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issued orders for the massacre of the women. They were invited to leave the house under pretence of being conducted to a place of safety. But they had had enough of the Hindoo's clemency. They refused to move, and were shot by volleys fired through the windows, Sepoys entering sword in hand and completing the work. This done, they were dragged out dead and dying, women and children, and cast into a well that stood opposite the house. There they were found when Havelock's men, having utterly routed Nana Sahib, entered the town, flushed with the generous hope of rescue.

The Memorial Church stands just outside the entrenchment of Wheeler's camp. It is a substantial rather than a handsome structure, built of red brick faced with sandstone. Round the chancel is a row of memorial tablets, set there “ to the glory of God and in memory of more than a thousand Christian people who met their deaths hard by between the 6th of June and the 15th of July, 1857.” As already mentioned, the church is to-day decorated for the Christmas festival, and over this memorial of massacre there runs a garland proclaiming, with grim but undesigned irony, “ Peace on earth, and goodwill among men.' Near the altar rail is a pretty marble font sent as an offering by the Queen.

As we stood in the church reading the names of the victims of the Mutiny we could hear the cheers of the British soldiers in the barracks, welcoming their officers, who had looked in upon their Christmas dinner of roast beef and plum-pudding. The barracks, built since the Mutiny, stand not far from the house which was Nana Sahib's head-quarters at a time when he was treating for the capitulation of a British general, and believed that within twenty-four hours Cawnpore would see the last of the English soldier.

The Memorial Garden is separated from the church by a space big enough to hold the city of Cawnpore if the people could by any means be induced to dwell in neighbourly fashion. At the time of the Mutiny the well served the needs of a few straggling houses which in the eccentric disposition of the town happened to find themselves here. Now only a marble cross set in a grass plotądark in the shadow of solemn yews—marks the site of the butchery, whilst the well itself is a prominent object in a rich and well-ordered garden. When Havelock reached Cawnpore, and found this terrible truth at the bottom of the well, it was too late to furnish Christian burial to Nana Sahib's victims. The well was bricked over, and in due time there has risen upon the site a beautiful marble figurean angel with sad face, yet not sorrowing as those that have no hope, but carrying in either hand the palm of victory. Over the gateway of the enclosure which surrounds this solemn burial-place is written

" These are they who came out of great tribulation.”

Round the base of the statue runs the inscription :

“ Sacred to the perpetual memory of a great company of Christian people, chiefly women and children, who near this spot were cruelly massacred by the followers of the rebel Nana Dhoomdopunt of Bithwoor, and cast, the dying with the dead, into the well below on the 15th July, 1857.”'

In strange contrast with the scene recalled by these words is the aspect of to-day, with the sun shining down on bright flowers, green grass, and lusty trees, and all around the peace and goodwill of Christmas Day.



I MADE an acquaintance at Cawnpore who is too interesting to be altogether lost sight of. We met first in the early morning when I was looking for the post-office. There approached from down the road a gharry with a human shoulder projecting from either open window, and a prodigious arm hanging limp, pensively enjoying the cool morning air. The nearer approach of the gharry disclosed the upper part of a gigantic man. His turban brushed the roof of the gharry as he sat, and if he had not got his arms outside I cannot conceive where he would have put them. As I gazed he nodded in the friendliest way, and when I asked if he knew where the postoffice was he stopped the carriage with effusive politeness. He even made as if he would descend, but reflection on the difficulties that surrounded his getting back again made him pause. As it was he insisted upon shaking me by the hand, and so bubbled over with friendship that I felt as if we had known each other for many years.

His knowledge of English was not more than sufficed, with the assistance of gestures, to direct me to the post-office, and after he had shaken hands with me again the patient horse moved off with him. I marvelled much who he might be, but having no means of learning I had given up the puzzle when I met him once more amid surroundings that deepened the mystery.

I had obtained the address of the editor of a native paper published in Cawnpore, and went in quest of him, desiring to have a talk on the subject of the Ilbert Bill and other matters. His office was in the native part of the town, approached by a street so narrow that driving was inconvenient, if not impossible. Holding the address in my hand, I walked down the street, a narrow lane flanked with shops a few feet square, windowless and doorless. Native shopkeepers in the street at the top skirting the Memorial Gardens might, if they pleased, dress themselves in the borrowed plumes of the English. “Bhonsla Mistre” might vaunt his “furnitures room and “Mistry Janoji” might write himself up

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