sympathy for the sufferings of the poor soldiers so inhumanly treated by their superiors.

The Russians had just won a great victory; Christmas was approaching; the general in command had given permission to his officers to spend that festive season at Cherson, which was consequently crowded with rank and fashion, and very gay. But in the midst of these festivities a virulent and infectious fever broke out. One of the sufferers, a young lady, who resided about twenty-four miles from Cherson, had been a constant attendant at all the recent balls. Howard, whose reputation as a doctor was very great, was implored to ride over and see her. Hearing that she was getting worse and worse, he at last reluctantly acceded to the wishes of her friends. She improved at first under his treatment. Owing to the miscarriage of a letter, his third visit to his patient was delayed, and when he arrived, wet through and benumbed with cold, he found the lady dying. He sat some time by her side, and was so sensibly affected by the effluvia of the fever, that he felt convinced the infection had been communicated to him. Next day his patient died.

On the third day Howard was seized with fever; he gradually grew worse. On the 12th January he fell down suddenly, in a fit; from that day he became weaker and weaker. He was his own physician, having recourse to his favourite medicine, Dr James's powder; but as soon as Prince Potemkin heard of his illness he sent him his own physician, who attended him

to the last, and no effort was spared to preserve a life, so valuable to the world. He grew worse and worse, but he was still able to write some pious reflections even so late as the 16th of the month: "May I not look on present difficulties, or think of future ones, in this world, as I am but a pilgrim or wayfaring man, that tarries but a night. This is not my home, but may I think what God has done for me, and rely on His power and grace, for His promise, His mercy, endureth for ever. But I am faint and low, yet I trust in the right way pursuing, though too apt to forget, my Almighty Friend and my God.

Lord, leave me not to my own wisdom, which is folly, nor to my own strength, which is weakness. Help me to glorify Thee on earth and finish the work Thou givest me to do, and to Thy name alone be all the praise." The latter of these pious inspirations is inscribed on the cover of a book, beneath it, evidently written later, are two short sentences bearing his dying testimony to those doctrines which had been his creed through life: "Oh that the Son of God may not die for me in vain." "I think I never look into myself but I find some corruption and sin in my heart; O God! do Thou sanctify and cleanse the thoughts of my depraved heart." In the middle of a page of a volume of sermons he wrote, "It is one of the noblest expressions of real religion, to be cheerfully willing to live or die as it may seem meet to God." The last words Howard's hand ever traced, written on the inside of the cover of a book, were, "Oh that

Christ may be magnified in me, either by life or death."

On the morning of the 20th his intimate friend, Admiral Priestman, an Englishman in the empress' service, came to see him. He found him weak and low, but sitting up by a small stove in his bedroom; he spoke of being well aware that he had but a short time to live, of death as having no terrors for him, and with a calm and settled serenity of manner, as if the death pangs were already past; and then mentioned his wishes as regarded his funeral. "There is a spot," he said to the admiral, "near the village of Dauphigny (about eight miles from Cherson), this would suit me nicely; you know it well, for I have often said I should like to be buried there; and 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 whatever 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." The place where he wished to be buried was on the estate of a French gentleman from whom he had received much kindness; and he begged Priestman to go at once and ask his permission, which he did, and obtained it.

A letter arrived from England giving better accounts of his son's health, which greatly cheered the deathbed of the dying Christian. His friend Priestman seeing his danger, refused to leave him, and sat by his bedside. Howard was now too weak to talk. Taking out the letter, he gave it to the admiral to

read, and said, tenderly, "Is not this comfort for a dying father?" Soon after he sank into a state of unconsciousness, and calmly passed away at eight o'clock on the morning of 20th January 1790, 1500 miles from his native land, with strangers around his bed, not to his heart, but to his race, his language, his creed. His death was a European event. Cherson went into deep mourning for the stranger. In defiance of his own wishes, the enthusiasm of the people provided him with a public funeral. Princes and admirals, all the generals of the garrison, magistrates, merchants, and a large party of cavalry, accompanied by an immense cavalcade of private persons, formed the magnificent funeral procession. These were followed on foot by a concourse of at least three thousand persons, slaves, prisoners, sailors, soldiers, peasants, whose best and truest friend the dead hero of all these martial honours had ever been, and from this humbler train of followers, arose the deepest, tenderest expression of respect and sorrow for the dead. The higher ranks had lost a friend from their social circles, but they-the poor serf, the ill-used soldier, the friendless prisoner—had lost in him a father.

A small pyramid was raised above the spot where he was laid instead of the sun-dial which he had himself suggested, and the traveller is still attracted to the place as to one of the shrines, which men have reason to remember, on the earth. A deep sensation of regret and love was produced in England by the tidings of his death. Every mark of honour, public and private,

was paid to the memory of Howard. The muses sang his virtues, the Church, the senate, and the judgmentseat, echoed with his praise; and even at the theatres, his character was exhibited in imaginary scenes, and a monody on his life delivered at the footlights.

The statue, to which during his life Howard had been so opposed, was, after his death, erected to his memory in St Paul's Cathedral. It is a fine work of art by Bacon; beneath it is a long inscription recording his many virtues and philanthropic deeds.

The illustrious orator, Burke, paid a tribute to Howard's memory in one of his grandest orations, but the monument which is worthiest of him is that great work of the general amelioration and reform both in prisons and hospitals, of which he laid the foundation, and to which he so nobly and generously devoted his whole life.*

* Canon Liddon, in one of his wonderfully eloquent sermons in St Paul's Cathedral, thus speaks of John Howard as "The philanthropist who spent his life in visiting and in reforming the prisons of the world,-who exposed, as his historian has said, to the shuddering sight of mankind, the horrible barbarities, the foul and abominable secrets of those dens of suffering, and who remedied these vast evils by the exposure. Such a man is fitly honoured in the temple of Jesus Christ. It has been said of John Howard that, perhaps, no man ever lived who has assuaged so great an amount of human misery. Whatever its merits as a work of art, his statue has a particular interest which is all its own. It is no unbecoming representation of our Lord's picture of the true neighbour-of the good Samaritan. It bids each of us, in his measure, and according to his opportunities, to be mindful of the imperishable words, 'Go and do likewise."

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