the immense length of the building now fast becoming peopled with a dense multitude, that crowded every point from which a peep at the approaching ceremonial could safely be obtained. Some of the galleries, perched up at a lofty elevation, had an absolutely tempting appearance to a spectator below. Occasionally, too, in their wish to see what was going on, some of the workmen connected with the ceremony emerged from hidden doors high upon the wall, which led to the very verge of the cornice, and stood gazing at the profound depth below, from a narrow ledge where a false step would have precipitated them headlong to destruction. A bright belt of gas, I may add, like a glittering fringe of brass wire, ran round the walls of the cathedral, but the clearness of the day rendered its presence unnecessary.

Nine, ten, and eleven o'clock passed rapidly away. Anticipating that time would hang heavily until the arrival of the procession, I had brought with me the means of beguiling it, but contrary to my expectation the moments flew swiftly on. The scene before us was constantly shifting, and at frequent intervals men distinguished for rank, valour, or talent, passed up the main aisle. Two young men who have just entered, are sons of the King of Belgium. There goes too the biographer of Tasso, the poet Milman, dean of the cathedral, with poetic thoughts kindling in his brain at a scene so well calculated to awaken them. A glittering array of scarlet dresses, clothing representatives of every British regiment, and chequered here and there with a handsome naval uniform, gives plentiful occupation for the eye, while at intervals the mind dwells with interest on some form well known to fame. That old officer, for instance, with snow-white hair and wearied frame, is pointed out as the gallant Napier, the author of the Peninsular Campaign," the Caesar's commentaries of modern times. It were no uninteresting speculation to inquire what is passing through the veteran's mind at this moment. Possibly he is thinking of that memorable meeting with the Duke on the victorious field of Salamanca, which he has thus recorded:-" I saw him late in the evening of that great day, when the advancing flashes of cannon and musketry, stretching as far as the eye could command, showed in the darkness how well the field was won. He was alone, the flush of victory was on his brow, and his eyes were eager and watchful; but his voice was calm and even gentle." A burst of plaintive martial music, as the forenoon wore on, broke upon the ear. It proceeded from a military band stationed at the west door of the cathedral, which played at intervals some of Mendelssohn's melancholy strains, admirably in keeping with the preparations of the day, and heard to fine effect as they floated along the vast expanse of the building. This served as a sign that the head of the procession had arrived, and now we distinctly heard the tolling of the great bell of St. Paul's, that bell which never speaks but when it calls a nation to mourning. Soon we began to have further evidence that the procession was on its onward way. The Chelsea pensioners, survivors of many an arduous combat, and one soldier selected from every regiment in the service-a strange contrast of age and vigour-entered the cathedral. Shortly before this the House of Commons and the

Lords had passed through. Twelve times did the British Parliament give public thanks to Wellington, and appropriately therefore was it now seen to gather round his tomb and pay the last honours to his memory. The stream of celebrities, however, still runs thicker and thicker; learned doctors from the Universities, the Chancellor of England, the Lord Chief Justice, the Premier and the Prince Consort, with many other notabilities, followed at brief intervals, and finally the spectators received an intimation that the funeral car had arrived at the west entrance, by the choir, which consisted of about two hundred singers, (among whom it was curious to notice the boy choristers from the Chapel Royal in their coats of scarlet and gold lace,) advancing to meet it in a dense body which nearly filled the main aisle. The multitude without had had their sight, and the time was now come for the masses within to receive their gratification.

After some delay, it was evident that the moment had approached when the great event of the day was to commence. The scene which the cathedral now presented was most impressive. Glancing to the more elevated parts of the building, you saw human faces peering from galleries, pitched like eagles' eyries aloft. The north and south naves resembled two vast slopes or hills of crowded life. The dome had on one side of its base the Commons of England, on the other the House of Lords. In the centre were the peeresses of the realm, and in advance of them a brilliant amphitheatre filled with commanders of armies, admirals of fleets, ex-governors of provinces, foreign ambassadors, and dignitaries legal and ecclesiastical; while down the nave other groups in military attire strikingly contrasted with the white garments of the choir. It was a moment of intense expectation, and, as the eye ranged over the vast assemblage containing the wisdom, the valour, the rank, and the wealth of the land, and reflected on the solemn occasion which had called this multitude together, it was felt to be one of those points in life which rarely occur, but which when once seen stamp themselves on the mind with indelible power. One object, by the way, we must not forget in this rapid survey-that black platform in the centre. It is the resting-place for the hero's body, and will by invisible machinery descend with its precious burden to the vaults below. On the very spot where it stands, right in the centre of the dome, Nelson's remains were placed forty years ago, around them gathering, in heartfelt grief, seven princes of the blood royal, with Sheridan, Tierney, Fox, and many a once celebrated personage, long since passed away from the stage of life. With great propriety, it will be observed that Nelson's statue has to-day been left uncovered, and there he stands in marble whiteness, more conspicuous from the black drapery at his base, looking not unlike what Tennyson has described him-a sleeper disturbed in his rest.

"Who is he that cometh like an honoured guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest;

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ?"
Mighty seaman, this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea. O! saviour of the silver isle,

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, This is England's greatest son,

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee; He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.'

But we cannot follow the poet further; expectation we have said is now wound up to a crowning point, and a hush, hush, hush, goes round as the leader of the choir gives a signal to the musician at the distant organ. The latter instrument emits a peculiarly low, sweet, but melancholy note, which is immediately answered by the full burst of the choir, chanting the solemn words that commence the burial service of the church. "I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and I will raise him up again at the last day." The rich melody swept like a wave of harmony down the cathedral, and with slow and measured pace the procession advanced in the direction of the grave. Hannah More has recorded her feelings when, at the funeral of Garrick, in Westminster Abbey, she heard this sublime chant begin, and it may be conceived therefore how impressive it was on this still higher occasion. Amidst, then,

"The pealing organ and the answering choir," the stately ceremonial moved onwards towards the centre of the dome. So large was the train of choristers, that for a time nothing met the eye but a stream of white dresses. At last, just as the words, "We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out," are wafted in plaintive strains along those walls, which have witnessed so many a gorgeous pageant, a practical confirmation of this truth of holy writ is given. Emerging from behind a pillar are seen borne aloft, in all the pomp of heraldry, the Duke's golden spurs; next follow his helmet, his coat of arms and emblazoned banner. "We can carry nothing out," repeats the choir; it is indeed a truth not to be disputed, for here are almost literally fulfilled the lines of Gray:

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, All that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

In close proximity to the heralds are foreign noblemen bearing the Duke's field-marshal's bâton, glittering but substantial emblems of military power. One of these under ordinary circumstances is accounted a full reward for the arduous exertions of a life-time, but here they are scattered in costly profusion. And now the choir has ceased, and in solemn silence the coffin appears in view, the thronging multitude rising simultaneously as it comes in sight. It is carried upon a platform that moves on wheels, but the latter being shrouded from observation the bier seems to be borne on the shoulders of the attendants. The pall, instead of covering it, is rolled up in front, and, from its exquisite whiteness and fleecy softness, appears like a silver cloud. On the top of the coffin lie the plumed military hat, and the undrawn sword of the deceased. Poets have sung, orators have spoken, and historians have written of the sword, as the guardian of society, the protector of public and private happiness, the awful but unavoidable arbiter in the affairs of men. Ardent lovers of peace

as we are, we could not, we confess, avoid gazing with a strange interest on the weapon that lay there. If, ever since steel was forged upon the anvil, any sword had been symbolical, it was that one-asword never drawn except in the service of law and order; and which, after cutting the cords that bound a European continent, had returned in peace to its scabbard. As the coffin passes, it is followed by the chief mourner and by generals bearing banners. These we cannot pause to describe, although the eye glances with eager curiosity at Anglesea, Napier, Smith and Gough, as men who have stood the fiery brunt of war, and followed Wellington in far different scenes from this.

But now the coffin has been placed upon the platform under the centre of the dome. The choir are by this time arranged in two rows in front of the peeresses, and again bursts out the note of melody. The chant is the solemn verse in which the psalmist confesses that man at his best estate is altogether vanity and walketh in vain show, and begs that he may know the measure of his days. We were told in a note at the bottom of the book of the service for the day, that the music of this chant was composed by the Duke's own father, the Earl of Mornington. Little did that nobleman, who has been slumbering in his grave since 1782, think that his notes would be sung over the grave of his son, amidst the mourning and lamentation of a great people.

We prefer for our own taste the service of the church read in all its simplicity, instead of being overloaded with a splendour of musical composition, under which, while admiration rises, devotion often expires. On the present occasion. however, it was perhaps not unbefitting that music in its highest forms should heighten by its accompaniments the impressiveness of the scene. A solemn dirge accordingly followed. It was taken from that portion of the word of God, where the Hebrew monarch, in concert with his people, weeps at the grave of Abner, and proclaims that a prince and a great man has fallen in Israel. Some thousands of years had elapsed since that scene took place, but here it was again repeated. There stood royalty in the form of Prince Albert weeping by the bier, and there beside him was a mourning people. In low and wailing notes the dirge began, the choir as it proceeded rising into a loftier strain, until at the verse, "Know ye not that a prince and a great man has fallen," the words seemed to be thrice repeated, and then the brazen instruments, catching up the note at the point where the human voice failed, pealed forth a melodious blast from trumpet and horn which rose with startling vibrations up the mighty dome.

Again a momentary pause ensues. A note in the service here intimates to us that, at this point, the body is to be lowered to the tomb amidst the musie of Handel's Dead March in Saul. Here then we must take our last farewell of Wellington. His form is still in our possession, but in a few seconds it will disappear for ever. The moral interest of that moment was intense, and the mind irresistibly reverted to the career of him who lay confined within these velvet-covered boards. The boy student at the military school of Angers first appears, and then the young ensign of seventeen ;

again he comes as the still youthful colonel, braving at the post of honour the snows of Holland. Now we see him in the plains of India, the victor of Tippoo Saib and the conqueror of Assaye; again, imagination pictures him landing in Portugal, crossing the Douro, and constructing the Titanic lines of Torres Vedras; Busaco, Talavera, Salamanca, Badajos, and other stirring names succeed. Once more the scene changes, and we see the conqueror entering Madrid, through streets strewed with flowers and balconies lined with tapestry, while the song of jubilee rises from a liberated people; last of all, the plains of Waterloo stretch out, and it is felt to be indeed a thrilling thought that the brain that arrested Napoleon, and restored peace to a troubled world, is about to go down before us to the silence of the tomb. Still higher trains of thought float in quick succession through the mind: what ravages have been wrought by sin in this fair world when devastators like Napoleon arise to mar its peace. How providential, on the other hand, that the "man of destiny," the scourge of nations, should have found a counterpoise in him who lies stretched an inanimate piece of clay before us. And you, ye valiant warriors, who have braved the shock of steel and faced the cannon's mouth guided by his skilful hand, who shall say what chequered thoughts are now coursing through your minds as ye stand beside that coffin? Many a recollection, doubtless, of hard-won fields and stern strife is rushing back from memory's cells; perhaps, too, the thought enters that for your aged forms, also, the grave must ere long be open.

But the Dead March has begun. The wailing organ, the muffled drums, the strain of the trumpet, all announce that the parting moment has come. Has the coffin begun to move? No; it stands where it did before; yet, in a little, you have unmistakable evidence that it is slowly sinking. Objects which you could not see before, in consequence of their being intercepted by its presence, are now visible to the eye. Gently, inch by inch, as if to give time for the last lingering look, it goes down. As it descends, the chief mourner puts forth his hand and touches the coffin; it is a final farewell to his distinguished parent; the parting pang, “unspoke, unspeakable," which shows as well as the tears that accompany the action, how deeply he is moved. A few more notes of the organ and this impressive scene is over. The gilded coffin has disappeared. Where it stood, a yawning chasm now meets the eye. The grave has received all that was mortal of Wellington.

The notes of Handel's masterpiece die away, giving the agitated assembly time to recover its composure. Then the mellifluous choir sings afresh one of those solemn strains which carry the mind away from mortal scenes to invisible realities; from time to eternity; from this glittering arena to that judgment-seat before which he, who forms the object of all this splendour, has gone to appear. The dean reads a portion of the inspired volume, and once more the anthem swells.

"His body is buried in peace; but his name it liveth for evermore."

As this is sung, memory recalls the multitude of the deceased's companions whose remains lie mouldering in Portuguese valleys and on Spanish heights, while he who went through a hundred

fights wore as it were a charmed life, and came forth unscathed from peril. His body is buried in peace." How different a scene is this from the funeral of his comrade in arms, Sir John Moore, buried at Corunna, amidst the dim light of the lantern, with the guns of the retreating foe for his requiem.

But the last act of this real drama is now to be performed. A herald approaches, and reads over the roll of the Duke's titles. So long a list one may well believe was never read before, and never will be again. Their mere enumeration occupies several minutes. Amongst the catalogue, the title "Prince of Waterloo," rises in dignified prominence upon the ear. Then amidst breathless attention is heard the snap of the rod of the comptroller of the Duke's household, as it is broken and the remains thrown into the grave-a solemn and expressive emblem. It seems as if the cornucopia of human honours were emptied over this grave; as if we had climbed the highest round in the ladder of mortal eminence, and seen at once its greatness and its emptiness. A solemn anthem succeeds, calling back the mind to the necessity of watching for the hour of the Saviour's advent; the parting benediction is pronounced, and a shrill blast of trumpets, followed by a discharge of artillery at the Tower, tells the metropolis that the burial of the hero is over.

We left the cathedral with a chastened influence upon our spirit, and with the words of the service which we had heard chanted lingering in our ears, "Lord, let me know the measure of my days, that I may be certified how long I have to live."

THE WORLD'S BENEFACTOR.

No sooner is the Bible fairly intrenched in a country, and its great truths transcribed by the Spirit of God upon the hearts of the people, than there begins to be a remodelling of their domestic architecture. Natural affection resumes its proper sway. The conjugal, parental, and filial relations develop their beautiful tracery. The wife is clothed with her rightful honours as the equal and companion of her husband. Children are made the objects of a vigilant and tender care, and households gradually cast off their uncouth and revolting attributes, and conform to the Scripture pattern. To effect a revolution like this in a nation, is to achieve a conquest, the moral splendour of which The agency, the only agency, by which it can be accomthe glory of all Caesar's and Napoleon's victories. plished is in your hands. If you will supply the nations with the Bible, you will have the honour of participating in some of those bloodless triumphs which carry all secular and spiritual blessings in their train.

surpasses

Nor is it pagan and Mohammedan households only which need to be renovated by the Bible. The Bible has beeu expelled for centuries from the dwellings of many of the European nations. As a matter of course, the domestic virtues have declined; the conjugal relation is disparaged; deception and intrigue have supplanted mutual confidence, and society has become diseased to its very core. The efficient to arrest these evils, is to restore to these nations very best thing we can do-the only thing that can be the word of God; to replace in their house that Bible of which they have been robbed. Only do for France and Italy, Belgium and Spain, Portugal and Austria, what has been attempted, and to a great extent accomplished, for change will pass over Europe than can be effected by all our country-put a Bible in every family, and a mightier the diplomacy of her liberal statesmen or all the revolutions projected by her sleepless patriots.

richer, was ornamented with great bouquets of wild flowers gathered from cliff and forest. Most of the company thought that a day of exaltation for the Rosas; and there might have been some among them who envied Eglantine the great match. Her dead father had arranged it long ago, after a custom too common in his day. Her mother considered it a handsome provision for the girl, and Eglantine accepted without doubt or question what she had been taught to regard as her natural destiny.

"He that turned the water into wine at Cana of Galilee, bless you, neighbours, and bring you from all errors of faith and practice to the grace of his gospel, and the glory of his kingdom," said pastor Joseph, as, after some simple words of well wishing to the bride and her family, he and his people went on their way.

Gueslin thought the Dominican had looked like one surprised at the sight of the missionary, and seemed willing to attract little observation while he remained; but scarce had the Vaudois departed when his look grew dark as a wintry nightfall, and he demanded in a tone of stern rebuke-"What people are these with whom ye seem so friendly? and why do they not stay to witness this holy sacrament ?"

"Reverend father," said Gueslin, in haste to set the prior right," they are our neighbours, and belong to the religion of the valleys."

"You associate with heretics, then!" said father Bernardo, casting on the young man, and still more particularly on his mother, a look of extreme horror. The widow started, and so did half the company, for heretic was a word of fearful meaning in those times. To the catholic peasantry it brought a vague idea of dark and unimaginable guilt, and was associated with ideas of torch and fagot, or imprisonment and military rapine. Gueslin had felt personally wounded by the prior's remark.

Indeed, reverend father," he exclaimed, "we are not accustomed to call our neighbours by such uncharitable names, and these mountains have heard enough on the matter of heresy."

"Bring out my mule!" said the Dominican, assuming a martyr air. Noble Castellan, will you permit two of your retainers to help an old man through the rough mountain ways? for I cannot remain where the church has been insulted. It grieves me to think how sad my report will make the heart of that pious Chatelaine, your grandmother."

The last hint had its expected effect. Aware of the confessor's power, Robert Bazzana, who would not have given precedence to the proudest noble in Savoy, commenced coaxing the old Dominican (who by the way was the reputed son of a swineherd) to stay and celebrate his marriage. The widow joined in his entreaties, and Gueslin, fearing the consequences to his family, made an humble apology for his hasty words, which so far mollified father Bernardo that he consented to proceed with the wedding rites and remain till the feast should be partially discussed; stipulating, however, by way of general penance, that the Castellan and his bride should set out with him on their homeward way two hours after noon.

all the devout may join me in prayer and fasting for the conversion of those darkened Vaudois.”

Besides being keeper of the dowager marchioness of Susa's conscience, father Bernardo was titular superior of the convent of " the holy manger," yet the only person who availed herself of this privilege was old Marietta, the Rosas' only servant. Father Bernardo's eye had been upon her while he spoke, and whatever prayers might have been repeated, the simple Marietta afterwards remarked that he took time to make most minute inquiries concerning the bride, her family, and every individual in the valley. The innocent mirth of the wedding company had been broken, and could not be repaired. The Castellan was absent and gloomy, Madame Rosa looked troubled, Gueslin tried in vain to cheer up matters, and all scattered away sad and dissatisfied, when the young bride kissed her mother and departed, as they considered in great pomp, on the scarlet covered mule.

While things thus progressed with the wedding party, pastor Joseph and his company had wound through moorland, heath, and forest, by short paths known to the mountaineers, to their parting spot, where the girdle of steep rocks, inclosing at the feet of almost meeting Alps the famous valley known as the Pra del Torre, is broken by a narrow gorge, the only outlet from that isolated region. They had parted there for many a year as sure as the spring came round. The pastor was still zealous and his people faithful, but never had they felt so unwilling to say farewell. Many affections had found room in the small group that stood around the missionary and his companion Claude, now going forth for the first time on a perilous service, for their way was to Calabria, where continuous persecution had sorely diminished the ancient Vaudois churches. The youth had no fears, and though devoted to missionary labours and losses, his human hope was in some distant and promised time to find himself a home in the Shepherd's-rest with Claire Constant. There was a faithful attachment between his brother Humbert and Claire's elder sister, but when the old shepherd asked her to become his daughter, Renee said, "I cannot leave my brother alone with the care of our young sisters— wait till Louisin is older."

Pastor Joseph knew almost the very thoughts of his flock. He had been their confidant and counsellor ever since Jacob Constant was taken from among them. In his absence a species of patriarchal authority devolved by common consent on old Gaston, and so they lived from year to year in social labour, love, and peace; their quiet lives varied only by the comings and goings of their pastor. Once more he knelt with them on the mossy rock, and prayed for all and every one of the company, that they might be kept from the evil that was in the world, and if it were not his lot to meet them again in the Shepherd's-rest, that he might find them safe in that of heaven. Then the old advices were repeated that they would keep peace and purity among them, cultivate charity, go to church when they could, and read the great bible, his only property, which he left in sacred trust with the Constants. To them he had spoken still more earnestly at home, for the solitary man looked on them as his children. They had never grieved so much in parting with him before, but