Then there was Dr. Patrick, whom I have
always retained in my mind as a permanent
type of ingratitude. The doctor secured a
legacy of five hundred pounds from Lady Wallington,
entirely by bringing macaroons (whenever
he came on a visit) to her dog Bouncer.
"When the old lady died, she left the doctor
Bouncer and five hundred pounds. A week
afterwards, however, the ungrateful doctor sold
Bouncer to a blacksmith for three and sixpence.

MY CHURCH IN TOWN.

MY church in town! It fronts our square,
   With Gothic portals—Scott designer—
Tall spire, and painted windows rare,
    There's nothing in all London finer.
A church that's counted "very high,"
    A ritualistic rector owning,
Who makes a claim to Heaven rely
    On crosses, candles, and intoning.

And crowds of worshippers come there,
    Who give one morning of the seven
To treading with exceeding care
    A fashionable road to Heaven—
Fine ladies who low bending pray,
    And sigh for services in Latin,
And mortify the flesh each day
    In gleaming robes of silk and satin.

The curate, "such a dear," you know,
    Airs a white hand to turn his pages;
I hardly think St. Paul did so,
    When preaching to Athenian sages.
His doctrine, if it have a fault,
    Stands much in need of force and flavour.
And makes me think the gospel salt
    Has very nearly lost its savour.

Where Dives sits, I look in vain
    For Lazarus, even at the portal ,
I wonder, does their creed maintain
    The rich man only is immortal?
And yet my mind is somewhat eased:
    So vain and vapid is the preaching,
That Lazarus hardly would be pleased
    To gather fragments of such teaching.

It would be worthier of the times,
    And talk of charitable graces,
If we took care the Sunday chimes
    Should sometimes sound in silent places.
The broider'd altar-cloth might tell
    Of pious hands, and yet be plainer:
A simpler, homelier rite were well,
    So should the poor man be a gainer.

THE HOLE IN THE WALL.

THE Hole is within shouting distance of Victoria
station, Belgravia, and the Wall is in the
midst of the labyrinth of rails leading to and from
that mighty maze. Its title and use are as well
known in the official railway world as the station
itself is to the world of travellers, and from
it are issued daily and nightly signals of safety,
by means of which the lives of thousands are
secured. "There is but one line in, you see,
and one out for all the different traffic of this
station, and they all join opposite these signals,"
put the facts of the case in a nutshell, and completely
satisfied us as to the meaning of the
strange little private box we were peering into.
But let us first walk round Victoria station,
commencing at the Grosvenor Hotel, and following
the pavement until we turn the corner
and gain the booking-offices of the London,
Chatham, and Dover Company. It is a goodly
distance, and we pass a variety of intending
passengers and ticket-places, and, multiplying
the space traversed by the number of lines of
railway which can be packed into it, we arrive at
a proximate estimate of the quantity of trains,
engines, "empties," or luggage-vans which may
be standing side by side and waiting egress. Excursions
to Brighton and the south coast; frequent
trains to the Crystal Palace; Metropolitan,
Great Western, and London, Chatham, and
Dover traffic, make up a stupendous total, the
whole of which converges into two single lines
opposite the Hole in the Wall. No train leaves
or enters the station until signalled to do so
from here, and the safety and life of every man,
woman, and child leaving Victoria depends upon
the vigilance of the single sentinel at his post.
He is relieved three times in the twenty-four
hours, and the turn of duty we are about to
keep commenced at half-past seven this morning,
and will terminate at half-past one this afternoon.
The whole signal duty of the Hole falls
upon three men, who take their eight hours'
work alternately, and who with one telegraph
clerk are its sole occupants. Passing up the
centre platform of the London and Brighton
Railway, we step, not without some tremors of
misgiving, on to the lines at its extreme end, and
after leaving a busy signal-box to the right, and
dodging a couple of passenger trains, a stray
engine or two, and a long batch of returning
"empties" from the Crystal Palace, reach a small
wooden staircase and ante-room, from which we
look into the Hole. It is very like an unfurnished
private box at the theatre, into which some of
the mechanist's properties have been put by mistake.
Cautiously warned by our conductor not
to distract the attention of the man on duty, we
advance on tiptoe, and stand on the threshold
between ante-room and box. A nervous jump
back again, a vivid experience of the sensation
known as "pins and needles," a half involuntary
guarding of the face as if to ward off
an impending blow, are the first results of the
experiment. For the mechanist's properties are
of the most impulsively practicable kind, and
bells ring, whistles shriek, hands move, and
huge iron bars creak and groan apparently of
their own accord, and certainly by agencies
which are invisible. On the right-hand wall of
the box, and on a level with the eye, are fastened
four cases, which communicate telegraphically
with the platforms of the station, with Battersea
Park, and with Stewart's-lane junction; and the
movable faces of these are full of mysterious
eloquence. The furthest one strikes what seems
to be a gong twice, and then, without waiting
for a reply, bangs the gong four times; the
needle hands of the others tick away with spasmodic
vigour, and the telegraphic clerk busily
passes from one to the other, as if satisfying
the wants of each. Beyond them is a small