bottles, and a collection of prescription cards,
and a voice is heard up the speaking tubes,
shouting the word "shop." Off jog nurses
and sisters, in haste, to the apothecary's shop,
and then there comes such a filling of vials,
and a pouring out of pints and quarts of odd
smelling fluids, and a counting out of pills, as
can be seen in few places else. Drawers full
of pills, hundreds of printed labels, and gallons
of physic are served out, and, at last, one by
one, the nurses all march off, with each her
unsavoury but serviceable burthen. By the
time they are back in the wards, on the three
open days in the week, "Visitors are admitted,"
and then arises many a scene. Husbands
come to see bed-ridden wives, and
children to see bed-ridden mothers, and, often
more sad still, wives and little ones to see
dying husbands and fathers. Many a tragedy
of humble life have these old hospital walls
seen in their time; many a death-bed of
remorse, and many a smothered shriek of
agony, as the living have parted from their
dead. Could we but hear the revelations of
a hospital pillow, what a story it must be:
of aching heads, and breaking hearts, and
souls just passing from their clayey tenement,
yet yearning for scenes and people far far
away beyond reach, and beyond hope, —of sons
prodigal and truant, dying here unknown,
whilst parents grieved for them in distant
homes they shall never see again, of
daughters sin-stained and lost, weeping out
their last breath, not that life is going, but
that a mother's forgiveness may not be
implored, and a mother's voice once more be
heard to pray,—of fathers brought in to die,
fallen from scaffoldings, or crushed by
machinery, whilst wives are waiting their
return from work, and children wonder
why father is so late.

As the friends of the sick are leaving the
hospital, soon after four o'clock, the students
are thinking about leaving their books and
scalpels; and forsaking the gossip in the
library to see about dinner. Those attached
to the place congregate, at five o'clock, in the
College dining-hall, where Mr. Paget rules
the roast very satisfactorily. By six, there is
a stroll round the square, if the evening is fine,
for the students, and the less pleasant
occupation of face-making, and pill and potion-
swallowing for the patients. By seven, the
surgical lecture commences, and by the same
hour the afternoon cup of tea has been enjoyed
in the wards, and all who were able to be
out of bed, have returned to it. The outer
gates are closed; the work of the day begins
to slacken; the men of many labours and
great usefulness, the assistant surgeon, and
warden, and the " house-doctor," begin to
think of sitting down to rest; but before this
can be done the wards must be gone through,
to see that all is right. Sister Rahere (for a
ward and a sister are still called after the
name of the kindly founder of the hospital)
Sister Rahere " wishes Mr. Paget would just
look at the accident in her ward." Mr. Paget
paces off of course. " The accident " is our
poor old acquaintance of the morning. She is
evidently worse. In each ward there are a
few useful things, such as calomel, laudanum,
wine, and brandy; but something else is
needed, so Mr. Wood is sent for, and the
doctor's shop, only locked an hour ago, is
reopened, and what is needful for the sick
sufferer is obtained, and administered.

The wards are quiet enough now. The
noble old fire-places throw out a cheerful
light that warms the room. Most of the
patients are sleeping, but some lie restless
with pain, and some turn a curious eye
towards the one bed by the side of which the
surgeon stands watching, with a nurse beside
him who evidently thinks at this moment
how hard it is that accidents to some people
will interfere with other people's rest. But
there she stands also—and, hark! how much
stiller the place has grown, for there's the
great clock of St. Paul's striking ten. But
still the poor victim of the furious ox gets
worse, and, after careful thought, and still
more careful examination, the assistant-
surgeon—who, since eight this morning, has
been at work, talking, writing, advising,
walking up-stairs and down-stairs, and across
the courts and back again, and seeing patients
all day, (saving just eleven minutes and a
quarter for luncheon, and half an hour at
dinner,)—makes up his mind that the only
hope is in an operation. And as " capital"
operations must be done by chief surgeons,
away in a cab he sends a porter to
fetch a chief surgeon from a family party
which it so happens is being given this very
night. But family parties, and birth-nights,
and wedding-days are all alike to doctors
when life is in danger. The messenger being
gone and a few more orders given, off trudges
Mr. Paget across the court to the Operating
Theatre. It is still quieter here, in this
out-of-the-way corner of the building. The
chair there has supported hundreds in their
moments of greatest human trial; and the
tier above tier of seats for students, have
been the places where thousands have learnt
their chief lessons in practical surgery. The
moon now shines through the broad skylight
at the top, and down upon the benches, and
the pullies, and the instrument-cases, as
placidly and as calmly quiet as if there were
no pain or mortal agonies in the world. By
its light the assistant-surgeon finds what he
wants, and as he re-crosses the square, St.
Paul's tolls eleven; and, at the same moment,
a Hansom's Patent Safety (no time or need to
get out one's own horses at this hour of
night) whirls into the square with the chief
surgeon. Up the stairs the two doctors go
together, and in five minutes the suffering
woman has inhaled chloroform, the delicate
operation has been completed, and the
sufferer, relieved from present pain, sighs
out her thanks as the surgeon goes off again