Self-abnegation and self-forgetfulness were the characteristics of his life.

Although a man of grave and earnest disposition, there was nothing austere in his piety. The brave are always tender. His thoughtful love for little children was evinced by the invariable hamper of foreign toys that accompanied his return from his many wanderings to England. He had a shrewd, practical method, too, in his inspection of prisons. His eagerness was incomprehensible to the jailer mind, as he accurately measured the length, breadth, and height of the cells, examined the quality of the rations, and drew forth a pair of scales from his pocket to ascertain if the quantity tallied with the regulation allowance.

Howard was no sycophant of the great. The sturdy Puritan bated not a jot of his dignity before monarchs. His outspoken honesty and vehement indignation at wrong bent not to the complacent etiquette prescribed for courtly circles. Yet his society was sought, and not always successfully, by the chief potentates of Europe. He declined to dine with the Grand Duke Leopold because it would detain him three hours on his journey; but, on another occasion, he accepted the hospitality of the Empress Maria Theresa. To avoid public notice he entered St. Petersburg disguised and on foot, but he was discovered and invited by the Empress Catharine to visit the Court. He refused, on the ground that his mission was to the dungeons of the prisoner and the abodes of wretchedness, not to the houses of the great, nor to the palace of the Czarina.

of that "passionate charity which dives into the darkest recesses of misery and vice," to dispel their gloom, and carry joy and gladness in its train.

A few practical reflections press upon us ere we close. First: How great are the obligations of the world to Christianity! In classic times, as now in heathen lands, philanthropy was an unknown word, and charity at best a mere capricious fancy. Misanthropy was the universal creed. Not the gospel of forgiveness, but the law of revenge, was everywhere preached and faithfully practised. The life of Howard was but the outward expression, the visible incarnation of the spirit of Christianity. It was his strong sense of responsibility to God, and trust in his providence, that nerved his soul for his unceasing toils, and cheered him in all his wanderings.

Again: What good can be accomplished by a single earnest worker! Every prisoner in Europe, from his own day to the present, has felt the benefit of his self-denying labours. He has smitten galling fetters from their limbs, and banished torture from the penal code. He has admitted light and air to their gloomy cells, and has brought the more glorious light and joy of the gospel to their darker and more gloomy hearts. He has raised the culprit from a condition of abject misery, and rescued him from the treatment of a beast. He has abridged the sum of human suffering, mitigated the rigour of the criminal code, and, as experience has shown, lessened the amount of crime.

At the urgent request of Pius VI. he visited the Vatican. As he was about leaving, the venerable Pontiff laid his hands upon his head, saying, "You English care nothing for these things, but the blessing of an old man can do you no harm." And thus the Puritan heretic received the Papal benediction.

street, he received a summons from the palace to visit the Emperor Francis Joseph II. "Can I do any good by going?" he asked. Being assured that he could, he went. Seldom do monarchs hear such pungent truths and such stern counsels, as while the friend of the captive and the oppressed pleaded their cause in the presence of their sovereign.

The magnetic influence of his strong will was strikingly evinced in his quelling a mutiny in the Savoy prison. The rioters, two hundred strong, had broken loose, killed their keepers, and defied the authorities. Howard, unarmed and alone, entered the prison, heard their grievances, calmed their fury, and led them back to their cells.

And Howard's influence ceased not with his life. Of him, as of every noble worker in God's world, is it true that, being dead, he yet speaketh. The taunt conveyed in the heartless sneer of Carlyle, that he abated the jailfever, but caused the far worse benevolent-platform fever, now raging, is his highest glory. It was his to show the most illustrious example, since the time of the apostles,

indifference to the sufferings of his fellow-men, shall lose it-ignobly, basely, shamefully lose it. And whosoever will lose his life, will sacrifice ease, and comfort, and enjoyment, for the welfare of his fellow-men, shall gloriously and for ever save it.

Active beneficence, moreover, is a consolation in affliction, and an antidote to morbid grief. Howard underwent a dreadful baptism of suffering before he was prepared for his life-work. His own body must first languish in prison, his own heart must first be wrung with anguish before he could sufficiently sympathize with the sufferings of others. His blameless life and Christian character did not save him from sorest trial and heartbreaking bereavement. But in the effort to relieve and benefit others, his own grief was lightened, his own soul was blessed.

Howard exemplified in his life the spirit of Him who came to seek and to save that which was lost, not to be ministered unto but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many. He fulfilled that Scripture, "He that is greatest among you shall be your servant." His

N tracing these lessons for the benefit of my younger readers, my occupation, I find, is very like that of the geologists. The crust of the earth into which the geologists dig in search of fossils, and the memory into which I dive for past facts and feelings, are as like each other as any two things can be. The one is material, and the other mental; but there the diversity ceases. In all other points the two spheres and the two operations are precisely the same.

Let us pause a moment and take note of this interesting analogy. The episode will impart some measure of variety to our speculations. The two spheres are similar, in that the more ancient forms and facts are generally better preserved than the more recent. In the strata of the earth, the plants and animals that have been extinct for ages are, as a general rule, much more completely preserved than specimens of a later age. While every bone and muscle of the creatures that walked the earth or swam the sea before man came upon the scene can be seen entire, the creatures that have lately passed away have left no trace behind.

This is similar to our experience in the faculty of memory. Those who have lived long find that the events which happened in their youth can be much more perfectly recalled than those which are only a few years old. Accordingly, for my own part, when I sally forth to search the records of memory, as the geologist goes, hammer in hand, to the hills or quarries, I prefer to go down to the more ancient specimens. Those that have lain longest in their bed are best kept. The type of those pages that were printed first is larger and clearer; accordingly, I like best to read my lesson from the beginning of the book.

Long, long ago I had occasion to attend a large social meeting in a manufacturing village on the evening of the New Year's Day. It was a feast prepared for the working-people in the interests of sobriety, at a period when such evening parties were not so common as they are now. The hall was brightly illuminated and decorated; the provisions good and abundant; the speeches

❘ and songs were instructive and exhilarating; and the company, old and young, male and female, were full of happiness. As I had a walk of three or four miles before me, I retired some time before the assembly broke up. After leaving the hall, I experienced some difficulty in steering my way past the separate and irregularly placed structures connected with a large calicoprinting establishment. The night was not very dark; but as my eyes had accommodated themselves to a glare of gas within the hall, the effect of the change was equivalent to darkness, as far as I was concerned. I got upon a straight dry path at last, but it was very rough, and caused me frequent stumbles. Casting about for some smoother footing, I observed that a low grassy wall or ridge, about eighteen inches in height, ran along one side of the path, separating it, as I supposed, from a broader and better road. On the other side of that diminutive ridge indeed the way seemed very inviting: it was level and smooth, and in the dim starlight almost glittering in its smoothness. Why should I stumble on a rough place while a pleasant path lay invitingly near me? Without further thought, I made a hearty leap over the grassy ridge on my right, and instead of standing on a beaten footpath, as I expected, I found myself up to the neck in water.

It was a reservoir for the use of the factory. Its shining surface in the defective light had deceived me. I scrambled out again, shook myself like a Newfoundland dog, and trudged homeward, a cooler and a wiser man. At the price of a cold ducking, I bought a little wisdom that night, and it has turned out a good investment. It is nearly forty years ago, and I have not once leaped into a sheet of water with my clothes on since.*

* It may not be amiss to give here a parallel case from more recent experience, that out of the mouth of two witnesses the lesson may be better confirmed.

The

A boy from the country was invited to spend some days with a family who occupied a fine villa in the outskirts of Edinburgh. The drawing-room of the house is on the ground-floor, and the windows look out on a lawn studded with flower-plots. stranger, standing in the drawing-room alone, suddenly observed some of his companions on the lawn, and made a bound to join them. The windows were filled with very large pieces of plate

Such is the fossil dug up from the lower strata of a human memory, and is it of any use now that we have got it? Can we obtain from it any lesson that may repay us for our labour?

We may. This simple fact, rightly applied, might demolish a good deal of the philosophy that is fashionable in some quarters at the present day. It is a fond conceit of certain speculative minds, that it matters not to a man what his belief may be, provided he be sincere. Now, if this be a wrong principle, it is of importance to expose it, for a good many people entertain it. They don't like doctrines such as the Bible lays down. They don't like to be told that their acceptance with God and their salvation depend on certain doctrines being received and professed. They say we can't help our belief, and if we be sincere in holding it, we shall not be punished for it, even although it should turn out to be mistaken.

One fact is stronger than ten thousand fancies. On that cold winter night long ago, I, for one, learned that a man suffers from an erroneous opinion, although he hold it sincerely. I was most completely sincere in my opinion that I should obtain a much more pleasant path on the other side of the grassy ridge; but my sincerity did not protect me from a ducking. If the water had been deeper, and I unable to swin, my sincerity would not have kept me from drowning. One thing would have kept me right. If, distrusting appearances, in the absence of guiding light, I had knelt down, and stretched my hand over, and touched the supposed smooth hard footpath, I should have discovered that it was water, and would not have leaped into it. My opinion-the❘ result, in that case, of honest, painstaking inquirywould have been a correct opinion, and the soundness of

my belief would have done for me what my sincerity in error could by no means do: it would have saved me from punishment.

So, you see, we are reading a useful lesson from the fossil fact found in the lower folds of memory. In my case there was an erroneous judgment; it was sincere, and yet I was punished for it. The judgment was erroneous, because it was rashly formed without due inquiry. I did not examine the circumstances; I did not feel my way. I made a leap in the dark, and I paid for it. It was a small thing indeed; but in this life we are constantly exercised in small things, that in these we may discover dangers, and learn to walk wisely in great things. The same material law that controls a drop, controls also the ocean. The Creator of all things does not apply one law to a small quantity, and a different law to a large quantity. In the same manner, his moral law is one, and ranges over all. If I rashly and through prejudice or indolence form an erroneous judgment on a small matter, I suffer for it. What right have I to think that the rule of Divine Providence will be reversed when it deals with great matters?

If, through some dimness in the eyes of the soul, caused by looking too long and too intently on the hot garish glare of worldly pleasures and profits, a man miss the way of life, made known in the gospel, and plunge over the lip of life with a lie in his right hand, what right has he to expect that it will be well with him on the other side?

No. "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." "Seek, and ye shall find." "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me." "I am the light of the world." "Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

AN a boy be a hero? Of course he can, if he has courage, and a good opportunity to show it. The boy who will stand up for the right, stick to the truth, resist temptation, and suffer rather than do wrong, is a moral hero.

Here is an example of true heroism. A little drummer-boy, who had become a great favourite with the officers, was asked by the captain to drink a glass of rum. But he declined, saying, "I am a cadet of temperance, and do not taste strong drink."

"But you must take some now," said the captain. "You have been on duty all day, beating the drum and marching, and now you must not refuse. I insist upon it." But still the boy stood firm, and held fast to his integrity.

The captain then turned to the major and said, “Our little drummer-boy is afraid to drink. He will never make a soldier."

"How is this?" said the major in a playful manner. "Do you refuse to obey the orders of your captain ?"

"Sir," said the boy, "I have never refused to obey the captain's orders, and have always tried to do my duty as a soldier faithfully; but I must refuse to drink rum, because I know it will do me an injury.”

"Then," said the major, in a stern tone of voice, in order to test his sincerity, "I command you to take a drink; and you know it is death to disobey orders!"

The little hero, fixing his clear blue eye on the face of the officer, said, "Sir, my father died a drunkard; and when I entered the army, I promised my dear mother that I would not taste a drop of rum, and I mean to keep my promise. I am sorry to disobey your orders, sir; but I would rather suffer anything than disgrace my mother, and break my temperance pledge." Was not that boy a hero?

The officers approved the conduct of that noble boy, and told him, that so long as he kept that pledge, and performed his duty faithfully as a soldier, he might expect from them their regard and protection.

October 23.

ARL ERHARDT is to come to us this evening after dusk, lest any annoyance should be caused him by the people. The effects of the siege are becoming daily more palpable and distressing. The very poor are now rationed, and are probably as well off as ever; but it is the respectable middle class that suffers most. trades are at a stand-still, and many sources of income entirely cut off. It is a comfort that winter is approaching. That, every one says, must bring peace. Oh! that it may come without more blood!

So many

October 24-Karl Erhardt arrived last night; the shaking of the cab had exhausted him, and he retired at once to his room. To-day, mamma could not leave hers on account of severe headache, so I have been occupied with her, and seen little of our guest. Nina and he seem good friends already. I am thankful for anything that may rouse her out of her utter and morbid melancholy.

October 25.-Yesterday, in consideration for our guest, Uncle Lucien did not as usual bring in one or two brother officers on his return from night duty on the ramparts. Something to this effect having been said before Lieutenant Erhardt to-day, he begged his presence might be no restraint. "You may trust me," he said smiling. And I am sure we can, and do. His warm

He

affection for Léon, and interest in all that concerns him, draw out our hearts towards him: When I entered the dining-room this morning, I found Arnaud had surrendered at discretion. was perched on the arm of Lieutenant Erhardt's chair, listening with intense eagerness to some story he was telling him. He had declared he would not speak to, or sit down with, the "wicked Prussian," and yesterday, with the pertinacity of a spoiled child, he kept to his purpose. To-day all was changed. He hung about our guest until we feared he might be troublesome, but, poor child, his life has been such a dull one of late that any change is welcome. And Lieutenant Erhardt says it is so pleasant to share family life once more. It has taken off the feeling of strangeness and awkwardness to hear him speak of his home, his parents, his sisters and brothers; names last heard by us from beloved lips upon which the dust of death is too probably lying now.

I think Lieutenant Erhardt understands about Nina. He treats her with a tender, grave reverence, differing widely from his manner to the rest of us. Perhaps there is one mourning over his unknown fate-even as she is over Léon's. Certainly, the similarity of his position and that which Léon may be occupying, if-oh! that dreadful if linked with every thought of him—if indeed he escaped death that fatal day, a stranger and captive in a hostile land, draws