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continued to creep over him, the whole air of the lazaretto having been infected; it greatly impaired his strength, and the accounts, deepening in sadness, which reached him respecting his son, made his affliction almost too heavy to be borne : “I am reduced by fatigue of body and mind, I have great reason to bless God my resolution does not forsake me in so many solitary hours." It did not forsake him, it remained firm as a rock in vexed surge, it could ever raise its head into the pure light of God's smile; but human faith has not often been so sorely tried. In the letter written from Vienna, from which the above words were taken, he referred in approving terms to the conduct toward his son of several domestics whom he left at Cardington, expressed his persuasion that it arose out of regard to his mother, and concluded the paragraph in these words :-“ Who I rejoice is dead." He often thought of Harriet, and we may conceive that now, in his extreme sorrow, the old days would flit past him robed in the still and melancholy light of memory; that tender and to him beautiful wife seemed to return, to lean over him in his loneliness and sickness of heart; but he thought of his son, and the tear which started to his own eye was transferred by imagination to that of his Harriet, where perchance he had never seen one before; then love arose and triumphed over anguish, and he blessed God that his best beloved was lying still. Has art ever surpassed the pathos of these words?

Early in 1787, Howard was again in England, proceeding to make arrangements respecting his son. The latter was a hopeless maniac. He appears to have been of that common class of young men, whom strong passions, weak judgments, and good-natured, silly facility, render a prey to those who combine artfulness with vice. A servant in whom Howard placed absolute confidence betrayed his trust infamously, allured his charge into evil, and excited in his breast contempt for his father. That father, ever most anxious to provide him the best and safest superintendence and tuition, had sent him to prosecute his education at Edinburgh, where he resided with Dr. Black. There it was that prolonged habits of vice fatally impaired his constitution, and after a period he became deranged. In this condition, watched over with all the care and kindness which his father's efforts could secure, he lingered for a considerable number of years, and died. It was a most touching case; for he seems not to have been without that gleam of nobleness which so often accompanies and adorns a character intellectually by no means strong. In Edinburgh once, when some one spoke disrespectfully of his father, and basely hinted that his philanthropic expenses might impair the fortunes of his son, young Howard indignantly resented the insinuation, and asked how he could ever do so much good with the money as his father.

Howard now remained in England for about two years, seeing his son provided for as well as was possible, and preparing the result of his late travels for the press. His religion still continued to deepen and grow more fervent, the feeling of the littleness of his efforts and powers to increase. The few private memoranda that remain of the period breathe an earnest and habitual devotion; there is an occasional flash of clear intellectual insight and moral ardor; but, most of all, they are characterized by humility. “Examples of tremendous wrath will be held up, and what if I should be among these examples.” “ Behold, I am vile, what shall I answer Thee, oh my God; I have no claim on Thy bounty but what springs from the benignity of Thy nature. God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of Jesus Christ.” “A few of God's people that met in an upper room appear, in my eye, greater than all the

Roman empire. God kept them.” “Where there is most holiness, there is most humility. Never does our understanding shine more than when it is employed in religion. In certain circumstances retirement is criminal ; with a holy fire I would proceed.” “Ease, affluence, and honors, are temptations, which the world holds out—but remember, the fashion of this world passeth away'-on the other hand, fatigue, poverty, sufferings, and dangers, with an approving conscience. Oh God! my heart is fixed, trusting in thee! My God! Oh glorious words! there is a treasure! in comparison of which all things in this world are dross."

England was now for Howard all hung as it were in weeds of mourning. The hope to which he had clung that his son might cheer him in his old age had vanished utterly, or at least the term when such might be possible could not be fixed. There were probably in this world few sadder hearts at that time than John Howard's. But he had not yet discovered the secret of the plague; there was still work for mercy to do: it was now perhaps the greatest happiness of which he was capable to go upon that work. And he went; the weary heart soothe and heal the weary-hearted; one of the saddest men in England, to meet the plague.

On the 27th of September, 1789, he was at Moscow. He seemed now to feel that his end was not far, and we find him engaged in solemn transactions with his God. He brought out that old dedication of himself to his Maker, which we saw him subscribe in the days when his life had first been darkened, and when the terrors of the Almighty, which had rolled like low cloudy masses over his soul, were just being suffused with celestial radiance in the full beaming out of the Sun of Righteousness. Again he owned his entire unworthiness and his entire weakness, again he looked up to the Rock of Ages, again he gave up his soul, spirit, and body, forever and ever, to God. As we gather, too, from the pages of Brown, he looked again on that covenant which his beloved had made with her Father in heaven: we think we can see the old and weary man gazing over its lines, while a tear steals from his eye, a tear of lonely sadness, yet touched with one gleam of light, from the thought that it will not now be long ere he again meet his Harriet. This was in the September of 1789: it was his last pause on his hard life-journey, his last draught of living waters from those fountains which divine Love never permits to dry up in the desert of the world : again he arose and went on his way, but now the pearly gates and the golden walls stood before the eye of faith, calm, beautiful, eternal, on the near horizon.

In the beginning of January, 1790, he was residing at Kherson, a village on the Dnieper, near the Crimea, still as of old with indefatigable resolution and kindness pursuing his work. In visiting a young lady dying of a fever the infection seized him, and he soon felt that death was upon him. On his deathbed he was just what we have always known him. We hear the voice of prayer for his son, of inextinguishable pity for the afllicted, and, concerning himself, these words addressed to his friend Admiral Priestman, “Let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my funeral, nor any monument, nor monumental inscription whatsoever, to mark where I am laid : but lay me quietly in the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten.” Thus, with the same calm, saintly smile, so still but so immovable, which he had worn during, life, he passed away.

All nations had now heard of Howard, and all nations honored him : England, in silent pride, placed his statue in St. Paul's Cathedral. There he remained unmoved, and his name more and more became a word of love and of admiration in the households of the world. Burke spoke of him in his own burning and majestic terms; Foster pointed to him as one cased in an iron mail of resolution such as made him a wonder among

the sons of men; Chalmers responded to his nobleness with all the tameless enthusiasm of his royal heart. But in our day a mighty hand has been stretched forth to drag him from his seat among the immortal ones of time: one, of perhaps more wondrous genius, and in some sense of more penetrating intellectual glance, than either Chalmers, Burke, or Foster, has flung quiet but remorseless scorn on Howard. We mean, of course, Mr. Carlyle. We deem it unnecessary to *quote his words: those which appear to us to approach nearest to positive misconception and injustice we have already set before the reader. They are well known, occurring in his celebrated pamphlet on Model Prisons. We think it can be stated in a word or two what Mr. Carlyle has seen, and what, making our appeal to readers, we must say he has not seen in Howard. He has seen regarding him that of which he appears, in all cases, to possess a more vivid perception than any writer of past or present times—the intellectual type and caliber. We have had, and still have, our doubts whether a strong case might not be made out in defense even here, if the difference between working and talking talent were accurately defined, and the dullness of biographers taken fully into account. But we care not to urge this consideration on behalf of Howard. We claim for him no intellectual glory. We concede that, if Mr. Carlyle does not impute to him any vulgar motive, of desire to make an appearance, or the like—and we leave readers to judge whether such an impression is, or is not, conveyed by the words we have cited—there is nothing which he

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