grim, and not very rarely morose.  Their expansive social force is imprisoned as a working power, to show itself only through its legitimate pistons and cranks.  The tighter the boiler, the less it whistles and sings at its work.  When Dr. Waterhouse, in 1780, travelled with Howard, on his tour among the Dutch prisons and hospitals, he found his temper and manners very different from what would have been expected.

My benevolent companion having already made a preliminary exploration of the hospitals of the place, before sharing my bed with him, as above mentioned, I joined him in a second tour through them.  The authorities of Middletown are evidently leagued with the surgeons of that place, for such a break-neck succession of pitfalls and chasms I have never seen in the streets of a civilized town.  It was getting late in the evening when we began our rounds.  The principal collections of the wounded were in the churches.  Boards were laid over the tops of the pews, on these some straw was spread, and on this the wounded lay, with little or no covering other than such scanty clothes as they had on.  There were wounds of all degrees of severity, but I heard no groans or murmurs.  Most of the sufferers were hurt in the limbs, some had undergone amputation, and all had, I presume, received such attention as was required.  Still, it was but a rough and dreary kind of comfort that the extemporized hospitals suggested.  I could not help thinking the patients must be cold; but they were used to camp life, and did not complain.  The men who watched were not of the soft-handed variety of the race.  One of them was smoking his pipe as he went from bed to bed.  I saw one poor fellow who had been shot through the breast; his breathing was labored, and he was tossing, anxious and restless.  The men were debating about the opiate he was to take, and I was thankful that I happened there at the right moment to see that he was well narcotized for the night.  Was it possible that my Captain could be lying on the straw in one of these places?  Certainly possible, but not probable; but as the lantern was held over each bed, it was with a kind of thrill that I looked upon the features it illuminated.  Many times as I went from hospital to hospital in my wanderings, I started as some faint resemblance,-the shade of a young man’s hair, the outline of his half-turned face,—­recalled the presence I was in search of.  The face would turn towards me, and the momentary illusion would pass away, but still the fancy clung to me.  There was no figure huddled up on its rude couch, none stretched at the roadside, none toiling languidly along the dusty pike, none passing in car or in ambulance, that I did not scrutinize, as if it might be that for which I was making my pilgrimage to the battlefield.