THE winter now closing in upon us threatens to be as severe a one as that of 1860-61, when for weeks together the whole land was frostbound, the roads slippery and dangerous, and the consequent distress amongst the poor terrible to witness. A gang of men were employed at one time near my house to shovel the hard snow away, and once or twice a week my housekeeper used to brew a copper full of soup, and tell them to come and fetch it. I was passing through the garden one day as they entered, numbed and hungry-looking, with their cans and pitchers, and I stopped a few minutes to see if they cared about it. It made me ashamed for myself and my richer neighbours to see these poor ravenous fellows dip their fingers into the scalding soup to snatch any piece of meat or bread that was floating in it, whilst others resolutely covered the tempting sight, and started off to share it with the little ones at home.

A doctor, almost as much as a clergyman, has many painful cases brought before him in times of general distress, and he also has many chances of bringing those

cases before the richer classes whose privilege it is to care for the poor, and help them liberally in times of necessity. Those gaunt, hungry men haunted me many a day; how many thousand such there must be in our towns and cities, and even our villages, during a hard winter. But it is the Christmas-eve of 1860 that most vividly remains in

my mind. I had been a great part of the day in the saddle, and had occupied my lonely ride in trying to find some key to the great problem of effectually helping the misery around, and was returning home after a long round of visits amongst my scattered patients, when, as I walked my jaded horse cautiously up the slippery streets of picturesque old Warwick in the fast gathering gloom, I suddenly remembered the fact that it was Christmas-eve, and that my little motherless Fay would draw down her rosy lips wofully if there was nothing from papa in the little scarlet stocking that she never forgot to hang at the foot of her bed on every possible occasion. So I dismounted at the only toy-shop I could see, and filling my pockets hastily with childish delights made the best of my way home, and, having refreshed both the outer and inner man, proceeded to examine the purchases I had made. There was amongst them a large and showy kaleidoscope whose myriad colours would, I thought, fill my merry little daughter with glee. I rattled it energetically and placed it to my eye, but to my chagrin no bright colours met my view. I gazed down into the street of a grey and gloomy city; the last theatre had closed, the last public-house had turned out its brilliant tempting lights, the last door had shut on the merry ringing good night of departing guests, the late omnibus had finished its final journey, and

the unfortunate driver, who sits fifteen hours a day in his seat, was trying to stamp some life into his cramped and frozen limbs; the tired horses, with quivering overstrained muscles from the slippery streets, were beginning to scent out their supper and bed; everywhere windows were comfortably shuttered and curtains closely drawn, only here and there a glint of ruddy firelight evidencing the comfort within; a biting east wind swept down the deserted streets, the gas flared and flickered in its glass cages, and man and beast alike seemed to have crept into shelter. Along the echoing street comes the heavy tramp of the policeman on duty, throwing the light of his glancing bullseye on door and window as he passes. What is that dark heap his light momentarily flashes on within the shadow of that deep portico ? It caught his watchful eye, and he turned his lantern steadily towards it: a woman, with pale, sunken cheeks and decent scanty clothing, lies curled up on the stone step, sheltering from the bitter wind her sleeping child. There had been several passers by; one smiled scornfully and muttered "Drunk as usual." Another's first thought was to help the woman, but he ended by fearing lest she might be a bad character, or her clothes not clean. A carriage passed by also, but the advantage of a closed carriage to its occupants is, that they see little of the squalor and miseries of the streets. Another passer by was a rich man, who hurried on quickly, lest, if he called a cabman to the woman's aid, he would become liable for the fare. The policeman hesitates, the sight is so piteous, but his orders are strict, and he speaks gruffly: "Come, you can't lie here; you must move on somewhere." No answer reaches him,

and he stoops to rouse her, but starts back momentarily from the cold, stiff fingers. Dead, frozen dead! Reverently almost the man bends over her, and lifts up the sleeping child, and, as the ragged cloak that wraps it falls back, I gaze upon the fair curls and rosy cheeks of my little daughter. I give a violent start and instantly the scene changes, and I see a long narrow room, dimly lighted by lowturned gas. On either side the room stand even rows of little beds, each one covered with a gaily-coloured blanket and each one containing a little sleeping child. Around the walls were coloured prints of childish games decorated with the bright shining leaves of the Christmas holly. As I look, the door opens gently, and two figures enter; both are dressed as Sisters of Mercy-the one is evidently a nurse, the other, a fair happy-faced, still youthful lady, appears to be the superior. She steps softly to the bed nearest to the door and beckons the nurse to come and look. "She was only brought to me a few hours ago; you must be kind and gentle to her when she wakes, her poor mother was frozen to death in our cruel streets;" and she covered her face with her hands as if to shut out the

hard sight. The nurse bent forward to look at the sleeping child, cautiously drawing back the coverings, and again I see the tumbled curls and flushed cheeks on which the tears yet linger of my own little one. I stoop to snatch her to my heart, but instantly all is dark, and, as I turn restlessly away, a different scene greets me: it is middle-day, the bright sun is shining through the keen frosty air, and I look down into a large, bare, but comfortably warmed room, along the whole length of which run long narrow tables; around them are seated in eager expectancy

two hundred hungry, pinched, and ragged little children. Presently before each one is set a bountiful plate of steaming savoury stew. A lady, who seems to superintend everything, steps forward, with her face flushed with pleasure, and, clasping her hands, exclaims, "Thank God, dear children, for these and all His mercies;" and, with a childish answering Amen," they fall to vigorously, she watching them with delight, and, as I look on the glowing face of the child next to her, it seems to melt and fade before me into the rosy childish dimples of little Fay-I feel her warm tiny fingers are clinging tightly round mine, and she seems to lead me away. We are on the ice, in the midst of a merry, laughing, careless crowd of skaters; young men and maidens, old men and children, are carried away by the exhilarating exercise; girls with bright eyes and tingling cheeks flash past us, hotly pursued by their attendant cavaliers, and the clear ring of their skates on the ice echoes musically through the frosty air; ladies wrapped in furs are gliding luxuriously over the smooth ice in easy chairs; schoolboys, home for the holidays, come racing down with their hockey sticks, voting it "first-rate weather, and a tip-top lark." In a warmer tent tea and coffee and refreshments are being dispensed freely, and nowhere around is there a sign of poverty or want. Ah, yes! there is even here. Little Fay has sharper eyes than mine; I yield to

her gentle pull, and she draws me. over to an island in the centre of the lake where a little sad-eyed robin hops feebly over the frozen ground. Fay's busy hands are quickly at work scattering the bread with which she had filled her pockets, and the little sad-eyed robin was soon surrounded by a flock of feathered friends as hungry as himself. But the air grows chill, the sun sinks below the horizon, the gay crowd melts, and once more I look down into the gloomy streets of the great city. I see a bare high wall in the midst of which is set a small door; around this are grouped men and women in every stage of poverty; ragged, cold, and hungry, anxiously awaiting the opening of this door; in a few minutes it is thrown open, and they stream in, but before all have entered the word "Full" is passed out, and the door snaps to. Three shivering objects remain outside staring blankly at each other. "What can us do ?" said one at last; "we'll be froze out here."

"Let's try another 'House.""

"Too late now, they'll all be full; we must get put in quod somehow. Here's a gent coming; let's attack him." I try to stop them, I try to cry Police!' and in the effort I wake up and find little Fay sitting quietly Fay sitting quietly on the hearthrug by my side. My Christmas-eve visions have never been forgotten, but have urged me to many an effort for the poor and suffering in times of hardship and distress. I wish I could make them half as vivid to others as they were to me.

THERE is always a certain interest in the life and growth of a very young creature. The Cambridge University Amateur Dramatic Club is now an important institution, very much like other societies of gentlemen amateurs, living recognised and above board. But it was not always so; and it is the fact that the "A.D.C." had to fight its way that gives a peculiar interest to Mr. Burnand's account of its birth and nurture, and of that successful struggle for existence, in the glories of which he might fairly claim for himself, quorum pars magna fui.*

We shall present the account of this lively nursling in a succession of pictures, mostly in his own words:

"In the October term of 1854, my first term at Trinity, the notion occurred to me how much more amusing than cards, drinking, and supper, would be private theatricals, with, of course, supper to follow. Perhaps the fact of my having written a piece-an 'original work,' compiled from my recollection of farces, in which I had seen Buckstone, Charles Mathews, Compton, Keeley, Wright, and Paul Bedford-was at the bottom of this idea. Besides, I came up to the University with some reputation for this sort of thing, among Etonians at least, as a farce of mine-(another original work composed in much the

same way, only more so)-had been performed in my tutor's pupil room, under the special patronage of my tutor himself (the Rev. William Gifford Cookesley),-who was an admirable audience, and this farce had been actually printed in Windsor, and sold for a shilling a copy. So it became known and accepted at college that I was an authority in theatricals, and before the term was out, we had contrived a capital little stage in our rooms, opposite Trinity College, over a grocer's shop, now swept away, and its place taken by Trinity New Buildings; we had got together our company, which was quite Shakspearean, in one respect, i.e., its ladies. But here we were most fortunate, as was the A. D. C.' afterwards. Lads between eighteen, nineteen, and twenty-one, slim and guiltless of whiskers or moustache, downy fledgelings, whose delight was then not to encourage hirsute growth but to shave, could easily make up' for the female characters, and represent them admirably, voice excepted."

The comic side of the revival of Shakespearean women is well presented in the epilogue written by Lord Houghton in 1830, when he was Mr. R. M. Milnes, for a Cambridge amateur performance of Much Ado About Nothing, in which a number of distinguished students took part.