of low bows, left the apartment; and as he left "the
presence" he _thought_ he heard a low, chuckling laugh, but it didn't
affect _his_ risibles!

-------------------------------------

What a life-like "picture in little" is this by HOOD of the "torrent of
rugged humanity" that set toward an English poor-house, at sound of _The
Work House Clock_! Remark, too, reader, the beautiful sentiment with which
the extract closes:

"There's a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street;
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of many feet.
While round the work-house door
The laboring classes flock;
For why? the Overseer of the P----
Is setting the work-house clock.

"Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along,
Of either sex, and various stamp
Sickly, crippled, and strong;
Walking, limping, creeping,
From court and alley and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping,
Like rivers that seek the main?

"Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court, and alley,
From homes in Poverty's lowest valley
Furnished with shuttle and loom:
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley--
And in the road and footways sally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil,
Dingy with smoke, and rust, and oil,
And smirched beside with vicious toil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm,
Father, mother, and care-full child,
_Looking as if it had never smiled_;
The seamstress lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the _ghosts_ of garments on;
The weaver, her sallow neighbor,
The grim and sooty artisan;
Every soul--child, woman, or man,
Who lives--or dies--by labor!

"At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock,
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock--
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam derived from Hope and the skies
Upturned to the Work-House Clock!

"Oh! that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labor's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial,
Would turn from the artificial dial
That striketh ten or eleven,
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature's sun,
And ta