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not demolished. The principal entrance is by the south porch, over the doorway of which are three niches.

Ipswich is celebrated as the birth-place of cardinal Wolsey, the son, it is said, of a butcher, who afterwards reached almost the highest pinnacle of power, and whose fall may add another testimony to the unstable nature of earthly distinctions. The college that he founded in his native town did not survive the founder's prosperity.

At Ipswich several, in the days of popish persecution, yielded their lives at the stake for the gospel sake. Among them may be mentioned a clergyman, Robert Samuel, who was burnt here in 1555; also Alexander Gooch and Alice Driver, who confessed the faith with the utmost boldness. An account of these martyrs may be found in Fox's Acts and Monuments. The words of Driver at her condemnation may fitly be transcribed here: they are worthy of everlasting remembrance: "Have you no more to say?" cried the courageous woman. "God be honoured: you be not able to resist the Spirit of God in me poor woman. I was an honest poor man's daughter, never brought up in the university, as you have been; but I have driven the plough before my father many a time (I thank God); yet, notwithstanding, in the defence of God's truth and in the cause of my Master Christ, by his grace I will set my foot against the foot of any of you all in the maintenance and defence of the same; and, if I had a thousand lives, they should go for payment thereof."

The population of Ipswich at the last census was 23,875.



List to soft winds, sporting the woods among;
Or 'mid the corn, causing those rustling sounds
Which seem as if the ears themselves had life,
And would form words expressive of that praise
The psalmist calls upon inanimate things
To body forth.-M. R.

WHAT more beautiful than a field of corn, when the morning sun sheds a golden tint on the ripening ears, gently rustling in the breeze, and glistening like innumerable little mirrors! Walking a few days since in one such field, screened towards the north with an extensive apple-orchard, and commanding a fine panoramic view of hill and dale, I could not help thinking how many objects of deep interest and heartfelt pleasure are within our reach, if cheerfully accepted and sought for with grateful minds.

were tinged with a warm gleam; and the vane of a solitary church spire shone like a star, though its towers and grey walls were yet in shade. At length the smiling landscape stood forth in all its beauty; and sounds of busy life told that the day's labour was begun. Fogs had lingered in the valley; but they, too, melted rapidly in the sunbeams, till every glen and glade, prattling streamlet and green meadow, was rendered visible.

Silvery mists obscured the valley, serene as the unruffled waters of a lake, from which uprose a gently-sloping hill, varied with corn-fields and apple-orchards loaded with ripe fruit. But, when the sun advanced some way in the heavens, it was beautiful to observe the wandering of his beams among the nooks and shady hollows of that rounded hill; how they seemed to visit one recess, then another, chasing the shades that brooded thickly, till cottage windows were seen to glitter where heretofore no dwelling had been visible. Presently the topmost boughs of a row of elms

The field in which I stood was visited in its turn; and the glossy stems of the ripe corn appeared like burnished shafts. Not a cloud had wandered across the clear blue heavens; but, now uprising above the distant hills, they travelled swiftly; and the sunbeams came and went; while cloud shadows fled over the undulating surface of that ample field, beauteous in their alternations of light and shade.

Homer, whose descriptions of nature are equally correct and beautiful, characterized different countries by their natural productions. One he celebrated for the laurel, another for the palm, a third for the olive, a fourth for the grape; but to maternal earth he gave the epithet of corn-bearing; and most appropriate is the appellation. Corn is the produce of almost every soil and climate: its long and ramified roots serve to fix the plant firmly in the ground, and to extract nourishment from the earth in arid places. The cylindrical stem, undulating when the wind is high, is so admirably constructed as to be rarely broken; and each ear is surmounted with long awns, evidently designed to throw off the rain without excluding the beneficial influences of air and light. Hence it happens that corn is found in countries the most dissimilar; extending from the plains of Egypt to the sixty-fifth degree of north latitude; a citizen of the vegetable world, growing as luxuriantly amid the rugged rocks of Finland as on the fields of Britain.

Flowers of all hues diversify a corn-field at this season of the year. The small bindweed (convolvulus arvensis) twines gracefully around some friendly stalk, like a green thyrsis lifting itself into air and sunshine, and holding forth its tiny lilac-coloured trumpet, in company with the corn-cockle (agrostemma githago), of which the purplish red or white tubular blossoms are seen above the ears of corn. The heart's-ease, or pansy (viola tricolor), on the contrary, hides beneath the over-arching grain, contented in its obscurity; and there, too, grows the shepherd's-needle (coriandum scandix), with its graceful tubes and small white petals-sister flowers, loving, it would seem, their lowly birth-place, and rejoicing in concealment. Their lot is low; but some humble wayfaring creature, wingless, and unable to climb the tall stems or plants that grow around, find in each a shelter. Botanists relate that the pansy, when improved by garden culture, attains extraordinary beauty; poets, that it was early dedicated to St. Valentine, because of its brilliant colours and sweet names, and growing equally in the humblest and richest soils, striking deep its roots, and, like true love, impossible to eradicate; moralists, that the heart's-ease is emblematic of the gradual development of all lovely qualities, by religious and intellectual culture; that, further, as if conscious of the source from which

the velvet-like richness and bright hues of its once pale petals are derived, few plants seem to offer more unwearied homage to the fountain of light, spreading wide its blossoms, and following the glorious sun, in his progress from east to


"Heaven wills that lifeless things should give
Lessons, to teach us how to live."

Nor less pleasing is the field-scabious (scabiosa arvensis), with its tufted, lilac-coloured, and sweetly fragrant globular head, visited by all such butterflies and bright insects as sport from one flower to another, and presenting a striking contrast to the scarlet poppy and blue corn-flower; the first denoting a light and shallow soil, and growing invariably among wheat and barley; the second (centaurea cyanus), associated with the memory of that gifted woman, Mrs. Rowe, who, in her girlhood days, when living in the seclusion of a country village, extracted its brilliant juice for painting, and thus anticipated the discovery of a later age. But the beauty of a flower does not depend solely on its vivid tints. What an exquisite coronet of florets is presented by the corn-flower, each floret resembling a tiny vase, in which sweet nectar is contained for the batterfly and bee: useful, too, as indicating bad farming to the landlord, this beacon flower, with its neighbour plants, the knapweed, poppy, mayweed, and brilliant corn-marigold, announce the neglect of using clean seed and judicious culture. Ages have past away since a youthful enthusiast, named Cyanus, delighted to loiter in the corn-fields, and weave garlands of all hues; among which "this flower beloved the most" was invariably conspicuous. But the name given by her companions to this favourite flower, commemorative, it might be, of one they had loved in life, has remained to the present day.

The plant which of all others I the most admire, when growing among corn, is the spattling-poppy (silene inflata), one of its prettiest decorations. The perfectly white calyx, elegantly varied with green or purple veins, is worthy of close inspection; and near it often springs the milfoil-yarrow (achillea millefolium), with cream-coloured flowers, slightly cloven, and yellow anthers, yielding an essential oil, and uniformly indicating a stony soil. The common agrimony (agrimonia eupatoria), with its delicate scent, resembling apricots, was seen also in my favourite field, with its long terminating bunches of fine yellow flowers.

The field, thus gay with flowers, has also numerous occupants, which, either on foot or wing, often pass swiftly among the waving corn. The timid leveret may be seen hiding in the thickest part, or causing by his movements an unwonted rustling; and occasionally is heard the shrill cry of the female partridge, calling to her young. Harvest-mice are numerous: a field of corn is to them a forest, of which the topmost ears are utterly unattainable; yet the grain is their greatest luxury; and this they readily obtain, although the stalks are too slippery and slender to afford a footing, or to sustain their weight. They nibble at the root; and, when the stalk has fallen, procure a plentiful supply.

I shall speak elsewhere of the rapidity with which all such occupants betake themselves to different sites, when the sickle is put in. August, most generally, is the reaping month; but fields of corn often remain uncut till the beginning of September. Thus it happened on our windy hills, and with the field of which I have spoken; and therefore I shall not take note concerning the time of harvest.

That field, skirted in its highest portion by one of those broken banks, with ferns and flowers and tangled bushes, that give a peculiar charm and character to many an English corn-field, was tenanted by burrowing insects of various kinds, which made their dwellings in the bank or soil beneath.

The wild bee (M. succincta) had excavated a horizontal cylinder, about two inches deep, and placed within it three or four membranaceous cells, shaped like a thimble, the base of one ingeniously fitting into the opening of the other. The drapery-bee (A. papaveris), which lines the habitation destined for her young with leaves and flowers, was there also. Having formed a cylindrical burrow, and made smooth the walls, she flies into the field, and, pleased, it would seem, with attractive colours, selects the brilliant scarlet petals of the wild poppy, and bears them to her home. Though often cut from a wrinkled and half-expanded flower, she straightens their folds, and fits them to her purpose by removing all superfluous parts. Beginning at the base, she overlays the walls of her domicile with this beauteous tapestry, and renders the floor both soft and warm by several layers of the same material. This done, honey and pollen are deposited to the height of about half an inch, an egg is laid, and over the whole an additional covering is carefully arranged; the entrance to the cell being closed Years have come and gone since I gathered a with earth, to prevent the possibility of intrusion. bouquet of such wild flowers in the same spot, and The mason-wasp (odynerus) had likewise bored a blended with them the elegant clustered bell- cylindrical cavity in the hard sand, by means of flower, lesser-pink centaury, and perforated St. a glutinous liquor, which it pours from the mouth. John's-wort, noticed by Linnæus as growing in This valuable secretion acts upon the segments of Lapland on green declivities open to the sun. the sand like the vinegar with which Hannibal is The little gleaner, who gathered them on a neigh-fabled to have softened the Alps, and renders the bouring common in returning to her mother's cot- separation of the grains easy to the pickaxetage, reminded me of the Sicyon flower-girl, re- | kind of mandible pertaining to the little mason. nowned for combining with singular elegance the In that same bank also nestled a brotherhood of flowers she weaved into garlands and chaplets. field-crickets-joyous, light-hearted creatures; My little gleaner, with her glowing cheek, her and near them dwelt the hermit-spider, which hat thrown carelessly aside, and blue apron filled closes the entrance of his cell with a door comwith flowers, might have afforded Parrhsius a sub-posed of several coats of dry earth, fastened ject for his pencil equal to the one that has immor- together by means of an adhesive kind of silk. talized his name. The door is kept upright with a silken hinge;

and, when the occupant wishes to go out, he opens | largest of the swallow tribe, and gliding through

it with ease, shutting it, as he passes, with equal readiness.

Time would fail me, if I were to speak concerning the dwellers in that field and bank; and yet, though numerous, and liable to every kind of casualty, it would be extremely difficult to find a dead mouse or cricket, beetle or humble-bee, or any of the numerous occupants. The charitable office of interring all such is performed by the grave-digging beetle (selpha vespillo), who, with his companions, "kindly lend their little aid," and this so quickly, that three or four will dig a hole in the ground and bury whatever small dead creatures they may find, in the course of a few hours.

Apparently intent on the one sole object of their existence, they first inspect the creature they are about to inter, and then commence digging a hollow in the mould or sand beneath, by removing the soil, and shovelling it on either side. This is effected by bending down their heads, bearing strongly on their collars, and working with singleness of purpose: the bird, meanwhile, seems to move its head or tail, its wings or feet, when the labourers seek to drag the body by its feathers into

the hole.

Five hours are often required for this laborious operation, till the hollow is nearly excavated; and then it happens, not unfrequently, that only one of the labourers continues to work, the rest being either disheartened or fatigued. When this occurs, the remaining beetle may be seen to stiffen his collar, after the custom of his tribe, and, by an extraordinary exertion of strength, to lift the bird or mouse, and arrange it within the spacious hollow. Every now and then the sagacious creature will mount upon the body, and appear to tread it down; and then, after resting a-while, renew his efforts, and press it a little further, till sunk to a considerable depth. At length the small grave-digger, being unable to continue his exertions, and seemingly spent with fatigue, retires under ground.

Next morning he may be seen again at work. The dead bird having been sunk to the depth of two fingers' breadth, resembles a tiny corpse upon a bier, surrounded with a mound of earth. Before night the grave is hollowed somewhat deeper; and the indefatigable beetle, again aided by his companions, continues to labour at intervals for nearly two days longer, till the whole is finished.

This singular propensity in the grave-digging beetle is essential for the preservation of its young. Eggs deposited by the parents in the substances which they inter produce, when hatched, larvæ that grow to an inch in length; and these turn into yellow chrysalides, from which beetles emerge, to follow the occupation of their race.

And thus from sire to son, through circling years,
Labour these watchful creatures, noting well
If falls a small bird from the bending spray,
Or mole toss'd out by ruthless hands, his home
Laid waste, himself a corpse, where late he wrought,
With patient toil, his humble shed to rear,
Or brown mouse, sleeping his last sleep, beside
Some tuft of wild thyme: all and each are borne
From curious ken, and laid the earth beneath
With decent care.

The swift, or black-martin (hirundo apis),

the air without any perceptible motion of the wings, is now preparing to migrate: lapwings and linnets assemble for the same purpose: starlings are seen in flocks; and goldfinches flutter about the hedges. Stillingfleet noticed also, at least a century since, that the rooks in his neighbourhood returned at night to roost in the trees that contain their nests; and the same adherence to ancient habits is still obvious, so unchanged are the laws of nature.

August has its own deep beauty, distinct from that of all other months; varying in its character from those which have gone before, and essentially different from such as are yet to come. August is the ripening month, when corn and barley assume a mellow tint, and stand ready for the sickle; when, also, fruits of every kind, having attained their full size, develop that exquisite variety of bloom, or hue, which belongs to their tribe or family. True it is that the same process commenced much earlier, and that gooseberries, raspberries, and currants were seen in the kitchengarden; but now stone-fruits of various kinds are fully ripe: cherry and apple-orchards vary the cheerful scene, and blackberries cluster in the hedges. Who, that ever gathered the wild blackberry, does not vividly recall to mind the pleasure of rambling in a fine August morning, through glens and glades, and up many a steep bank, where grew the tempting fare, while all around was one continuous rustle of green leaves, with openings through the trees into some deep valley, with its clear stream winding in singleness and beauty?

Naturalists have spoken much concerning roots and leaves, and of that wondrous mechanism by means of which all vegetable functions are performed. Passing over these as facts well known and repeatedly described, I shall merely advert to the ripening of fruit, it may be of the common blackberry or wild apple, quince or cherry, as illustrative of all other kinds. A few weeks since, green and tasteless berries began to form, though still surrounded with a few straggling white petals, which seemed to watch over the nurslings which they had cherished from infancy. At length, one by one, the petals fall off; a slight change of colour becomes perceptible in the ripening fruit, while the taste peculiar to each gradually developes. All this is obvious; but how inexplicable is the fact, that the same soil and atmosphere and sunbeams produce that dissimilarity of hue and flavour which pertains to every kind of fruit! Such wonderful though familiar results owe their origin to a chemical change which the sap undergoes in passing through the vessels of the plant or tree, when acted upon by light and air. Thus much we know; but the thickest veil obscures the means by which such changes are effected.

Buffon caused his statue to be inscribed with the following sentence:

"A genius equal to the majesty of nature."

Yet the dissimilar taste and colour of a peach and cherry, when growing in the same soil, disprove his impious pretensions.



"The device of the excellent author of "Theron and Aspasia' was ingenious and instructive. At the end of a long and almost tiresome avenue in his garden a beautiful arbour promised the wished-for rest; but on reaching the attractive spot a plain surface was only found, all was light and shade -a complete illusion, with the motto in the centre of the painting, Invisibilia non decipiunt.' " - THOMAS H. BURDER, M.D.

THERE is something-such is the remark in substance of a clever writer-peculiar in the professions of medicine and surgery. The subject of study and observation in these professions is the human body-the most complicated of all God's works, and the one most calculated, in enlarged and comprehensive minds, to inspire admiration and reverence of the all-wise Author; and yet there is, probably, no class of men in which there are so many sceptics or even positive infidels, as among physicians and surgeons. Strange-the frequency of religious doubt amidst the brightest evidence!

in 1834, assistant-physician to St. George's hospital; and in 1839, physician to that truly noble institution. Previous to this last triumph he had given to the world his two elaborate and enduring works on "Morbid Anatomy," and on "Diseases of the Heart.

The amount of mental toil he underwent as a medical writer may be gleaned from the following fact:

It had long been his custom to work with little intermission from seven in the morning till twelve at night; but, when once engaged in any work of interest, he seemed not to feel fatigue, and to know not where to stop. While writing this book he frequently sat up half through the night. When completing it he often rose at three in the morning! On one occasion he rose at three, wrote, without cessation, till five the following morning, then went to bed; and at nine o'clock Mrs. Hope, for he had been married a few months before, was at his bed-side, writing to his dictation while he breakfasted?

The highest medical honours now appeared within his reach. His professional opinion was eagerly sought by patients from every part of the

annum. But mortal disease-to be subdued by no skill, and alleviated by no expedients-assailed him; and, in March, 1841, at the age of forty, he retired deliberately to Hampstead-to die!

Now, whether stern truth or tempting exagge-kingdom. His income rose to four thousand per ration be most apparent in this remark, from its censure he must be excluded whose name heads the present chapter. An impassioned lover of science; indefatigable in the pursuit of truth; highly gifted by nature; and master of information, various, versatile, and always at command, the abiding sway of religion hallowed every acquirement, and lit up every advance in the realm of knowledge. "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" was the governing question of his daily life. Nor did he fly to religion, as may be atfirmed of many, when galled by the world's neglect, or when baffled in some favourite pursuit. He was a successful man. Of him it was observed, and with truth:

"How few at the close of life can look back and say, as Dr. Hope might have done, that, so far as this world is concerned, they have accomplished all that they have planned, and attained all that they had desired!" His career, if brief, was singularly unclouded.

He took up his permanent residence in London as physician in Dec., 1828, with only one private friend, Mr. Æneas Mackintosh, of Montagusquare, and one medical acquaintance, Dr. Henry Holland. His professional maxims, suggested by his venerable father, adopted, and steadily acted upon by himself, were simply these:

1. Never keep a patient ill longer than you can possibly help;

2. Never accept a fee to which you do not feel yourself justly entitled; and

3. Always pray for your patients.

His fame rose rapidly. In 1831 he was appointed physician to the Marylebone infirmary; * From "The Closing Scene; or, Christianity and Infidelity contrasted in the last hours of remarkable persons." By the author of the "Life-book of a Labourer." London: Longmans and Co. The idea of this volume is a happy one. We and here proof enough that the only stable support in the hour of sickness and death is simple faith in Jesus. We were personally acquainted with more than one of the individuals whose last hours are here narrated'; and, though some trifling misstatements meet our eye, yet on the whole we think the character of each well delineated.-ED.

"But so completely had he gained the confidence of his patients, that, even after he had retired from practice, they insisted on consulting him. During the first three weeks after his retiring, he made 1007.—that is, rather more than 1,700l. per annum-in fees received from those who would not be refused. Even after his removal to Hampstead he might have been fully occupied with seeing those who, having come from the country, did not hesitate to go a few additional miles for his advice. So late as the day before his death, he declined a visit from one of his former patients."

Three prominent features in his character challenge attention and remark:

1. His habitual disinterestedness.

"In the earlier years of his residence in London it was his delight, and indeed his frequent custom, to spend the night at the house of a patient who was dangerously ill; and, though the increase of his practice rendered this impossible at a later period, yet he occasionally thus indulged himself even till within two years of his death. These attentions were not confined to the rich. There was a gentleman of large fortune, whose dying bed he had thus soothed, and whose family avowed their deep obligations to him. Grateful as they were for that kindness to which the rich are so accustomed that they almost deem it their prerogative, they were much surprised some time after to find almost similar attentions lavished on a groom, who was seized with a dangerous complaint, requiring almost constant watching. After the most assiduous attention on the part of Dr. Hope, accompanied by the divine blessing, the groom recovered; and the family afterwards mentioned the circumstance as illustrative of Dr. Hope's genuine benevolence, uninfluenced by considerations of wealth and station."

* "On Diseases of the Heart."

2. His sleepless jealousy for God's honour. He maintained that no calling in life should be prosecuted without distinct reference to the great First Cause and Lord of all. In his conversations with medical students he frequently combated the infidelity and materialism too often embraced by them, on the false notion that such opinions indicate superior intellect. As a medical lecturer he never opened or closed a session without introducing religious allusions and motives to action, and animadverting on the irrationality of infidelity.

3. His practical and unhesitating reliance on the Most High.

"On this occasion* Dr. Hope gave a very decided proof of the strength of his religious principles. After he had been for some days engaged in the canvass, with little apparent prospect of success, a party of very influential medical governors sent to offer him their support. This communication was made at ten o'clock on Saturday night; and, as persons naturally feel their own honour interested in the success of their candidate, these gentlemen stipulated that he should canvass most actively and under their guidance. To this Dr. Hope made no objection; and they proceeded to point out his work for the following day, Sunday. To observe the sabbath was, however, a principle from which he could not swerve. He preferred risking the offered support to offending his God. He urged that, without the divine blessing, his election could not prosper, and that he could not expect that blessing while acting in opposition to the divine commands. It was in vain that his new friends argued, intreated, and even threatened to withdraw their support. Dr. Hope was inflexible; and they finally yielded the point, thinking him no doubt an odd fellow, who could prefer religion to self-interest, and who would rather trust to the promises of God than to his own exertions." Such a man could not be deserted, in his hour of need," by him whom he served; and this is his closing scene:

After removing to Hampstead, Dr. Hope never went out in his carriage but once, and that was to Highgate cemetery, where he intended to be buried. Without indulging unmeaning fancies on the subject of his interment, he gave directions for it as for any other ordinary affair. Mrs. Hope, having hinted the possibility of her attending the funeral, he seized the idea with joy, and eagerly intreated that, provided it did no violence to her feelings, she would be present.

Dr. Latham, the last time he saw him, inquired if he "felt quite happy.

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"Perfectly so," was Dr. Hope's reply. "I have always been a sober-thinking man; and I could not have imagined the joy I now feel. My only wish is to convey it to the minds of others; but that is impossible. It is such as I could not have conceived possible."

He was particularly anxious to convey a cheerful idea of death, and his own happiness in the prospect of it, to the mind of his son, who was at that age when all impressions sink deep into the mind. He often talked to him of his great gain, and used sometimes to say:

"You see, Theodore, what a lucky fellow I am. You have your fortune to make; but mine is ready-made for me. I am going to my heavenly inheritance. You know how hard I used to work formerly to get fees for you and mamma; but all that is over now: my toil is at an end."

He then spoke with much warmth and gratitude of the many blessings that had been vouchsafed to him. He noticed that, though God had not thought fit to give him affluence, yet he had always had enough. He dwelt with especial interest on the large share of intellectual enjoyment that had been granted him-more he believed than to most men-and "this blessing ought to be taken into account."

On Monday, finding him much weaker, I


"I think that one week will do great things for you."

"Do you think so, indeed?" answered he, very quickly, and with a radiant smile. "Very well, whenever God pleases, be it soon or be it late, so that I go off in such a way as not to frighten you. I think, however, that you are very much mistaken. I must get weaker yet, and take to my bed."

On Wednesday morning he was much weaker ; and I then said that I thought my words about a week would come true.

"Do you mean about my dying in a week ?” "Yes," I answered.

"I think it is very likely, as this tugging at my chest is very distressing, and gives me a sensation of faintness."

His departure, and all the tokens of its approach, were constant subjects of our conversation; and one never feared to depress him by noticing the progress of his disease. The effect was always the contrary; and, as I never had been with an invalid, he frequently called my attention to the symptoms of declining strength, and commented on them medically. During this day he was very restless, but betrayed no symptoms of impatience. His bed could not be made to his satisfaction; but he seemed to be perfectly aware that this arose from his own feverish state. Instead of evincing annoyance at the repeated failures to promote his comfort, he only praised the patience of the attendants in making and re-making it so often. The most common services were exaggerated by his grateful spirit into acts of extraordinary kindness, and he frequently lamented the trouble which he feared that he was giving to all around him. He slept during almost the whole day; waking, however, every ten minutes or so, and asking me to read to him. This I did; first from the bible, and then from "Leighton on St. Peter." As soon as I began he fell asleep; but whenever he awoke he regretted that he had not heard anything, and begged me to "give him another trial." He had often said that, though unable to follow the connected thread of my reading, he never failed to pick up what furnished him with delightful meditations.

It was evident that he was worse; but neither of us apprehended any immediate danger. When awake he continued, however, to take an interest

* Contest for the office of assistant-physician to St. in our ordinary occupations. He directed me to George's hospital.

* Mrs. Hope is the speaker.

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