hardly a person in the province who was not greatly affected on learning that he had chosen to fix his final resting-place on the Russian soil. In defiance of his own wishes on the subject, the enthusiasm of the people improvised a public funeral. The Prince of Moldavia, Admirals Priestman and Mordvinoff, all the generals and staff officers of the garrison, the whole body of the magistrates and merchants of the province, and a large party of cavalry, accompained by an immense cavalcade of private persons, formed the funeral procession. Nor was the grief by any means confined to the higher orders. In the wake of the more stately band of mourners, followed on foot a concourse of at least three thousand persons-slaves, prisoners, sailors, soldiers, peasants-men whose best and most devoted friend the hero of these martial honours had ever been; and from this after, humbler train of followers, arose the truest, tenderest expression of respect and sorrow for the dead. When the funeral pomp was over, the remains of their benefactor lowered into the earth, and the proud procession of the great had moved awaythen would these simple children of the soil steal noiselessly to the edge of the deep grave, and with their hearts full of grief, whisper in low voices to each other of all that they had seen and known of the good stranger's acts of charity and kindness. Good indeed he had been to them. Little used to acts or words of love from their own lords, they had felt the power of his kind manner, his tender devotion to them, only the more deeply from its novelty. To them how irreparable the loss! The higher ranks had lost the grace of a benignant presence in their high circle; but they the poor, the friendless-had lost in him their friend -almost their father. Nature is ever true: they felt how much that grave had robbed them of. Not a dry eye was seen amongst them; and looking sadly down into the hole where all that now remained of their physician lay, they marvelled much why he, a stranger to them, had left his home and friends and country, to become the unpaid servant of the poor in a land so far away;

and not knowing how, in their simple hearts, to account for this, they silently dropped their tears into his grave, and slowly moved away-wondering at all that they had seen and known of him. who was now dead, and thinking sadly of the long, long time ere they might find another friend like him!

The hole was then filled up-and what had once been Howard was seen of man no more. A small pyramid was raised above the spot, instead of the sun-dial which he had himself suggested; and the casual traveller in Russian Tartary is still attracted to the place as to one of the holiest shrines of which this earth can boast.

A few of Howard's characteristics may be mentioned. He was naturally somewhat of a haughty temperament, plain and blunt in his manners, often apparently harsh,-but under this exterior was a heart as tender as a child's,-like the eider-down on the eagle's breast. With his second and darling wife he stipulated, previous to marriage, that in all matters in which there should be a difference of opinion between them, his voice should be the rule. Petty tyrants quailed before an eye as stern as it was mild. He spoke out as boldly to the king under the gilded roof of the palace as to the gaoler in the loathsome cell. The imperious Catherine of Russia invited him, when in St. Petersburg, to court: he told the courtiers who waited on him that he had devoted himself to the task of visiting the dungeon of the captive and the abode of the wretched, not the palaces and courts of kings and empresses, and that the limited time at his disposal would not permit his calling on her imperial majesty." He peremptorily refused to meet the Austrian Emperor unless the servile custom of approaching the sovereign on bended knees was, in his case, dispensed with. The unfortunate Pope Pius VI., earnestly requested an interview, which the stern Puritan and Republican would only consent to, on the condition that the absurd mark of homage, kissing the foot, and, indeed, every other species of ceremony, should be dispensed with.

At parting, the venerable pontiff laid his hand upon the head of the heretic, saying, good humouredly, "I know you Englishmen care nothing for these things, but the blessing of an old man can do you no harm."-His countenance inspired respect and awe. In one of the military prisons in London, an alarming riot took place, the infuriated prisoners, two hundred in number, broke loose, killed two of their keepers, and committed other excesses. Having obtained possession of the building, no one dared to approach them. Unarmed and alone Howard entered the prison, charmed the savage passions of the furious mutineers into submission, and they suffered themselves to be quietly conducted back to their cells. Cleanliness and temperance, he was wont to say, were his preservatives against contagious diseases. He ate no flesh, drank no wine or spirits, bathed in cold water daily-ate little, and that at fixed intervals-retired to bed early, and was an early riser. "Trusting in Divine Providence," he says, " and believing myself in the way of my duty, I visit the most noxious cells, and while thus employed, "I fear no evil.'"

Burke says: Howard has visited all Europe-not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples: not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosities of modern art: nor to collect medals or collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain: to take the guage and dimensions of misery, depression and contempt: to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries. His plan is original: it is as full of genius as of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery: a circumnavigation of charity. Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every country.'

DIXON.

Kapoleon's Celegraph on Mont-Martre.

"In my rambles about Paris, during the days of Napoleon, my steps always turned, at the beginning or end thereof, towards Mont-Martre, and my eyes always to the telegraph on its summit. I constantly found a number of people lingering there, watching, like myself, the movements of the machine, which had sent out so many awful messages in its time. It was of course especially busy, during the fatal campaigns of the great King War. rior. Its perfect stillness until it began its communications, and then its sudden, various and eccentric movements, of which no cause could be discovered, and whose purpose was a secret of state, made it to me and to thous ands of others, the most singular, and perhaps the most anxious of all con templations, at a period when every act of the government shook Europe."

I SEE thee standing on thy height,

A form of mystery and might;

Tossing thy arms with sudden swing,—

Thou strange, uncouth and shapeless thing!
Like the bare pinions of some monstrous bird,
Or skeleton, by its own spirit stirred.

Now to thy long lank sides they fall,
And thou art but a pillar tall,
Standing against the deep blue sky!
Then in an instant out they fly,

Making arc, triangle, then curve and square-
A thousand mad caprices in the air.

And wast thou but a toy of state?
Thou wast an oracle-a fate!
In thy deep silence was a voice!

And well might all earth's Kings rejoice,

Thou lone wild herald of earth's wildest will,
In the glad hour when thou at last wert still.

88

NAPOLEON'S TELEGRAPH ON MONT-MARTRE.

All eyes upon thy tossings gazed,
Asking what city bled or blazed;
All conscious that thy mystic freight,
Was fierce ambition,- tyrant hate:
Darting like flashes from one fiery throne,
The secret seen by all-by all unknown.

Round the wide world that mandate shot-
Embodied thought-and swift as thought,
From frozen pole to burning line,

The whole vast realm of ruin thine!
Death sweeping over sea, and mount and plain,
Wherever man could slay, or man be slain.

I saw thee once. The eve was mild,
And snow was on the vineyard piled:
The forest bent before the gale :
And thou, amid the twilight pale,

Towering above thy mountain's misty spine,
Didst stand, like some old lightning-blasted pine.

But evil instinct seemed to fill

Thy ghostly form. With sudden thrill
I saw thee fling thine arms on high,

As if in challenge to the sky

Aye, all its tempests,-all its fires were tame,

To thy fierce flight-thy words of more than flame!

The thunderbolt was launched that hour

Berlin-that smote thy royal tower!

That sign the living deluge rolled,

By Poland's dying groan foretold:

One rising sun-one bloody setting shone,

And dust and ashes were on Frederick's throne'