curator and his assistant putting up "preparations." Why is he interested so much about that bit of cartilage? Why does he so carefully put away that piece of fractured bone? What mystery lies in that little soft gray mass, that he should scrutinise it so narrowly with the microscope, adjusting and readjusting the screws with such nervous eagerness? These are the hieroglyphics which must be deciphered ere the great hidden language of disease can be discovered; these are the painstaking labours by which science creeps on from point to point.

The next door leads to the Bluebeard's chamber of the establishment, which we will not explore. Another step takes us into the Post Mortem Theatre. There, upon that cold slab underneath the sheet, you trace that dread mysterious outline, which appals more than the uncovered truth. It has been brought from the ward above to answer some enigma, which has baffled the questioning of the physician for months; and here, in the face of his class, his judgment and skill will speedily be tested, and the knife will show us what has brought to a stand-still the curious and delicate machinery of life. Think not, however, that Nature yields up her secrets without, sometimes, exacting a terrible retribution upon those who would pry into them. The faintest puncture upon the surgeon's hand, the least abrasion of the cuticle with the knife that has drank the venom of the body, has been known to kill as surely as the most subtly-concocted poison ever administered by Italian revenge.

But let us return to the ground-floor wards. These wards, right and left, are consigned to the surgeons: you see, as you pass, the long perspective of "accidents," to which the ground-floor is mainly devoted, on account of its proximity to the street.

But that room filled with such decent-looking personswhat are they doing there, ranged round the wall? These are the out-patients; the sickly troop that flocks day by day for relief. Do you wish to know how terrible the sufferings, how fearful the struggles, of "respectable

poverty"? Go, then, and listen to the questions the physician puts to them one by one, and you will come out saddened and astonished. There is one disease which haunts that room to which he cannot minister, one quiver from which issue unseen the arrows of death, which he cannot avert. Listen whilst he questions that neatlydressed young woman: “How have you been living?" She hangs her head, fences with the query, and is silent; pressed kindly, she confesses, a little tea and bread have been her only nourishment for months. Wait a few minutes until the men are called in, and you shall hear that wasted giant, in the adjoining room, make still the same reply; “tea and bread for months" have dragged his herculean frame to the ground. They do not complain: they take it as a matter of course.

As we leave the hospital the clock strikes three, the seeing hour" of the poor patients in the wards; the crowd of visitors who have been waiting outside the doors press in, and throng up the vestibule. The burly porter, however, posts himself in front, and dodges about like a boy who heads a flock of bolting sheep. Now he pounces upon an old fishwoman who tries to rush past him. What is he about? Flat pickpocketing, by all that is sacred! Is he going to rob the woman of her seed-cake? Scarcely is she past than he dives into the capacious pocket of the second, and comes up with half a dozen oranges; a third is eased of an eight-ounce bottle of gin; a fourth, in evident trepidation, gives up a pound of sugar; a fifth-to her he gives a low bow, and she passes on in “maiden meditation, fancy free." She, be sure, is one of the "Governors." This momentary suspension of his power, makes him a very tiger after "trash and messes;" a fresh onslaught is commenced, scarce a person but is 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 at 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 forth once more into the air.

The fresh breeze of Hyde 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 sympathizing human hearts.-Dr. A. Wynter.

BIOGRAPHICAL SECTION.

CHANTREY, THE SCULPTOR.

HANTREY was a poor man's child, and born at Norton, near Sheffield. His father dying when he was a mere boy, his mother married again. Young Chantrey used to drive an ass laden with milkx-cans across its back into the neighbouring town of Sheffield, and there serve his mother's customers with milk. Such was the humble beginning of his industrial career; and it was by his own strength that he rose from that position, and achieved the highest eminence as an artist. Not taking kindly to his step-father, the boy was sent to trade, and was first placed with a grocer in Sheffield. The business was very distasteful to him; but, passing a carver's shop window one day, his eye was attracted by the glittering articles it contained, and, charmed with the idea of being a carver, he begged to be released from the grocery business with that object. His friends consented, and he was bound apprentice to the carver and gilder for seven years. His new master, besides being a carver in wood, was also a dealer in prints and plaster models; and Chantrey at once set about imitating both, studying with great industry and energy. All his spare hours were devoted to drawing, modelling, and self-improvement, and he often carried his labours far into the night. Before his apprenticeship was out—at the age of twenty-one-he paid over to his master the whole wealth which he was able to muster-a sum of 501.-to cancel his indentures, determined to devote himself to the career of an artist. He then made the best of his way to London, and with characteristic good sense, sought em

ployment as an assistant carver, studying painting and modelling at his by-hours. Among the jobs on which he was first employed as a journeyman carver, was the decoration of the dining-room of Mr. Rogers, the poet-a room in which he was in after years a welcome visitor; and he usually took pleasure in pointing out his early handiwork to the guests whom he met at his friend's table.

Returning to Sheffield on a professional visit, he advertised himself in the local papers as a painter of portraits in crayons and miniatures, and also in oil. For his first crayon portrait he was paid a guinea by a cutler; and for a portrait in oil, a confectioner paid him as much as 51. and a pair of top boots! Chantrey was soon in London again, to study at the Royal Academy; and next time he returned to Sheffield he advertised himself as ready to model plaster busts of his townsmen, as well as paint portraits of them. He was even selected to design a monument to a deceased vicar of the town, and executed it to the general satisfaction. When in London, he used a room over a stable as a studio, and there he modelled his first original work for exhibition. It was a gigantic head of Satan. Towards the close of Chantrey's life, a friend passing through his studio was struck by this model lying in a corner. "That head," said the sculptor, "was the first thing that I did after I came to London. I worked at it in a garret with a paper cap on my head; and as I could then afford only one candle, I stuck that one in my cap that it might move along with me, and give me light whichever way I turned." Flaxman saw and admired this head at the Academy Exhibition, and recommended Chantrey for the execution of the busts of four admirals, required for the Naval Asylum at Greenwich. This commission led to others, and painting was given up. But for eight years before, he had not earned 51. by his modelling. His famous head of Horne Tooke was such a success that, according to his own account, it brought him commissions amounting to 12,000l. Chantrey had now succeeded, but he had worked hard, and fairly earned his good fortune. He was selected