hold altars, the flame which seemed erewhile about to illumine the world; and in the next century such could not have altogether died away. That deep godliness whose sacred influence, like a resting gleam of soft dewy light, was shed over the whole career of John Howard, accompanied him from his father's house. Were it not somewhat strange, if it proved to have been a dying ray of the old Puritanism which brightened into Modern Philanthropy !

The boy Howard made no figure in his classes. He was, beyond question, what is generally known as a dull boy. He never acquired a perfect grammatical knowledge, or a ready command, even of his native language. Yet he does appear, in his early years, to have given indications of a character different from that of ordinary dull boys. His schoolfellows seem to have discerned him, despite his slowness, to possess qualities deserving honorable regard; they saw that he was unobtrusive, self-respecting, unostentatiously but warmly generous. Price, doubtless one of the quickest of boys, and Howard, slow as he was, were drawn toward each other at school, and formed a friendship broken only by death. He succeeded, also, and with no conscious effort, in inspiring his older friends and relatives with a sense of the general worth, the substantial, reliable value, of his character. He was known to be sedate, serious, discreet; his word could be depended upon, his sagacity was true; above all, he was simple, quiet, modest.

It being manifest that he had no vocation for letters, his father very sensibly removed him from school, and bound him apprentice to Messrs. Newnham & Shipley, grocers in the city of London. A premium of £700 was paid with him: he was furnished with separate apartments, and a couple of saddlehorses. We find no mark of parsimony here.

In 1742, his father died, leaving him heir to considerable property, and seven thousand pounds in money. By the provisions of the will, he was not to enter on his inheritance ere reaching his twenty-fourth year. But his guardians permitted him at once to undertake the principal management of his af fairs. As he was still a mere boy, seventeen or eighteen at most, this must be regarded as a decisive proof of the high estimation in which he was held by those who had been in a position to form an opinion of his character. He speedily quitted the establishment in the city; his apprenticeship was never completed.

Not long after his father's death, he traveled for some time on the Continent, and, on his return, went into lodgings at Stoke Newington. Here he continued for several years. His existence was quiet, even, in no way remarkable, broken only by visits to the west of England on account of his health. This last was quite unsettled. It is indeed to be borne in mind, in the contemplation of his whole career, that he had to sustain a life-long struggle with ill-health, that all the influences, to sour the temper, to close the heart, to dim the intellect, to enfeeble the will, which are included in that one word, bore perpetually upon Howard. His constitution was by no means sound, and had a strong determination toward consumption. In his unnoticed retirement at Stoke Newington, we can easily picture him; his pale, tranquil countenance, marked, perhaps, with somewhat of the weary and oppressed look that comes of constant acquaintance with weakness and pain, but unclouded by any repining, and mildly lighted by modest self-respect, by inborn kindness, by deep, habitual piety. He derived some pleasure from a slight intermeddling with certain of the simplest parts of natural philosophy and medical science: of the latter he seems to have obtained a somewhat considerable knowledge.

This quiet existence was, after a time, rather interestingly and unexpectedly enlivened. Howard, in one set of apartments which he occupied, met with less attention than he deemed his due; probably it was thought his mild nature could be imposed upon with impunity: he quitted the place. Entering lodgings kept by a widow named Loidore, he found himself waited upon to his absolute satisfaction. In his new abode illness overtook him, or rather his perpetual ill-health reached a crisis. Mrs. Loidore tended him with all possible kindness, and the result on his part was not only gratitude, but, as we believe, sincere attachment. On his recovery, he offered her his hand. She was above fifty; he was now about twentyfive. Her health, too, was delicate; but Howard was resolute, and, after of course objecting, she of course consented. The circumstance indicates Howard's extreme simplicity of nature, and power to do, in the face of talk and laughter, what he thought right and desirable; it may also be regarded as one proof among many of a naturally affectionate nature: it reveals nothing further.

For two or three years, the married pair resided at Stoke Newington, much in the same manner, we presume, as formerly. Howard had a real, though by no means ardent affection for his wife; it was a sincere and even keen affliction he experienced, when, after the above period, she died.

We have glanced lightly over the youthful period of Howard's life. We have deemed it right to do so, although there are a few incidents recorded at the period not altogether unimportant, their importance being derived solely from the light reflected on them by his subsequent history, and their own aspect being somewhat trivial. The extent of information they afford us regarding him may be summed up by saying, that they show him to have been methodic, gentle, and, above

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all, considerately kind. He seems certainly never to have allowed the pleasure of making a fellow-creature happier to have escaped him.

He was now about twenty-eight years of age. Unbound by any tie to England, he determined again to travel. The excitement arising from the occurrence of the great earthquake at Lisbon was still fresh, and he was attracted to Portugal. He sailed for Lisbon, in a vessel called the Hanover. His voyage, however, was not destined to have a peaceable termination; and the circumstances into which he was about to be thrown, exercised a perceptible influence on his future career. The ship was taken by a French privateer; Howard was made prisoner. The treatment he met with was inhuman. For forty hours he was kept with the other prisoners on board the French vessel, without water, and with "hardly a morsel of food." They were then carried into Brest, and committed to the castle. They were flung into a dungeon; and, after a further period of starvation, "a joint of mutton was at length thrown into the midst of them, which, for want of the accommodation of so much as a solitary knife, they were obliged to tear to pieces, and gnaw like dogs." There was nothing in the dungeon to sleep on except some straw, and in such a place, and with such treatment, Howard and his fellow-prisoners remained for nearly a week. He was then removed to Carpaix, and afterward to Morlaix, where he impressed his jailer with such a favorable opinion of his character, that he was permitted to enjoy an amount of liberty not usually accorded to prisoners in his situation.

At Morlaix, Howard had inducement and apology enough for remaining idle, or, at least, for occupying himself solely in negotiations for his own release, and in gathering up his strength after his hardships. But he did not remain idle, nor

did he abandon himself to the above occupations. The sufferings he had witnessed while inmate of a French prison would not let him rest. He had seen something amiss, something unjust, something which pained his heart as a feeling man; his English instinct of order and of work was outraged; there was something to be done; and he set himself to do it. He collected information respecting the state of English prisoners of war in France. He found that his own treatment was part, and nowise a remarkable part, of a system; that many hundreds of these prisoners had perished through sheer ill usage, and that thirty-six had been buried in a hole at Dinan in one day. In fact, he discovered that he had come upon an abomination and iniquity on the face of the earth, which, strangely enough, had been permitted to go on unheeded until it had reached this frightful excess. He learned its extent, and departed with his information for England; he was permitted to cross the Channel, on pledging his word to return, if a French officer was not exchanged for him. He secured his own liberation, and at once set to work on behalf of his oppressed countrymen. His representations were effectual: those prisoners of war who were confined in the three prisons which had been the principal scene of the mischief, returned to England in the first cartel ships that arrived. Howard modestly remarks, that perhaps his sufferings on this occasion increased his sympathy with the inhabitants of prisons. There is not much to be said of these simple and unimposing circumstances. They merely show that he, on coming into a position to do a piece of work, did it at once, and thoroughly; that his feelings were not of the sentimental sort, which issue in tears or words, but of the silent sort, which issue in deeds; that what had doubtless been seen by many a dapper officer, and perhaps by prisoners not military, in full health and with ample leisure,