is obliged to send any article of clothing to be washed at the public laundry; but if he does not send there he must have the washing done at home.  Private laundries that do not come under the inspection of the sanitary officer are absolutely forbidden.  It is incumbent on all who send clothes to the public laundry from an infected house to state the fact.  The clothes thus received are passed for special cleansing into the disinfecting rooms.  They are specially washed, dried and prepared for future wear.  The laundries are placed in convenient positions, a little outside the town; they have extensive drying grounds, and, practically, they are worked so economically, that homewashing days, those invaders of domestic comfort and health, are abolished.

Passing along the main streets of the city we see in twenty places, equally distant, a separate building surrounded by its own grounds,—­a model hospital for the sick.  To make these institutions the best of their kind, no expense is spared.  Several elements contribute to their success.  They are small, and are readily removable.  The old idea of warehousing diseases on the largest possible scale, and of making it the boast of an institution that it contains so many hundred beds, is abandoned here.  The old idea of building an institution so that it shall stand for centuries, like a Norman castle, but, unlike the castle, still retain its original character as a shelter for the afflicted, is abandoned here.  The still more absurd idea of building hospitals for the treatment of special organs of the body, as if the different organs could walk out of the body and present themselves for treatment, is also abandoned.

It will repay us a minute of time to look at one of these model hospitals.  One is the fac simile of the other, and is devoted to the service of every five thousand of the population.  Like every building in the place, it is erected on a subway.  There is a wide central entrance, to which there is no ascent, and into which a carriage, cab, or ambulance can drive direct.  On each side the gateway are the houses of the resident medical officer and of the matron.  Passing down the centre, which is lofty and covered in with glass, we arrive at two sidewings running right and left from the centre, and forming cross-corridors.  These are the wards:  twelve on one hand for male, twelve on the other for female patients.  The cross-corridors are twelve feet wide and twenty feet high, and are roofed with glass; The corridor on each side is a framework of walls of glazed brick, arched over head, and divided into six segments.  In each segment is a separate, light, elegant removable ward, constructed of glass and iron, twelve feet high, fourteen feet long, and ten feet wide.  The cubic capacity of each ward is 1,680 feet.  Every patient who is ill enough to require constant attendance has one of these wards entirely to himself, so that the injurious influences on the sick, which are created by mixing up, in one large room, the living and the dying; those who could sleep, were they at rest, with those who cannot sleep, because they are racked with pain; those who are too nervous or sensitive to move, or cough, or speak, lest they should disturb others; and those who do whatever pleases them:—­these bad influences are absent.