission in direct defiance of legislation, led to the establishment of Night Refuges. There was then no time to dispute. While boards and committees were squabbling and vilifying each other, the poor were perishing. But even now that a better system prevails, and pauperism has so considerably diminished, there is much necessity for the continuance of these institutions and their adaptation to the relief of that kind of distress which is all the more poignant because it is at present only temporary, but would receive the brand and stamp of permanence if it could find no other mitigation than that secured by an appeal to workhouse officials, the shelter of the casual shed, the union dole, and the daily task required in return.

At the time that Night Refuges were first founded, in consequence of the failure of the Houseless Poor Act, there were one or two institutions which went on the plan of offering no inducement whatever to those who sought shelter within their walls. The provisions were barer, the beds harder, the reception little less cold and unsympathetic than they would receive at any metropolitan union.

Those of my readers who remember the Refuge for the Houseless Poor which once stood in Playhouse Yard, close to that foul tangle of courts that still exists between Barbican and St. Luke's, and is known as "The Chequers," will understand me when I say that there were no alluring inducements for the houseless and the destitute to seek its aid.

I have seldom seen a more painfully suggestive crowd than that which waited outside the blank door of that hideous building on a cold drizzly evening when I paid the place a visit, only a short time before it was finally closed. I cannot deny, however, that the applicants for admission consisted of those persons for whom the institution seemed to be especially designed. The very lowest class of poverty, the representatives of sheer destitution, made up the 350 men and the 150 women who were to occupy the bare wooden bunks in the two departments of the building that night, and to accept, as a stay against starvation, the half-pound of dry bread and the drink of water. What I would call emphatic attention to, is the fact that this place was filled nightly at that time, because the inmates could leave early in the morning to seek a day's work, and so rise out of that depth of destitution which was represented by the nightly return to the casual ward. But let us remember that, though this Institution could scarcely be characterised by the warm name of "charity," it received all applicants who were not suffering from infectious diseases, and therefore its policy was deterrent. In order to separate itself from the idle casual, it made its provisions little short of penal, and, indeed, very far short of those common comforts that are to be found in prison.

But the Refuge in Newport Market was one of those which had been founded on a different principle. It was never intended as a supplement to the casual ward, or as having any relation to poor-law relief; though, during the terrible distress that overtook the houseless in that severe winter when our poor-law arrangements broke down utterly, it was impossible for any place founded in the name of Christian love and charity to be very particular in excluding famishing and frozen men and women on the suspicion that they had already somehow obtained parochial relief the night before.

This "Refuge" was originally established by the influence and the personal exertions of Mrs. Gladstone, and a few ladies and gentlemen who, knowing of the extreme distress that prevailed in all that poverty-stricken neighbourhood about Seven Dials, around the alien-haunted district of Soho, and in the purlieux of Drury Lane, and the courts of Long Acre, set about providing some remedy for the misery that homeless, destitute men, women, and children had to suffer during the bitter nights of winter. First, a regular mission was established in an ordinary room, and, after a time, space was secured to make a Refuge—first for six, then for ten, and afterwards for twenty of the most destitute cases which came under the notice of the mission-woman. This went on till the funds were sufficient to warrant a very earnest desire to obtain larger premises, and at last to make a bid for that queer ramshackle old slaughter-house, which was the rather too indicative feature of the locality. The landlords of this place were fully alive to the value of any property rising in proportion to the anxiety of somebody to become its tenant, and they demanded a high rent accordingly. Still, the work had to be done, and the slaughter-house—cleansed, repaired, whitewashed, and divided into several queer, irregular-shaped wards and rooms, which were reached by strange flights of steps and zig-zag entries—was opened with cheerful confidence and hope, under the earnest superintendence of the Rev. J. Williams, who was at that time incumbent of the parish of St. Mary, Soho. It was at that period that I first made acquaintance with the Institution, and with the quiet, undemonstrative work of charity which was carried on there, and is continued to this day, though it is less arduous now that the neighbourhood itself has felt the influence of such an organization—not so much in the diminution of actual poverty, as in the humanising and constantly suggestive presence of men and women who have brought a gospel to those who were hopeless, and seemed to have none to care for them.

The need to receive numbers every night to the utmost limits of the Institution has passed now, except occasionally during very severe weather; and though the cases admitted are still those where deep, and sometimes apparently almost fatal, misfortune is the claim, there is no longer the urgency which forbade a too discriminating selection, and the regular casual stands no chance under the quick and experienced eye of the superintendent, Mr. Ramsden, whose military tone and manner are, by the way, modulated so as to carry the sense of detection to the pretender, and to support and give courage to the weak and faint-hearted.

The same complete, quiet method of receiving applicants who await admission enables me to repeat the impression which I received during the time that the demands upon the night Refuge were more urgent. The experienced visitor who stands at the gate of this rehabilitated building that was once the old slaughter-house, and who watches the people go in one by one, and listens to their low-voiced pleas for food and shelter, cannot mistake them for casual ward cases. Just as, in some other Institutions, the pain of the spectacle is the degraded poverty of those who seek aid, the most affecting element here is utter destitution, without that accustomed debasement which would find a fitting resource at the workhouse door, leading to the night shed.

These are broken-down men and women; old men beaten in the battle of life, and full of present sorrow; young men who have fought and failed, or who have eaten of the husks, and seek occasion to rise to a better mind; middle-aged men not altogether crushed or hopeless, but in sore want, and needing the sound of a kindly voice, the touch of a friendly hand; women who have lost youth and worldly hope together—women who, more weak than wicked, and without resource, need some stay alike for fainting bodies and for wandering souls; women worn and hungry, because of the lack even of ill-paid work, and asking for rest and food till they can seek employment: some who will go forth in the morning and set out afresh; others who, if they can secure two or three nights' lodging, with a mouthful of food and drink morning and evening, have a good hope of doing better in the future.

To those who know how the demand for certain kinds of labour varies, and frequently slackens towards the winter months, when need is sorest, this latter most merciful provision comes with a sense of truest charity. Tickets of admission are issued to friends and visitors of the Institution (and any one may be a visitor who chooses to ring at the bell of the old slaughter-house), entitling the holder to admission after the regular evening hour of half-past five to six, so that in bestowing one of these the judicious subscriber (not necessarily, but surely from sympathy a subscriber) can be a true benefactor. For these tickets will admit the really deserving nightly for a week, with supper of bread and coffee or cocoa, or occasional savoury soup, and breakfast of bread and coffee. And even this time is occasionally extended, if there be a reasonable prospect of obtaining work. Not only ticket-holders, but every applicant, may have the same privilege, if it can be shown that he or she is really likely to obtain employment. But there is more than this. There are men here—truest of gentlemen, beyond that social stamp of rank which rightfully belongs to them—who, with a real, manly instinct, know how to take poverty by the hand without offensive patronage or untimely preaching. There are ladies who, in their true womanhood, can see the contrition in faces bowed down—the shame that is caused, not by evil doings, but by the feeling of dismay which comes of having to ask for charity—can sympathise with broken fortunes, with gentle nurture—cast upon a hard, relentless world, with that poverty which is "above the common."

More still. Among the supporters and the constant visitors are those who can use special influence for cases that need it most, and obtain for them admission to hospitals and other asylums, or introduce to situations those who by sudden calamity have been deprived of the means of living.

Yes, even in their deepest need, poor, wandering, homeless women may come here and find help, for in that large, lofty, yet warm and well-lighted room, the women's dormitory—one side of which is composed of a series of niches where the comfortable beds are placed—there are to be seen a row of doors, which seem to belong to a series of cabins, as, indeed, they do. Each door opens into a small bed-room—small, but with room for a chair, a tiny table, and the neat bed. They are the lodgings set apart for women, who, in the midst of their poverty and destitution, are looking forward fearfully to the time when children will be born to them, and so to a period of weakness, and of the sad mingling of maternal pity and desponding sorrow. Let me say, in one line from the Report, that last year eight young women were received into the Refuge some time before their confinement, were passed on to Queen Charlotte's Hospital, and were helped until such time as they were able to help themselves.

I think the knowledge of this is so cheerful an instance of the value of this most representative Refuge, that even the sight of the bright, warm, glowing kitchen, with its great boiler of hot coffee, and its noble kettle of soup occupying the jolly range, scarcely imparts an extra beam to the picture; while the long rows of white mugs, the pleasant, clean, fragrant loaves, the big milk-cans, the courteous chef, who has a true and pardonable pride in his surroundings—no, not even the cosy, rug-covered berths and bunks in the dormitories, nor the quaint little corner-room to which I have to climb a crooked staircase to shake hands with the sister who is in charge, nor the equally quaint and cornery, not to say inconvenient, sitting-room of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsden, who have left their tea unfinished to do the honours of the Institution—can suggest to me a better word to say than that which is suggested by the picture of the poor wandering, weary, fainting women, who, almost in despair, not only for a real, but for an expected life, come here to find rest and peace.

Stay; one word more. Who are the class of people for whom the Refuge doors are ordinarily open? Let us see what were the most numerous cases among the inmates who during the year received 6,669 nights' lodgings and 16,889 suppers and breakfasts. Among the men "labourers," of course, are most numerous; then discharged soldiers—poor fellows who have perhaps foolishly snatched at liberty when offered, and foregone the advantages of re-engagement and a pension; next in numerical order come clerks—a very painfully suggestive fact, especially when read by the light of the advertisement-columns of our newspapers, and the sad story of genteel poverty in that great suburban ring which encircles the wealthiest city in the world. Of house-painters there were 24; of servants, 21; of tailors, 13; of seamen, 8; and other callings were represented in remarkable variety, including 1 actor, 6 cooks, 1 schoolmaster, 2 surveyors, and 1 tutor. Among the women, 199 servants—show sadly enough the truth of the old adage, "Service is no inheritance;" while in numerical succession there were, 55 charwomen, 41 laundresses, 37 needlewomen, 31 tailoresses, 27 dressmakers, 26 machinists (alas! how many women still utterly depend on "the needle" for a subsistence!), 24 cooks, 20 ironers, 16 field-labourers. There were 4 governesses, 1 actress, 1 mission-woman, and 1 staymaker, the rest being variously described.

From among these, 94 men and 193 women obtained employment, 77 women having been sent to Penitentiaries and Homes, while 18 were supported in the Refuge or elsewhere by needlework, 13 were sent to their friends, 60 obtained permanent work, and 14 girls of good character were sent to Servants' Homes.

But I have left out one thing now. Among this great representative company of refugees were 60 children, of whom 37 were sent to nurse or to school, while those who were old enough— Well, just listen to that burst of military music in a distant upper-room of the old slaughter-house. I must tell you something about the Newport Market boys in another chapter.