nothing; of that class whose epitaph Mr. Carlyle has written in Sartor Resartus. His task was not, perhaps, very difficult; but just think of the effect, if every English landlord performed his duty so conscientiously and so well. A biographer of Howard, writing when the present century was well advanced, has recorded that Cardington still retained, among English villages, a look of "order, neatness, and regularity." If mere common sense did this, it was common sense under some new motive and guidance; we can only regret that it so rarely follows the higher light of godliness. And if Howard's claim to positive applause is slight, what are we to say of his exculpation from the positive sin which, during that century, accumulated so fearfully on the head of certain classes and corporations in England? Different had been the prospect now, had England, in that century, been covered with such schools as Howard's. Surely one may ask, without arrogance, why did not the Church of England accomplish at least so much then? In his own household, there reigned calmness and cheerful content. The whole air and aspect of the place was such as might have suggested that perfect little picture by Tennyson, "An English home-gray twilight pour'd Softer than sleep-all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace." He lived much in the consideration of Old Testament times and worthies, shaping his life after that of the Hebrew Patriarchs. His Bible was to him a treasury of truth, which he never even dreamed inexhaustible. As he looked over the brightening scene of his humble endeavors, and the pleasant bowers around his own dwelling, and felt all his tranquil joy represented and consummated in his Harriet, we may imagine these words breathing through his heart-"I will be as the dew unto Israel:" as the dew, stealing noiselessly down, in an evening stillness, unseen by any eye, yet refreshing the very heart of nature. Harriet, with all her simplicity, was a perfect wife; she could hear the beating of her husband's heart. Once there was somewhat over from the yearly expenditure. Howard, thinking his wife might derive enjoyment from a trip, proposed that they should spend it in a visit to London. We think Harriet looked quietly into his eyes as she answered, "What a pretty cottage it would build!" Conceive the smile of silent unspeakable satisfaction, of deep unbounded love, that would spread over the placid features of Howard as he heard these words. The part taken by the kind and gentle Harriet in the general dissemination of blessing over Howard's neighborhood was nowise unimportant. In the hour of sickness and distress, she was to be seen by the bed or the fireside, supplying little wants, whispering words of consolation. She also made it a peculiar part of her duty to see that the female portion of the community was employed, and supply them with work when threatened with destitution. Thus was Howard, cheered and assisted by his wife, an unassuming, godly English landlord, doing his work, and never imagining that he was a profitable servant. His tenantry, and specially his domestics, loved him; although, as we are happy to find, since it is an almost conclusive, and certainly indispensable proof of decision and discrimination, there was not a perfect absence of murmuring and insinuation against him in the village. He engaged in constant and intimate converse with his dependents, interesting himself in their affairs, and giving little pieces of advice. He might be seen entering their cot tages, and sitting down to chat and eat an apple. We can figure him, too, as he walked along the road, "With measured footfall, firm and mild,” stopping the children he met, giving each of them a palfpenny, and imparting the valuable and comprehensive advice, to "be good children, and wash their hands and faces." We can discern, as he utters the words, a still smile of peace and satisfaction on his really noble English countenance. We must pronounce it such. There was, it is true, no sign of creative power in the eye; there were no lines of deep thought on the brow; but decision, and shrewdness, and intense though governed kindness, were written there. Above all, it was cloudless in its clearness. It was the calm, open coutenance of a man who could look the world in the face, which was darkened by no stain of guile, or guilt, or self-contempt, and on which, through habitual looking upward, there was a glow of the mild light of heaven. Nor was it destitute of certain reposing strength, a look of complete self-knowledge and self-mastery, gently shaded, as it was, by a deep but manly humility, which told again of the bended knee and the secret walk with God. When we look at Howard's portrait, we cease to wonder that his face was always received as an unquestionable pledge of perfect honor and substantial character. There was one drop by which the cup of happiness in the home at Cardington might still have been augmented. Howard and his wife had no child. Harriet seems to have been peculiarly adapted to perform the duties of a mother; so gentle, so full of quiet sense, so well able to read a want ere it reached the tongue. At length, after seven years of married life, on Wednesday, the 27th of March, 1765, she had a son. On the ensuing Sabbath, Howard went to church as usual; all seemed to be doing well. After his return she was suddenly taken ill, and died in his arms. She had just seen her boy, just felt the unuttered happiness of a new love, just discerned that a fresh brightness rested on the face of the world, and then she had to close her eyes, and lie down in the silent grave. Howard's feelings, it is scarce requisite for us now to say, were not of the sort which commonly reach the surface. There was nothing sudden or impulsive in his nature; his very kindness and affection were ever so tempered, ever rendered so equable, by consideration, that they might at times wear the mask of austerity. But we can not doubt that the sorrow he felt for his Harriet reached tne innermost deeps of his soul. A light had passed from the "revolving year ;" the flowers which Love may strew in the path of the "stern daughter of the voice of God"—for Duty herself strews no flowers—had withered away; until he again clasped the hand of Harriet, his enjoyment had ceased. He laid her in her grave, and a simple tablet in Cardington Church told the simple truth, that she had "opened her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue was the law of kindness." A good many years afterward, on the eve of a departure for the Continent, from which Howard might never return, he was walking with his son in his grounds, and mentioning some improvements which he had contemplated:"These, however, Jack," he said, "in case I should not come back, you will pursue or not, as you may think proper; but remember, this walk was planted by your mother; and if ever you touch a twig of it, may blessing never rest upon you!" His infant son was now all that was left on earth to Howard. He loved him with the whole force of his nature. Two strong feelings, having reference to this earth, and two alone, were, in the years of his long journeyings, to be found in his bosom : the one was the memory of Harriet, the other the love of his boy. But it is not unimportant to a perfect comprehension of the character of Howard, to know that there was, in his general deportment as husband and father, a gravity, decision, and authority, which wore the aspect of austereness. The founder of philanthropy was as free as ever man from any form of sentimentalism; it was for real affliction, for substantial pain, he felt and acted; a tender, winning, soothing manner was never his. Whatever may be said of modern philanthropists, he certainly was not one whose feelings carried him away, who saw distress and injustice, and, bursting into tears, rushed, half-blinded with his sympathy, to make bad worse. He has been spoken of by some as if he resembled one who, perceiving a child drowning in a reservoir, and being moved to pity by its cries, casts down an embankment to save it, and floods a whole country. He was no such man. Since the world began, until he appeared, no one had done so much for the relief of distress, simply as such; and yet we feel convinced that very few men have lived who could look upon pain with calmer countenance than he. Nineteen men in twenty had been weeping, and either blundering, or leaving the distress alone; Howard remained quite cool, looked at it, measured it, mastered it. For about a year after the death of his wife, he continued to reside at Cardington. Toward the end of the year 1766, we find him visiting Bath; ill-health had again, in new extremity, returned upon him. In the spring of the following year, he traveled to Holland, and quickly returning home, remained at Cardington, until it was time to send his son to school. In the interval, nothing worthy of notice occurred; he pursued his old plans for the improvement of his neighborhood, deriving his principal comfort from his boy. At length it became proper to send his son to school, and |