been known to kill as surely as the most subtlyconcocted poison ever administered by Italian revenge. But let us return to the ground-floor wards. These wards, right and left, are consigned to the surgeons : you see, as you pass, the long perspective of "accidents," to which the ground-floor is mainly devoted, on account of its proximity to the street.

But that room filled with such decent-looking persons-what are they doing there, ranged round the wall? These are the out-patients; the sickly troop that flocks day by day for relief. Do you wish to know how terrible the sufferings, how fearful the struggles, of "respectable poverty"? Go, then, and listen to the questions the physician puts to them one by one, and you will come out saddened and astonished.

There is one disease which haunts that room to which he cannot minister, one quiver from which issue unseen the arrows of death, which he cannot avert. Listen whilst he questions that neatly-dressed young woman: "How have you been living?" She hangs her head, fences with the query, and is silent; pressed kindly, she confesses, a little tea and bread have been her only nourishment for months. Wait a few minutes until the men are called in, and you shall hear that wasted giant, in the adjoining room, make still the same reply; "tea and bread for months" have dragged his herculean frame to the ground. They do not complain: they take it as a matter of

course.

As we leave the hospital the clock strikes three, the "seeing hour" of the poor patients in the wards; the crowd of visitors who have been waiting outside the doors press in, and throng up the vestibule. The burly porter, however, posts himself in front, and dodges about like a boy who heads a flock of bolting sheep. Now he pounces upon an old fishwoman who tries to rush past him. What is he about? Flat pickpocketing, by all that is sacred! Is he going to rob the woman of her seed-cake? Scarcely is she past.

than he dives into the capacious pocket of the second, and comes up with half a dozen oranges; a third is eased of an eight-ounce bottle of gin; a fourth, in evident trepidation, gives up a pound of sugar; a fifth-to her he gives a low bow, and she passes on in “maiden meditation, fancy free." She, be sure, is one of the "Governors." This momentary suspension of his power, makes him a very tiger after "trash and messes;" a fresh onslaught is commenced, scarce a person but is mulcted of some article, and his eye rests upon the table covered with the spoils with the complacency of a man who has done his duty. This stern janitor is the percolator of the establishment, through whom the visitors are strained of the deleterious ingredients they would smuggle to their friends.

Let us take one more peep into the wards before we go. Who would think he was in a hospital, and that he was surrounded by disease? Each bed is a divan, and each patient gives audience to a host of friends. A thousand kind greetings are heard on every hand, and the lines that pain has long been graving in the countenance, joy and affection for a moment efface. Did we say each bed was thronged with friends? Ah, no! not at all! Here and there we see a gap in the chain of human sympathy—a poor sufferer, by whose lonely bed no friend waits.

Let us come forth once more into the air.

The fresh breeze of the park seems sweet after the close atmosphere of St. George's; yet sweeter seem the actions of the merciful. As we pass the corner of the hospital, the eye catches an inscription upon a porcelain slab let into the wall. The words are simple :

"In aid of those patients who leave this Hospital homeless and in need."

Below, is an opening for the reception of gifts, so that the poorest and most friendless go not uncared for. This little arrangement is “the corner-stone of

He

faith" of one of the benevolent physicians. imagined that a constantly open hand-for the wounded-held out at this thronged corner, might not be without its effect, and his confidence in the good side of human nature was not ill-placed. As much as twelve pounds have been taken from the box in one week-glittering gold and silver mixed with pence and farthings, attesting that human sympathy is not of class or degree. In the full light of day, whilst the tide of life has been swiftly flowing past, many a rough hand has dropped its contribution; and in the silent night, when the bright stars above have been the only witnesses, many a rich gift has been deposited, together with the good wishes of compassionate and sympathizing human hearts.

[From

"OUR SOCIAL BEES," by permission of the Publisher, MR. HARDWICKE.]

HOHENLINDEN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steeds to battle driven ;
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of crimson'd snow,
And bloodier yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's cemetery.

THE GOOD PARSON'S WIFE.

F. E. PAGET.

OU can't have forgotten Beatrix Aston, the old

γου parson's pretty daughter at Consall S. Michael's,

who came and rescued my mother from the trap, and who sat beside the Curate's widow in her hour of bereavement.

Well; she married the parson of Owlstone.

And

I love Owlstone for her sake. Do you wish for a model of what a parson's wife should be? do you wish to realize the notion of what a true sister of charity ought to be? Study her.

There is a tinge of earthly care and sadness about

and I love to think of her as the bright, gay, vision of bygone years. I would I could always

her now, sunny

see her, as she was when I first knew her, ere the trials and discipline of life had caused the roses to fade from her cheeks. But it cannot be.

"Alas! our memories may retrace

Each circumstance of time and place,-
Season and scene come back again,
And outward things unchanged remain ;
The rest we cannot reinstate,

Ourselves we cannot recreate,

Nor set our souls to the same key
Of the remember'd harmony!"

And yet, I know not, why in such a case as this, I should desire to bring back the past. For if the beauty of Beatrix has less of earth about it, it has more of heaven. Every feature bears an impress upon it of ever-deepening piety and self-control.

She is the mother of half-a-dozen children or more, -none of them strong, and in the nursing of them her health is broken. Could you watch her daily life you

would see that from the time she wakes in the morning, till they, at least, have found their way back again to bed, she is at their beck and bidding; devoting herself, whether she be well or ill, with as much energy as if she had no other task in life than to nurse, or play with, or amuse, or advise them. Each lesson is said to her. Each prayer is offered beside her

knee.

I often wonder how she finds time for her own devotions. And yet, if she did not lead a life of prayer, how could she get through the work she does, in the way she does? I am sure— -for I can see itthat her life is one still-beginning, never-ending prayer. And there lies the secret of that strength, which has enabled her to become what she is.

The contemplation of Beatrix in her home-life, would make one believe that no one thought of self yet lingered in her. It seems as though it was her