THE DINING-HALLS-INCOME OF THE HOSPITAL.

Man cured; Raising of Lazarus; The Transfiguration; The Lord's Supper; Christ before Pilate; The Crucifixion; The Resurrection.

The Sunday aspect of this building is characteristic of naval regularity and discipline. The benches, which occupy the two sides of the chapel, have each its customary allotment of pensioners in full uniform; every bench has its presiding boatswain, and the whole forms a regular row up each side the grand avenue, in the middle of which the hats of the men are ranged in a straight line marked out by the disposition of the pavement. The intervals of the windows have seats for the boys, and the whole is overlooked by the governor and officers, whose seats are in the galleries above. The group thus arranged forms an interesting picture, and few behold this assemblage of naval worth without emotion.

Below the Chapel and the Picture Gallery are the Dining Halls, where the resident pensioners, to the number of seventeen hundred, sit down to their daily meals. A thousand more pensioners live in the infirmary and beyond the walls; making the whole number of those enjoying the benefits of the institution two thousand seven hundred. A large staff of nurses and other officials is also maintained, making the total number of persons dependent on the funds upwards of three thousand. In addition to lodging, clothing, and rations, the boatswains are allowed 2s. 6d. a week, the mates 1s. 6d., and seamen 1s., for pocket-money. The income of the Hospital is above £130,000 a-year, and is thus derived :-Annual grant of £20,000 from Parliament; fines levied against smuggling, £19,500; effects of Captain Kidd, the pirate, £6472; a large sum granted in 1708, being forfeited and unclaimed shares of prize and bounty money; £6000 a-year, granted in 1710, out of the coal and culm tax; various private bequests, particularly one of £20,000 from Robert Osbaldeston; the valuable estates forfeited by the Earl of Derwentwater, and from other minor sources.

We have now seen the hospital, and if our visit happen to be made on Monday or on Friday-we have seen all without fee of any kind. From ten till seven during the summer months, and from ten to three during winter, both Painted Hall and Chapel are open to the visiter; on Sundays after morning service. On other days than Monday or Friday threepence is charged for

THE PARK

admission to the Hall; and threepence to the Chapel,-soldiers and sailors being admitted free at all times.

Quitting the Hospital by the west gate-depicted in the above engraving-let us haste to ramble at our pleasure over the short springy green sward in the park. Let us stroll under the shadow of the now stately elms and chestnuts, planted in goodly rows by Evelyn, after Le Notre had, by command of Charles the Second, "tasteful laid out" the two hundred acres of hill and dale which James the First had previously walled in. We shall find spots as rich in sylvan beauty as any that painter ever studied or poet praised, albeit, London is but a short six miles away. The deer now brush by as we linger in a quiet spot, now browse heedless of our approach. Here we again breathe the fresh air-again feel ourselves in the country

"Welcome pure thought! welcome ye silent groves!

These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves!
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing

The smoke, noise, bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, of the city

are out of sight and away

"Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,

No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears."

THE PARK.

We may seek, if we will, Wilderness Pond, where the largest of the elms and the chestnuts are to be seen in stately proportions, one of the latter measuring eleven feet in circumference; or enjoy the cool shade of the belt of trees known as Queen Margaret's Bower; or, if it be autumn, pluck from the lower branches of the ancient thorns some ripe haws to feed the deer with, for theygrown familiar by frequent holiday greetings-will browse from any

hand; or, if spring be the joyous season, among these same old hawthorn trees may we revel in the fragrance which salutes those who "go a Maying,"-who sally forth in the fresh air of morning to hail with heart-gladness the signs of spring.

The leafy monarch of the park, little known and seldom seen, shall be the next object of our search; it stands in the

ANCIENT OAK.

garden of the keeper, in a slope not far from the eastern gate. It is an oak, hollow from great age, yet still, when Spring comes round, giving fresh green evidences of life and vigour. Measured round where the roots just show above the soil, its girth is eighteen yards--more than fifty feet! Four feet above the ground it is eleven yards, or thirty feet, in circumference. The father of Eggleston, the present keeper (and his fathers for generations back have held the pleasant sylvan post) took pride in the old oak, and, shaping a doorway in its side, he

tree.

smoothed the hollow interior, paved it with tiles, placed a table in the centre, and a seat all round the inner circle of the still living This resting place still remains, and a dozen may sit pleasantly within it at once. Now that Fairlop has lost its oak, there is not, near London, so old a tree as this. Outside it, also,

ONE-TREE HILL.

is a seat, shaded by an alder, which grows like a parasite among the roots of its ancient companion.

Or we may mount One-tree Hill, and look down upon the

river, as it winds a snuous way towards the modern Babylon. Yonder, reeks the great city:

"In a thicker cloud

Of business than of smoke; where men, like ants,

Toil to prevent imaginary wants;

Yet all in vain, increasing with their store,

Their vast desires, but make their wants the more

As food to unsound bodies, though it please

The appetite, feeds only the disease.

Where with like haste, though several ways, they run

Some to undo, and some to be undone;

While luxury and wealth, like war and peace,
Are each the other's ruin and increase;

As rivers lost in seas, some secret vein
Thence reconveys, there to be lost again.

Some study plots, and some those plots to undo,
Others to make them and undo them too;

False to their hopes, afraid to be secure,

Those mischiefs only which they make, endure;

Blinder with light and sick of being well,

In tumults seek their peace, their heaven in hell;

On happiness, of sweet retired content,

To be at once secure and innocent."*

*These fine lines will not be found in the later editions of the poem, "Cooper's Hill." We have taken them from an early copy in the library of