and turning round to a playmate, he said, “Ah, Charley, my side pulled the strongest, you know.” Into the coach he jumped almost at one bound. As he did so, the orange in his hand fell from him and rolled far away down the street with a swift motion: and as the beautiful fruit went round and round on the smooth pavement, the light of the lamps above gleamed on its golden rind. It catches the eye of the poor fevered man. The mere words, “Oranges and Lemons;” the sight of the beautiful fruit of his native land—the merry voice, the innocent brow, the happy smile of the child that had dropped it, came upon him like a spell,—he sinks down, and a vision floats upon his brain. The scene is in southern Europe, where the blue Mediterranean rolls from the straits of Gibraltar to the Syrian shores. There was the murmuring of tranquil, silvery waves—the soft breathing of the winds—the gushes of sweet music and joy from many a grove on the shore, and many a green cleft in the hills; and one voice above the rest, in a tone of earnest and tender entreaty, rose in the warm skies as if a spirit were singing there. And this was its song:— “Remember thine early days— The orange grove, the vine-clad hill; The river where the sunbeams play— The evening calm and still. “Remember thine early days— Thy mother’s smile, thy sister’s song; Thy childhood’s little hymns of praise, Which kept the heart from wrong.” Then did the air and the ocean break out into a tender joy; and the spirit of the man rode on the waves of sweet sound along the whole course of the Mediterranean into the sunny Adriatic, and among the rocks of the Ægean. And voices came from the Capes of Sicily, whispering that God the Beautiful expected his children to be Beautiful too—beautiful in spirit, in thoughts, affections, and desires. And a like strain floated over the Grecian Isles, and told the enraptured listener, what a spirit of love it was which had poured out the beauty of Heaven on the hills and plains and valleys of the world; and it bid him believe that He who had cherished the grass and the flower through the dews of night and the chill of winter, did also intend a kindness to the soul, in pouring on it the dews of sorrow. And the man wept, and mingled his feeble voice with nature’s, and they worshipped together, and said—“Our Father! Hallowed be thy name!” * * * * * “Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is subsiding; he will do very well now.” This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals, as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air. “Why! who—who am I?”