A CRICKET MATCH. THIS is no fiction. I was walking a few evenings since across a broad heath, when my attention was arrested by one of the prettiest sights imaginable. A party of little boys, the inmates of some preparatory school, whose ages might vary from five to nine years, had provided themselves with bat, ball and stumps, and were playing a match, which, if it did not vie with that of Kent and Cambridge in skill, certainly equalled them in the energy and activity of the parties concerned, and interested me far more. There was one sturdy little fellow planted at the wicket, whose full stuff frock coat was rather an impediment as he handled the bat, and who certainly struck the stumps oftener than he hit the ball, in his vigorous efforts to send it back; but then he put so much heart and soul into the business, puffing and blowing like an infant grampus, driving right and left at the gliding ball, and seeming so wholly engrossed by the delightful sport, that it was refreshing to look at him. I thought of the healthful tendency of such vigorous play of the young muscles, and such drawing out of the faculties; I marked the glow on his cheek, the moist broad brow lifted to the pleasant breeze, and rejoiced in the lovely spectacle of childish life and liberty. Over against him stood another, somewhat older, in the manly array of blue cloth jacket and trowsers. A smart chap he was, with an air of importance about him; his cap placed quite coquettishly on one side, over the thick clusters of bright brown curls that contrasted with his snow-white falling collar; he was bowling against the lad at the wicket, and every throw of the ball was effected with an impetus that sent his picturesque little person whirling round, while a shout bespoke his hope of triumph. These were the principals; the rest were eagerly assisting, to the best of their power, running after the ball, and wholly alive to its every movement. At last my friend at the wicket gave so effectual a hit, that he sent it to a considerable distance, and secured a run. Such a run! his strides were prodigious, and the stretch by which he contrived to touch the mark with the end of his bat was an attitude for a painter: he regained his post in time; but the bowler's energies were drawn forth by this successful exploit; he aimed correctly, threw vigorously, and down came the wicket. Then there was such clapping of hands, such dancing and capering, and tumbling on the grass, in the wild glee of happy boyhood, that even our great Newfoundland dog, who had stood still to survey the game, wagged his tail and jumped with sympathizing delight, reminding me of Burns' dog: My heart has been so fath to see 'em It was a lovely evening too: the broad sun was setting behind a mass of noble chesnut trees, and his slanting beams played over the green sward, and made brighter the bright faces of the dear little boys. They did not re-place the wickets, but consulted about another game, and I continued looking, until the present scene gradually faded, and another rose -shall I, can I describe it? The boys were still before me, each face retaining its own character, but they were separated far asunder, and each sate alone; his post being at a small wooden door, to which was attached a string. It was noon-day, vivid glowing noon, the sun was high, the breeze was fresh, the little birds were singing from the sheltering trees; but neither sunbeam, nor zephyr, nor the song of the bird could reach him, Low, narrow, damp, and dark, wholly dark, was the post of the bright-eyed boy, who sate there crushed and crouching, shivering with discomfort, and yet more with fear, lest, in the absence of all sights and sounds, and all that could occupy his listless mind, sleep the sleep from which he was roused and rent some three hours after midnight, might overpower him; the approaching corve be unheard, the obstructing door unopened, and the heavy cut of some merciless whip be laid on his tender shoulders for the omission. He had yesterday manufactured an inch of candle from the drops of tallow, the produce of several days' begging from those who passed through his door, and it brightened his den for nearly half an hour, by good management; but that short indulgence only served to aggravate the horrors of his subsequent black watch, broken in upon only by the passing gleam of light accompanying each laden vehicle that he admitted. What should occupy his mind? Of God he knows no more than that His Holy Name is often the accompaniment of some burst of savage cruelty against himself, Of "the child Jesus," he never heard ; nor dreams that there is One to look upon him through the darkness with an eye of pity. The ministering spirits may minister to him, but he knows not that they exist; and for any lower subjects of contemplation, where should he find them? He was carried into the mines before he could receive any rudiment of education; and the few dark hours he passes above ground are too few, too dark, too needful for sleep, to allow of any teaching. He may, indeed, think on his mother's voice, and fancy how pleasant it sounds to the dwellers upon earth's surface; he may think how happy his brothers and sisters are, playing in the sunshine; or how miserable, imprisoned like himself, somewhere in that infernal pit ; but what is there in all this to occupy and enliven him, to the exclusion of drowsiness, during the livelong day-God's natural day of light and gladness, but man's artificial night of slavery and cruelty! There are many evils under the sun; but this is an enormity under the earth, for which we cannot find a name. The gentlemen of England felt it to be so, and the alacrity with which they voted away the worst features of the abomination is indeed a bright spot in the parliamentary history of these days. Had they done otherwise how could they have returned to their homes, how met the smiles of their partners, and the joyous looks of their own free, happy boys? It seems libellous to ask, is there yet a class, and that too of the highest grade in English society, to bar the good work, and interpose between the infant victims and the hand stretched forth to rescue them? Are there men who will place themselves in deliberate contrast to Him whose character it is "to deliver the poor when he crieth, the needy, and him that hath no helper,"-men who will see infant blood and bone and sinew brought into the market, and when a cry is raised against the atrocity, exclaim, 'it is a profitable article; withdraw it not.' Men who will talk of the LIBERTY of the poorer classes to make what profit they can of their babies' toil, when half what they themselves expend on acknowledged superfluities would more than do away with all cases of real necessity; while in all other cases heavy punishment should deter the grasping parent from these sacrifices to the Moloch of Mammon. But there is no such necessity: in Ireland the poverty of the people is extreme, beyond comparison; yet who ever heard of an Irishman wringing the value of a potato out of the sinews of his little child? It is not to be spoken of as a lawful thing: as well might the noble advocates of the poor man's freedom maintain his liberty to roast and eat his offspring, as to appease his hunger by such means as these. It is a case where, if the people of England have a voice, it ought to speak in thunder; and if it do not so, the voice of God assuredly will, saying, "Shall I not visit for these things? Shall not my soul be avenged on such a nation as this?" C. E. |