captain of every steamer is bound for custom-
house purposes to have the name of each of his
passengers set down in a sort of Way-bill;
and, for a slight consideration, the person who
performs that office (generally the steward),
would doubtless learn and add the address
to which each of the passengers is going in
London. An arrangement with a custom-
house clerk at each of the ports could be made
for forwarding daily a copy of the list. Thus
a complete record of arrivals from abroad
could be obtained with little trouble. The
names and lodgings of persons from the
provinces would be more difficult of access; but a
good understanding with hotel-keepers, and
some assistance from the "Lodging-house
Committee" (for of course there will be one,) of
the Executive of the Great Congress, would
insure the editor a tolerably complete "List
of the Company" who assemble, even from
the country. The "Strangers' Leaf" might
be published early each afternoon so as to
give the arrivals of the morning.

It is not to be doubted that at the essentially
Industrial Meeting of 1851, the Chevaliers
d'Industrie of all nations will make it their
especial business to attend in large numbers.
Their names, personal appearance, addresses,
and achievements, it would be very useful to
record in "the Strangers' Leaf." To our
excellent friends the Detectives the benefit
would be great and reciprocal: for they
would not only derive, but contribute much
useful information. As a kind of "Hue and
Cry," of a more refined and fashionable kind,
the proposed sheet would be invaluable.

Should any enterprising gentleman, literary
or otherwise, make the experiment, it may
possibly turn out not only useful but
profitable. Should such a speculation be deemed
too undignified, we would silence the objection
with a remark from Macaulay's Essay
on the life of Bacon, to the effect that Nothing
is too insignificant for the attention of the
wisest, which may be of advantage to the
smallest in the community.

NO HOSPITAL FOR INCURABLES.

IT is an extraordinary fact that among the
innumerable medical charities with which
this country abounds, there is not one for the
help of those who of all others most require
succour, and who must die, and do die in
thousands, neglected, unaided. There are
hospitals for the cure of every possible
ailment or disease known to suffering humanity,
but not one for the reception of persons past
cure. There are, indeed, small charities for
incurables scattered over the country—like
the asylum for a few females afflicted with
incurable diseases, at Leith, which was built,
and solely supported by Miss Gladstone;
and a few hospital wards, like the Cancer
ward of Middlesex, and the ward for seven
incurable patients in the Westminster; but a
large hospital for incurables, does not exist.

The case of a poor servant girl which lately
came to our knowledge, is the case of
thousands. She was afflicted with a disease to
which the domestics of the middle classes,
especially, are very liable—white swelling of
the knee. On presenting herself at the
hospitals, it was found that an operation would
be certain death; and that, in short, being
incurable, she could not be admitted. She had
no relations; and crawling back to a miserable
lodging, she lay helpless till her small
savings were exhausted. Privations of the
severest kind followed; and despite the assistance
of some benevolent persons who learnt
her condition when it was too late, she died
a painful and wretched death.

It is indeed a marvellous oversight of
benevolence that sympathy should have been so
long withheld from precisely the sufferers
who most need it. Hopeless pain, allied to
hopeless poverty, is a condition of existence
not to be thought of without a shudder. It
is a slow journey through the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, from which we save even
the greatest criminals.

When the law deems it necessary to deprive
a human being of life, the anguish, though
sharp, is short. We do not doom him to the
lingering agony with which innocent
misfortune is allowed to make its slow descent
into the grave.

SORROWS AND JOYS.

BURY thy sorrows, and they shall rise
As souls to the immortal skies,
And then look down like mothers' eyes.

But let thy joys be fresh as flowers,
That suck the honey of the showers,
And bloom alike on huts and towers.

So shall thy days be sweet and bright,—
Solemn and sweet thy starry night,—
Conscious of love each change of light.

The stars will watch the flowers asleep,
The flowers will feel the soft stars weep,
And both will mix sensations deep.

With these below, with those above,
Sits evermore the brooding Dove,
Uniting both in bonds of love.

Children of Earth are these; and those
The spirits of intense repose—
Death radiant o'er all human woes.

For both by nature are akin;—
Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin,
And joy, the juice of life within.

O, make thy sorrows holy—wise—
So shall their buried memories rise,
Celestial, e'en in mortal skies.

O, think what then had been their doom,
If all unshriven—without a tomb—
They had been left to haunt the gloom!

O, think again what they will be
Beneath God's bright serenity,
When thou art in eternity!