exceedingly polite, and no gentleman in his arm-chair could have been more courteous than our friend on his odd sort of throne. It is, unfortunately, difficult to get truth from the poor Irish. The rent of this floor is the same as that below. The attic, if possible, exhibits greater poverty than below. The attics are full of large holes, and the light is visible through the roof. The rent of the attics is the same as below. It may seem strange that the prices of the rooms should not vary, but this uniformity is effected by the landlord removing those whose necessities are greater, or who may be a shilling or so in arrear of rent, to the upper quarters. The first feeling after visiting this place is that of astonishment that persons should be allowed to let such dilapidated buildings to these poor people, who really pay more than a fair rent for a good house; the rooms are seldom unoccupied, and the loss trifling. The rent would be as follows:-Four front rooms at 2s. 3d., 9s. per week; four back rooms at 1s. 9d., 78. per week; total 16s.; or 417. 12s. per annum. The population of this small court is immense. If we take an average of fifteen persons in each floor of the houses visited, and this is greatly below the number, we find sixty persons are occupying one house, and 900 are in the court.-The Builder.

TRAITS OF HEROISM.-No. I.

A MOUNTAINOUS part of our possessions in the East was infested about a quarter of a century ago, by a wild fierce race, called Bheels, who regarded robbery as a sacred institution, and followed it as a profession! A tribe of fifty thousand of these plunderers, under leaders whom they implicitly obeyed, held the strong fastnesses of their native mountains, and seemed to defy the power of our Government to dislodge them thence, more especially as the climate of the place was so deadly, that it was calculated that in three years' service amongst the mountains of the Bheels, a hundred soldiers in every regiment became totally disabled.

So degraded did the character of the Bheels appear, that even the Hindoos regarded them as outcasts, whom it was pollution to assist, and righteousness to slay! Drunkenness fearfully prevailed amongst them, and they offered up bloody sacrifices to the false deities whom they adored. Their depredations were dreaded, and so hopeless appeared the idea of their ever becoming anything but robbers and murderers, that a governor of Bombay had looked to their utter extermination as the only means by which peace could be given to Candeish!

Yet, by the mild Mountstuart Elphinstone, a scheme was formed to reclaim even these outcasts a scheme which required yet more courage to execute than benevolence to plan. To James Outram, a youthful officer in the Bombay service, was the dangerous task assigned,—and he did not shrink from it! In vain his friends attempted to dissuade him from what they deemed a vain sacrifice of his life,-he only saw the duty before him, and went straight forward!

Outram had already in fight gained some successes over the robber tribe; he now sent back his detachment, and alone, unarmed, unattended, threw himself among the savage Bheels, his life being entirely at the mercy of those against whom his sword had so lately been drawn! Many times was he in imminent peril, but a merciful Providence watched over him whose errand was mercy. Outram gained the hearts of the robbers, he hunted with them, and astonished them by his feats of daring,-he taught them mechanics, he dressed their wounds, he listened to their tales, he prescribed for their diseases; those whom the sword could not subdue, were subdued by the power of kindness! The young British officer enlisted the wild Bheels into a military corps, those who had carried terror in their name throughout the country, became now its defenders; in less than two years, those who had been formerly trained only to slaughter and rapine, had shed their blood freely in the cause of order!

And shall we draw no lesson from facts like these? Behold the power of kindness! Are we not called upon to civilize in our lanes and alleys, those whose education has, alas! too much resembled that of the robber tribes of Candeish? There are hundreds and thousands of unhappy boys, trained up to vice, living as pests to society, who require but the voice of kindness, the fostering hand of benevolence, to become, under the Divine blessing, defenders of the peace which they now break. Who will enlist them under the banner of the Cross,-who will come forward to enrol them as the soldiers of Christ? Who will venture into the haunts of misery and guilt to seek the

outcast by the force of kindness, the spell of sympathy, to draw forth the latent good in young bosoms now only familiar with crime? If Outram found success among the robbers of Candeish, can it be wanting to those Christian heroes who go forth on a like errand of mercy, and in the spirit of faith and prayer toil in the service of that Heavenly King, who willeth not that one of these little ones should perish!

Notices of Meetings, etc.

Papers, Original and Selected.

THE VAGABOND BOY.

A FEW nights since we had passed some most joyous hours with the children of a dear friend. With a light heart we walked homeward, though the morning was chilly, and a thick mist hung upon the air. The hum of voices, and the whirl of wheels, were hushed, and London seemed like a mighty hive, whose myriads awaited the coming day to pour forth and gather.

We thought of the little revellers whom we had left, tired with laughter and merriment. The youngest boy had struggled manfully with sleep, that had perched upon his drooping eyelids like a bird upon a waving bough. The little rogue! we pictured him a-bed. We saw the blessed aspect of peace upon his rosy face-that face whose bloom was so rich and plenteous that we wondered not to find its tint upon the pillow. We fancied his merry dream, nothing but prank and song (music-talk, as we heard a lisper call it.) We listened to his morrow's history of the revel, and from his little lips kissed off the words he could not utter !

Such "sweet fancies" soon brought us to the door of our humble dwell ing; and as we extended our hand to the knocker, a squalid child, who had been sleeping (unperceived by us) upon the stone step, suddenly sprang up, and darted away like a startled deer. We called him to return, but our voice seemed to lend wings to his shoeless feet. We, however, knew him to be the VAGABOND BOY-the street outcast, the bedesman of poverty. It is well that easy comfort should sometimes look into the dens of cheerless squalor, and venture into the narrow alleys whose atmosphere is laden with fœtid exhalations; for some good may be gathered from the impuritiessome sympathy awakened by the selfishness of want. Who so fitting a guide as the vagabond boy? He who drew his first breath in a noisome cellar, and whose swaddling-clothes were rags-foul rags.

We write not thus that mincing daintiness should distort her flaccid features, and exclaim, "Poor wretch rags and a cellar!" There is no real demand upon her sympathy-the vagabond boy is the naked heir of vagabond parents, who celebrated his birth at the bar of a ginshop; since he could lisp he has often asked for food, and been told to be silent. Habit made him obedient, and with hunger for his playmate he has returned again to his toys, (an oyster-shell or a broken tile,) and been as happy as the pampered offspring of abundance.

As soon as the vagabond boy can run, he becomes the denizen of the streets-hunting up and down the highways, (like the wild dogs of the East,) for chance morsels, and wondering why the plenty which he beholds on every side is withheld from him. He would take from any, but he fears the blow, for he has been taught the morality of the scourge. Still he exhibits no fretfulness, for he has never known indulgence; and alike reckless of the present and the future, he trusts to the boons of accident for the luxury of existence. His want soon teaches him cunning, and he becomes an actor of no mean pretensions. Now he is one of a group that haunts unfrequented streets, bellowing most discordant psalmody, and trafficking with holy names, which he has heard daily joined to oaths uttered in the

frenzy of drunkenness and contention. No missionȧry of Gospel truth has sought out his benighted race, and taught the vagabond the value that pious men place upon his soul-the anxiety that his fellows feel for his temporal advancement. He finds his gain in words that to him have no meaning, and in phrases that convey to him neither hope nor fear.

Why should Religion seat herself at ease, as though her pilgrimage were done, and build herself lofty dwellings, when there are a thousand by-places, even in London, where her foot has never trodden ?

Anon the vagabond assumes another character. He seeks some wellfrequented thoroughfare, and, crouching upon the pavement, mimics wretchedness almost to tears. His youth assists the cheat; and though none who look upon his miserable face detect the cunning counterfeit, yet how few cast their mite into his ragged lap, or utter a word of pity for the houseless wretch!

The merchant, whose mind is busied with the intricate calculations that are to multiply his stores, cannot pause to succour a vagabond. He subscribes his guineas, and thus by money, endeavours to check the evil he sees, but otherwise cannot aid in arresting.

The busy magistrate, intent upon some scheme to wring the guilty, passes on, contented with the greatness of his purpose. He lives to make justice terrible, and smothers his sympathies under Acts of Parliament.

The wealthy idler, who has hardly known an unsatisfied desire, feels poverty to be dreadful only for its importunities, and marvels that, as he pays his poor-rates duly, how want can have the hardihood to approach him in the streets.

Yet the vagabond is insensible to the contumely of the neglectful crowd; for his state is so abject that he can feel no degradation, but chuckles over the pence that his knavery has won from the few, with as much satisfaction as the more fortunate speculator who has added thousands to his gains. The parks are the favourite resort of the vagabond. The greensward is the gymnasium where he practises the feats which he has seen performed in the front of the booths at the suburban fairs; and few who witness his various antics, reflect that the mimic is minus a breakfast. He never begs in the parks; there he seems to feel himself an independent vagabond; and loses no opportunity of insulting the timid child of the well-to-do, who walks forth an advertisement of the parents' credit with the milliner or the tailor. An over-dressed child is to us a painful exhibition. We fear that the tints of its gaudy vestments may stain the mind; and that its velvets, ribbons, and laces, are so many fetters on its beauteous limbs to stay its bounding impulses, and chain it down to the formal action of propriety.

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The banks of the river and canals are also much frequented by the vagabond. By the latter he may be seen angling for minnows, or paddling his shoeless feet in the running water, basking in the sun, the diment of indolence. By the river he is a different thing; there he is the type of enterprise and discovery. The rags which cover his legs are rolled up tightly round his thighs, and a battered tin saucepan is slung at his side. Thus prepared, he rushes into the mud left by the ebbing tide, and seeks to gather a meal from the garbage of the river. An emperor could not boast of greater appliances for his banquet. Now he finds a piece of cordage, whose strands were grown in the far west-then he rescues from the receding waters some chips of wood that were the produce of the eastagain, the mines of England supply him with a few bits of coal; and thus

he makes, as it were, the refuse of the world minister to his necessity. Such enterprise could discover new worlds, or improve the old ; but-he is a vagabond.

He is a great sight-seer; and, as though proud of his rags, he invariably selects the loftiest and most conspicuous position. He is a most unbiassed auditor at all public meetings that are held in the open air, and cheers both sides of the argument, knowing nothing, and caring as little concerning the ultimate success of either; although he sometimes wonders how those who have so much to eat can have anything to grumble about.

You will sometimes find him at the entrance of a court, or under cover of a dilapidated hoarding, busily engaged at "pitch and toss." He handles the coins with the facility of a juggler, and his dirty face is painfully expressive of the gambler's intensity of excitement. He cheats and is detected; but a few boisterous words soon satisfy his opponent, and the game proceeds with increased watchfulness and redoubled ardour. He feels no shame in the detection, and all that he dreads to lose is his money-the wondrous talisman that finds food to satisfy his hunger. Every day he feels its value more; and impatient at the tardiness of the street charity, he grows less fearful of punishment, and steals.

The offended laws have long since robbed him of his parents, and he is now without even the name of a home. His philosophy is equal to the privation, and an empty vault, a secret corner, or the market shambles, only afford him a place of rest.

His passions now begin to develop themselves, and Vice is still ready with her allurements. True, she comes not to him with painted cheeks and glittering attire; her voice has not the dulcet tones, or her limbs the lascivious gracefulness, with which she wins the wealthy sensualist to own her supremacy; but still the boisterous wanton has charms to lure him to her toils. His want and struggles have made him older than his years, and premature in his knowledge of suffering, he is equally advanced in criminality. He has heard drunken riot called enjoyment, and lewdness named as pleasure, and, believing in the truth, the vagabond, whilst yet a boy, becomes a zealous convert. Vice is a greedy tyrant, and exacts her dues with an immoveable severity, and the occasional pilferer becomes the confirmed thief.

The law, vigilant of its rights, soon seizes upon the depredator, and the vagabond boy takes his place at the bar of the police office. Even there he has no shame, for he knows that when his punishment is over, he shall return to his own haunts with an increased consequence. What has he to fear? Stripes! He bore those when a babe. Coarse fare! He knew hunger at his mother's breast, for its fount was dried by poverty. Reproach! Poor fellow he has been spurned since he could remember. What else has he left to fear? Nothing, for society denies to the vagabond all but a physical existence.

In prison he is still the same. At first the restrictions of the jail are irksome to one who has been so long a wanderer; but he is surrounded by companions whom he has known in the streets, or who are willing to receive him as an equal.

Who can doubt the termination of such a life? Justice having punished the offender, turns him again into the streets, as insensible of all moral guidances, and equally destitute, as when she consigned the vagabond to prison. Punishment has made him more careful of detection, and expe