miserably, or to live yet more miserably for
the propagation of infirmity and distress.
But there are not enough funds even yet for
the perfect working of this part of the hospital;
and if there were more, the Nightingale
ward, which is at present closed, would
be opened for the admission of children.
Perhaps it will come: who knows? Great
deeds invariably have their imitators; and
Mr. Ralli's great deed may not be always
left without its double. When it comes,
there will be many a glad home round
about King's College Hospital, many a
helpless little sufferer will be eased of its
pain, many a valuable life will be saved,
and many a mother's full heart will pray
for a blessing on those who have kept her
hearth from desolation, and left her a life
still worth the living.

I must say one word on the Fourth Ward,
as it is called, close to the Ralli, because it
is so pretty. It is painted a cool refreshing
grey, of itself a beauty for the weary
eyes of patients, to whom the ugly yellow
so long in vogue must be intolerably painful
in certain disorders. The walls were
all festooned with wreaths of holly leaves
—the leaves strung on threads, and
interspersed with coloured paper flowers. They
had been made by the head nurse and a
few of the patients, quite unknown to
the rest, and hid away until the right
moment came; and then, one morning, the
ward broke out into sudden greenery, and
the admiration and delight of the whole
hospital recompensed the workers.

In leaving the hospital, I passed through
the ward immediately below the "Ralli"
where all this merriment had been, and I
came upon a very different scene. Screened
off from the rest near the fire, lay a dying
woman. It was the last hour on her dial,
and her moments might almost be counted.
Her husband was sitting by her, silently
waiting for death to come and part them for
ever. He had leave to stay there through
the night—the last the poor creature would
live to see. She looked like a corpse at
this moment, lying as she was, absolutely
still, with the bedclothes folded smoothly
under her chin, her body quite motionless,
her very breathing scarcely perceptible, and
only her sad eyes wandering about the
small space. The world had evidently
gone very far away from her, and only God,
and love, and death were left her. It was a
striking contrast—this "above and below;"
but it was an epitome of human history. She
was dying as the consequence of a very
simple accident originally; she had run a
needle into her knee, and this was the
result.

This, then, was New Year's Day in
hospital as I witnessed it, and as I wish
that many others had witnessed it. I left
with a very full heart, feeling deeply the
exquisite beauty of tenderness, and charity,
with which the whole establishment seems
penetrated. How I wished with my poor
foreigner, that I had the "means" whereby
the good works of the institution could be
kept up and helped forward. For work
like this is essentially dependent on means,
and when these fail, the work, however
much it may be needed, stops and fails too.

AS THE CROW FLIES.

DUE WEST. BRIDGEWATER TO TAUNTON.

FAST from the Mendips, that sink now to faint
blue waves in the horizon, the crow cleaves the
silent air, and folds its wings upon the glittering
weathercock of St. Mary's spire at Bridgewater.
Yonder spread stubble fields and
orchards, over what was once the vast swamp
where Alfred hid himself from the Danes.
Two miles away to the south-east lies fatal
Sedgemoor, where the Duke of Monmouth was
defeated, and many a trenched field still named
after traditions of those unhappy days.

The duke landed at Lyme in June, 1685.
Devonshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire,
were soon in a flame. The day after he was
proclaimed king, Monmouth entered Bridgewater,
and was welcomed by the mayor and
aldermen, who led him in procession to the
High Cross. He took up his residence at the
castle, and in the Castle Field his six thousand
followers were encamped. The men had
few pikes and muskets, and many of them carried
scythes. His cavalry were mounted on
rough hairy colts, just taken from the marshes,
and almost untamed.

After many purposeless marches and counter-
marches, Faversham came down upon him with
two thousand five hundred regulars, and fifteen
hundred Wiltshire militia—strong, stubborn
shepherds from the Plain, and tough farmers
from the borders of Dorsetshire, and they
encamped at Middlezoy, and on the moor
beyond Chedzoy. Poor irresolute Monmouth,
who had only recently abandoned the notion of
flight, resolved on a night attack. His Puritan
preachers harangued the troops. Ferguson,
a fanatic rascal, who was his chief's
adviser, took for his text the ominous words:

"The Lord God of Gods, the Lord God of
Gods, he knoweth, and Israel he shall know.
If it be in rebellion, or in transgression, against
the Lord, save us not this day."

The moon was full, and the northern
streamers were dancing; but a thick white
marsh fog was creeping up from the banks of
the Parrett. Monmouth and his forty bodyguards
rode out of the castle as the clock