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
an 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 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 out 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 faith" of one of the benevolent
physicians. He 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 sympathising
human hearts.

AN EMIGRANT'S GLANCE HOMEWARD.

FAR, far from those whose tender watchings bred me;
     Far from the hedge-row haunts that pleased my
           youth;
Far from the friends whose gentle teachings led me
    In the blest ways of innocence and truth;
E'en from my own peculiar Northern Star,
From every chiltlish memory, I am far!

Perchance no more may meet my foreign ear
    The chastened kindness of a brother's tone;
A mother's voice no more may call me dear,
     In the fond language only mothers own;
And she, whose name is never named by me,
The loved, the unforgotten— where is she?

Yet I am happy in my distant home;
     A sunny sky smiles ever over me;
And let what will from God's good pleasure come,
     My friend, my husband, I have always thee:
And gaily round, our laughing treasure plays
In all the winning grace of childhood's ways.

I never can be lonely.  Where I go
     With these, is home; but yearnings fond and bland
For those departed days, where all things glow
     With a bright glory, from that far-off land,
Wind round my heart, as with a magic chain,
Which I must kiss ere I unwind again.

Oh!  days for ever gone—for ever fair!
    Fair, because gone—oh, sunbright, youthful days!
Are ye not worth one earnest thought, one care,
     One heartfelt lay, devoted to your praise?
But not the lays of an immortal tongue
Could give me back the days when I was young.

The kindly hands which mine with love would press,
     The beaming eyes that with affection shone,
The loving lips, whose sweet and pure caress
      Still marked how dear that young beloved one:
England again my hopeful eyes may see,
But these can never be the same to me.

Far, far from those whose tender watchings bred me;
     Far from the hedge-row haunts that pleased my
           youth;
Far from the friends whose gentle teachings led me
     In the blest ways of innocence and truth;
E'en from my own peculiar Northern Star,
From every childish memory, I am far!

OLD HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

CERTAIN persons can hardly believe,
although they live in the middle of the
nineteenth century, and to whom the wonders of
steam and electricity are familiar, that we
have distanced our respectable ancestors in
scientific knowledge. We purpose offering a
few illustrations of the way in which that
knowledge was applied to medical uses—to
quote, in short, a few genuine Old Household
Words.

The science of judicial astrology has few
votaries now; natural philosophy is based on
rather surer principles than of yore, and the
healing art depends upon something more
positive than spells.  But exceptions may
yet be found;  there are still a select few
—the country readers of Zadkiel, we will
suppose—who prefer the charms of Ashmole,
and the sympathetic powder of Sir Kenelm
Digby, to the operations of Lawrence or the
advice of Bright; and what these lovers of the
temporis acti believe in, or, at all events, what
our ancestors pinned their faiths to, we shall
here expose.

The idea was suggested to us, while turning
over some of the Ayscough MSS. in the
British Museum;  in which are preserved
some very striking specimens of the
pharmaceutical wisdom of our forefathers. We
thought it a pity that knowledge so valuable
should be concealed any longer; and although