the districts lying to the north-west of the present site, in which we find whatever may have been the intention of the writer-the strongest condemnation of the corporation. He says:

'Let any one pay a visit to Smithfield, as it now is on market-days, and watch the movements of a crowd of little urchins, armed with weapons of all sorts, from the switch to the club. Mondays and Fridays are to them high-days and holidays. Not more regular in their attendance at market are the butchers or salesmen than are these children. They may be seen sometimes gregarious, sometimes solitary-pursuing their vicious calling -making thrusts at the sheep in the pens, or knocking on the head their tied-up victims. Any one may see, who is so disposed, this vile practice to an extent which, multiplied by the market-days in the year, and by the number of beasts in the pens, makes up an amount of unnecessary cruelty from which the benevolent mind turns with loathing. For what are these infants educating? Is it from such as these, when grown up, we are to Look for the results of kindliness? Are these among the materials from which the moralist would mould the man, and endow with Christian graces? or, rather, well practised in cruelty, and inured to hardship almost from their birth, is it not from these that a nation derives its petty pilferers, its burglars, and ferocious felons? It is here, in Smithfield, that the child receives its first lessons in cruelty, and from whence society reaps the effects of what to some may appear the frolics or thoughtlessness of childhood, but which, nevertheless, bursts forth in a very torrent of brutality."*

the metropolis," said Lord Ashley, at a late meeting of the Metropolitan Sanitary Association, "was not only perilous, in a sanitary point of view, to those who resided in it, but it was an absolute disgrace to the century in which we lived. It was a disgrace to our high-sounding professions of civilization and morality. They were surrounded by every noxious influence; they were exposed to every deadly pestilence. It was a wonder the plague had not decimated our people ten times over during the last century. Go to the market at Smithfield, and look at the various processes invariably carried on in the neighbourhood of a market of that description. They shocked not only every sense, but every feeling; that market was a nuisance and a plague that must not be allowed to subsist in the midst of a dense population."

The question of where the new market is to be, has not yet been solved. That is a matter of less consequence than the grand fact of the approaching removal of the Smithfield nuisance. Islington and Highbury have both been named as the site of the new market. Probably a second market, on the Surrey side of the river, may yet be projected, though objections are to be expected; the cattle sold in London coming mainly from the north. Wherever the new market is fixed, care should be taken, as in the extra-mural cemeteries, to isolate it from the surrounding district, and fence off a considerable space on all sides, to ward off all innovations in the shape of horse-kpackers, sausage-manufacturers, skin, bone, and gut dealers. Abundant approaches ought to be secured, and no erections permitted, save for the purposes of the market.

In connection with the live cattle market, it is also exceedingly desirable, in a sanitary point of view, that slaughter-houses should be entirely removed beyond the bounds of the city. Mr. Simons, the medical officer of health for the city, spoke strongly on this subject in his last report. He there stated, "I consider slaughtering within the city as both directly and indirectly prejudicial to the health of the population; directly, because it loads the air with effluvia of decomposing animal matter, not only in the immediate vicinity of each slaughter-house, but likewise along the line of drainage which conveys away its washings and fluid filth; indirectly, because many very offensive and noxious trades are in close dependence on the slaughtering of cattle, and round about the original nuisance of the slaughter-houses within as narrow limits of distance as circumstances will allow, you invariably find established the concomitant and still more grievous nuisance of gut-spinning, bone-boiling, tripedressing, tallow-melting, paunch-cooking, &c. Ready illustrations of this fact may be found in the gut scraping sheds of Harrow Alley, adjoining Butcher's Row, Aldgate; or in the Leadenhall skin-market, contiguous to the slaughtering places, where the stinking hides of cattle lie for many hours together, spread out on a large area of ground, waiting for sale, to the great offence of the neighbourhood."

This horrible training in cruelty and torture, the projectors of the new market propose to abate by enclosure. But so long as the market and slaughter-houses continue in the centre of the population, so long will these youths continue familiar with sights of cruelty and torture. Sheep running under carriage wheels, oxen darting into entries, or rushing into furniture shops, breaking windows, baited by dogs, and beaten by drovers, who mix loud cursing with their blows, will continue to be as frequent as now; and the injury inflicted on the juvenile population by the sight of these cruelties, will not in any respect be abated. Dr. Bushnan also shows, in his pamphlet, what a number of disgusting occupations, followed by a most degraded population, are pursued in the neighbourhood of the present market, and which form a greater nuisance than even the market itself. There are tripedressers, sausage-makers, slaughterers, gut-twisters, living amidst piles of decomposing poisonous food, heaps of animal refuse lying about their doors, and a squalid, loathsome, half-savage population prowling about. Such are the nuisances that the establishment of the new central market would tend to perpetuate. If the eaters of sausages and even of beefsteaks and other animal food, were to witness the scenes described by Dr. Bushnan, the keenest appetite would revolt, and the stoutest stomach quail. We scarcely dare venture to recite the The slaughter-houses and their appendages must details of these disgusting manufactories of city food. therefore be made to accompany Smithfield out of town; "In the very centre of all this crowding of human beings and there will be the less difficulty in removing the evil, is a space, open it is true, but a full and reeking church-seeing that the corporation does not, as in the case of yard, so full that the parish has abandoned it." This the cattle market, derive a large annual revenue from the churchyard forms part of the site of the New Central nuisance. Market.

No, Dr. Bushuan!

The whole thing must be removed, not extended! Removed from out the midst of this vast population. We must not incur the risk of this "mass of infamy being again gathered on this plague-spot of London." Even the money "turned over" annually in Smithfield market, or about eight millions sterling a year, will not compensate for the existence of such nuisances as these. "The condition of

The Moral and Sanitary aspects of the New Central Cattle Market, as proposed by the Corporation of London. By J. Stephenson Bushnan, M. D.-Orr and Co

POOR TANCRED.
V.-BEADLE TWELSTON IN SORROW.

THERE was a mighty stir in Beadle Twelston's house on
the very day that completed the twelfth month of his
second epoch of married life. "Where is Tancred-
where is Tancred? Who has seen him? Who has heard
of him? Run here-run there-bring him back whoever
finds him! Lord, Lord!" cried Beadle Twelston,
"what has become of our poor boy?" He had not

been in bed all night; the bed-clothes were smooth and
straight, and had not been touched. His cap was gone,
and the little suit he always wore when occasion de-
manded his best appearance. The window of the room,
which was a back one, was found open. Egress this way
was easy enough. It was but to get outside, creep down
the roof of an out-house, cross a yard, scale a low wall,
and then the open fields were gained. The boy was off,
it was plain. Beadle Twelston, two hours after the dis-
covery that he was missing, came to the conclusion that
he had run away.
Dame Twelston was of the same
opinion, but did not altogether entertain the same views
and feelings upon the subject as her husband did; for
whilst the latter, with some anxiety and sorrow in his
mien, sent scouts in every direction to find the truant,
she declared that for her part she was glad that he was
out of the way, and hoped he would keep himself in that
relative position, the ungrateful little brat.

Beadle Twelston was by no means pleased with this behaviour; and, with a flushed face, told the Dame that "he wouldn't put up with it." A storm ensued. The beadle said he had taken the child off the world, had brought it up in comfort, and had loved it, and his poor wife, dead and gone, had loved it, and he "couldn't stand by quiet" and see the poor thing driven out of house and home by hard words and rough treatment, for that was how the case stood, he saw plainly enough. The dame, of course, dealt back a sharp volley. She was unable to express her full scorn at the idea of "keeping the boy out of love," and told the beadle she knew better than all that. She knew what he kept the boy for, but never had she heard of so preposterous a fancy as that of being sought out and remunerated for adopting a foundling. By-and-by, he would grow headstrong and wild, and be a terrible trouble and expense.

"Never mind that, ma'am!" wheezed the beadle, almost precipitated into apoplexy by excitement. "Never mind that, ma'am. The boy never cost you anything, I believe, ma'am. No one ever expected you to provide for'n, I believe, ma'am. You've took uncommon good care never to let'n trouble you, I believe, ma'am. Where your feelings is that you should turn so horrid strong against the poor child I can't make out."

"Why, hoity-toity! what's all this about!" cried a sharp female voice at this juncture. The door opened, and in came our old acquaintance Mrs. Sarvus. She held up her hand in a significant manner, as if advising silence and respectful behaviour, and in another moment a tall commanding figure stood before the startled beadle and his wife. Without a word, the visitor placed a chair and sat down, motioning the beadle to do the same. well dressed, and might have been about thirty years old; the bronzed hue of his fine and clearly cut features appeared the result of exposure to a warmer climate than that of England; and the quick and penetrating glances of a pair of remarkably bright black eyes contributed to heighten the effect of his appearance.

He was

"I have just paid a visit to the workhouse here," said he, "in quest of a child who, I have been told, was conveyed thither in November, 1834. The name Tancred, written on a card, was attached to the child I allude to. This good woman tells me you can afford some information on the subject."

pressions of ill-will she had just uttered had been over-
heard. She stood still, silent and sullen.
"Come, come, don't be afeard!" cried Mrs. Sarvus,
much astonished at this behaviour.
This is the very
day as you've been waiting for so long, you know,
Maister Twelston. Where's the child?"

"Lord, lord!" ejaculated the beadle, in a tone of despair. "To think that the boy, after living so long in this house, should go for to make off the very day as his parients is a come for'n!"

With much difficulty the facts of the case were elicited from the perturbed functionary. "Well, this is terribly provoking! exclaimed the visitor. "What's to be done? Are you making any search?"

The beadle enumerated the number of scouts he had sent in every direction, a proof of assiduity which appeared, in some measure, to appease the deep annoyance of the stranger. Promising to visit them again in two or three days, and charging the beadle to continue the search with all possible industry, he abruptly departed. Thus stimulated, the worthy Twelston aroused his torpid energies. All the neighbourhood was scoured, and the adjacent cities scrutinized, but there were no tidings of Tancred. In three days the stranger returned. He stamped his foot, and muttered an oath, as the Beadle told him the result of his labours. "Then for the present I must give it up!" he exclaimed, and was off again, abruptly as before. Four days after, Jack Beauchamp, for he it was, was sailing down the Channel towards the wide Atlantic.

VI. THE MEETING.

In the absence of the beadle, poor Tancred had many a time been flogged severely by Dame Twelston, entirely out of spite, for the boy was too well-disposed to do wilful wrong. He was too much afraid of her to complain to her husband. The night before he was lost, he had been castigated with merciless violence merely because he had forgotten to scrape his shoes. The gentlest soul may be steeled by tyranny-made reckless by despair. With nothing but the clothes on his back and a crust of bread in his pocket, Tancred got out of his bedroom window and ran away across the fields.

There was no moon, but the stars shone brightly. It was autumn time, and the air of the country was sweet and fresh. Through many a dark field the little wanderer hurried, till at length he came out into the high road. As long as he was able he kept at the top of his speed. Never before had Tancred thought the night and dawn so long and drear; indeed it was the first time he had spent them out of bed. By-and-by, however, ruddy beams shot into the eastern sky. Streams of fire burst over the hills; streams of music over field and grove; the sun had risen; all nature was awake and jubilant; and the glory of the morn smote little Tancred's beating heart.

"You are stirring early, my little fellow!" cried a voice.

Tancred started and looked round, terrified. A sedate and noble face was visible through a gap in the hedge. Never did the boy forget the picture thus unexpectedly presented to him; nor did the man the picture he beheld. The former saw a venerable and benign face Had the wrangling of the beadle and his wife been regarding him with a mixture of interest and inquiry cut short by a thunderbolt falling betwixt them they from behind the glittering dew-bathed foliage; the morncould not have been more amazed. Beadle Twelston's ing sun threw over the silver hair and the impressive jaw dropped, his eyes opened fixedly, his hair rose on end, features a beauty almost unearthly. The latter perceived his knees quivered, he stood speechless and petrified. a delicate and plaintive-faced child pausing in wonder His wife was equally confused. She took it for granted that the beadle's expectations were on the point of being fulfilled, and that a wealthy relative, if not the father himself, had come to claim the boy. Her long ill-treatment of him rushed into her mind. Perhaps the ex

and evident alarm upon the highway along which he had been hurrying; and who, notwithstanding the hour, appeared to have travelled far, and looked jaded

and anxious.

I am going that way! let us walk together." With

this he went round to the gate, and came out into the kind instructor considered his labours more than repaid road where Tancred was standing. "Have you been walking long?"

by his pupil's rapid progress. Early in the morning he walked out or worked in the garden with Mr. Benedict,

"For some time, sir," said Tancred, a little confused. in either case enjoying and benefiting by the conversation "And have you far to go, my poor boy?"

Tancred turned away, and burst into tears. It is a terrible time for a child when he feels that he has no where to go, nor knows what to do for shelter and succour; when there are none to help him, and when he cannot help himself. At such a season, a parental and compassionate voice touches deeply. Tancred would have gone on as bravely as his nature would allow, had he met with roughness or indifference, but the kindness and concern of his companion's manner excited his sensitive heart almost beyond bearing.

Why, my little fellow, what is the matter?" inquired the gentleman.

Nothing, sir," said Tancred; "but I must make haste on."

Are you in quest of anyone or anything?" asked the gentleman, tenderly. "I may be able to help you; and if I can, I will, depend upon it." Tancred was fairly embarrassed, not knowing what to say or do. He walked onwards slowly, sobbing violently. His newly-found friend, however, interested by his appearance and greatly surprised at his behaviour, could not resist the temptation of pursuing his inquiries. At length he elicited that the boy had neither father nor mother, and that he had run away from his home in consequence of severe ill-treatment. A bruise upon his brow, and weals upon his back, even up to his neck, confirmed the account. Tancred's new friend was exceedingly touched. A nature evidently so gentle could not have incurred systematic ill-treatment without great brutality on the part of the inflictors. Most ingenuous truth was in the boy's look and tone. He made no statement which was not drawn from him, and still appeared grieved at having to give a bad account of any one. Moreover, he refused to mention the name of the Twelstons, or of the place from which he had come.

An hour more, and he was sitting side-by-side with the friend so strangely found, in a neatly-furnished little room, with an old-fashioned bow-window, which looked out upon a well-kept lawn and garden. There were several large books upon the table, and an array of substantial volumes were ranged upon shelves round the walls. It was the study of the Rev. Samuel Benedict, curate of S.

VII. THE NEW HOME.

The heart of the poor curate warmed towards Tancred. At length the boy had fallen into the hands of one who could really comprehend and cherish him.

of an enlarged and elevated mind. Soon Tancred's intellect, thus healthily and strongly nurtured, grew and expanded, till after awhile he was not only welcome to the sight of his benefactor as a forward and ready pupil, but also as an engaging and stimulating companion, whose fresh and earnest mind led the way to new realms of inquiry and contemplation. The man of sixty and the boy of twelve waxed into close communion of soul. The philosophy in which the former delighted, and which imbued all his utterances-a philosophy which, from a predominating centre of religion, embraced a healthy and profound appreciation of science, and all the various phases of knowledge, seemed to receive confirmation and vitality from the readiness and delight with which the boy's mind opened to it and treasured it up. The clod of earth, the ear of corn, the blade of grass, the trees, the flowers, sun, moon, and stars-these were the themes of the morning and evening walks, and the pleasant hours of garden work; and many were the grand arcana which little Tancred learned and gloried in. And over all a grace ineffably ennobling was shed by the inobtrusive, yet all-pervading piety of the preceptor. Tancred seemed to lead a charmed life, so deep was his happiness. As the boy looked back to the wretchedness from which he had escaped, it seemed as though he had sunk into a holy and tranquil dream of Paradise. Meanwhile, a love, strange and strong, grew up in the breast of the poor curate for the boy he had found on the highway-a feeling powerful as a spell.

VIII. A RECONCILIATION.'

One evening, when Mr. Benedict and Tancred were in the garden, there came a ring at the gate bell. Tancred ran to answer it. An old gentleman, with white hairs and feeble steps, entered. Shading his eyes with his hand, for the setting sun shone full upon him, he looked around, and, seeing Mr. Benedict, slowly advanced towards him, and sat down on a rustic seat by his side. Mr. Benedict took off his hat and bade him good evening respectfully, as his manner was.

"Mr. Benedict! Mr. Benedict!" exclaimed the visitor, in a tone of such deep emotion that he who was addressed instantly sat down by his side and took one of his hands in his own. "I am a broken-hearted man!", "What!is this, indeed, Mr. Severn!" exclaimed the curate, apparently making a sudden recognition. Alas, sir, you are altered since we met before!"

66

Altered-ay! I suppose so. Did you ever see a pining man who carried his age lightly? But, tell me,

"Twelve years, last November," answered Mr. Benedict, with a sigh.

"Never once

Mr. Benedict's stipend was but one hundred pounds a-how long is it since those terrible days?" year, and his duties were arduous, for they lay amongst a considerable population, scattered over a large parish. But active and well-directed benevolence may work wonders; and never was priest more beloved by his flock than Mr. Benedict, who you would have imagined to have been wealthy had you known the charity and good he wrought amongst his charge. He was a widower; and, some years before, had lost his only daughter. There was a portrait of a lady with a beautiful girl by her side in the curate's bedroom. Tancred saw this one day, and knew they must be the lost wife and daughter. He stood reverently before the picture, and wept whilst thinking of the two-how they had died long ago, first the lady and then the girl, Mr. Benedict watching over them and mourning.

"Twelve years, last November," repeated the old man slowly. "Well, I have never had peace of mind since!” he added, in a tone of deep despondency. have we seen or heard aught of our poor boy! "The trial is long and severe," exclaimed Mr. Benedict, whose own feelings seemed strongly excited by the rencontre and the allusions thus made.

"Yes, we have both been tried severely," continued Mr. Severn; "but your affliction was short and certain : mine has been long and is uncertain still. And there is nothing so fearful for the heart and soul as many weary years of hope deferred. Oh, kinder far to kill a man at once than place upon his mind as much anxiety as it can possibly bear, and then leave him to perish beneath it, inch by inch, through years of cruel suffering!" The curate remained silent, sitting with his head

Mr. Benedict to his delight found that Tancred was remarkably forward in all such studies as a scholar in a parish school could possibly gain an introduction to. He continued his education. Four hours of each day Tan-bowed down. cred spent amongst books in the quiet "study," and his

"Mr. Benedict," continued the visitor, "I have done