and devotions for which Huss died are proclaimed, prayed and sung. The grand battle-cry of the German Legions is: "Sie sollen ihn nicht haben Den alten deutschen Rhine."

Wickliffe died a natural death at Lutterworth, England, in 1384. Thirty-one years later the Council of Constance condemned him as a heretic, and ordered his books to be burned, his body to be exhumed and cast far away from consecrated places of burial. Thirteen years later, after he had quietly rested in the church of St. Mary in Lutterworth for forty-four years, Pope Martin V. insisted on the execution of the sentence.

"In obedience to the orders of the Council of Constance, Richard Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his officers (vultures with a quick scent at a dead carcass) to ungrave him. Accordingly to Lutterworth they came; Sumner, Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Protector, Doctors, and their servants, take what was left out of the grave, burn it to ashes, and cast the ashes into Swift, a neighboring brook running hard by. Thus this brook has conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow seas, they into the main ocean-and thus the ashes of Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine which now is dispersed all the world over."

"E'en when his bones to dust were turn'd,
Beyond the grave their vengeance burn'd,
His warnings fill'd their guilty ear,
They saw his awful phantom near,

And sent their mandate forth,
'Go, tear the accursed from the grave-
Scatter his dust o'er stream and wave-
Void be his place on earth!'

"They lay the charnel's secrets bare,
The awful dust unmask.
Priest-Sumner-Friar are marshal'd there
To aid the godless task.

They tear the relics from the shroud-
High springs the flame's red glow-
Anathema and curse ring loud,

As they tramp on their mighty foe;
'Yon brook will bear him to the deep,
Far as our deadliest curse can sweep;
Cast out his poisonous clay!'

"The scattered dust the menials lift,
And down the waves of dancing Swift
His ashes float away!

O'er quiet mead, by green hill-side
Swift hastes to Avon's broader tide,

And Avon sweeps through vale and wood

To meet in Severn's kingly flood;
And Severn, calm and free,
Floats downward on his lordly wave
Triumphant to the sea!

"Where doth our first Reformer sleep?
Ask of the wide waves-where?

Search where the winds of heaven may sweep
Seek his bright ashes there!
Where'er high Truth's immortal light
Bursts the thick gloom of Error's night,
Where Reason wings her eagle flight,
Where breathe Religion's notes,
Where godlike Freedom's mighty voice
Bids the weak heart of slaves rejoice,
Where human worth a home may claim,
Where genius soars an earthly flame,
Our first Reformer's glorious name,
Like holiest music floats:

The chainless waves of ocean trace,
Following the rushing river-
Each altar makes his burial place,

Where Wickliffe lives forever!"

After Zwingle had been slain in the battle at Cappel, Switzerland, his body lay on the field till the following morning. At the demand of a mob the corpse was tried, formally condemned to be quartered for treason, and then burned for heresy. The sentence was carried out by the hangman or executioner of Lucerne. It is said that after his body had been consumed, his heart was found in the ashes, entire and unsinged. A striking illustration that, although the foes of the Gospel can destroy the body, no power can destroy the undying life which is of God by faith. The ashes of Zwingle's body were mingled with the ashes of swine, seized by the furious multitude and flung to the winds of heaven,

Calvin died in 1564, at Geneva, Switzerland. He was buried in the cemetery of Plain Palais. His dying request forbade the erection of a monument at his grave. No stone or head-board has ever marked the spot where the dust of the great man reposes. "No man knoweth his sepulchre unto this day." Strange that the man whose system of thought, learning and influence have for three centuries had such a powerful and extensive part in moulding the Creeds, Confessions and civil Laws of Protestant Christianity should be sleeping in an unknown grave.

John Knox, the great Reformer of Scotland, died in 1572. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Giles, Edinburgh. In the burial address of the Regent Morton, spoken at the Reformer's grave, he said: "There lies he who never feared the face of man." But the precise spot where he lies is now unmarked and unknown.

Somewhere under the green sward his dust reposes. His house and home, wherein the living Knox thought, wrote, wrestled and prayed, still stands undisturbed, a venerable way-mark of those stormy, earnest times, but the home of his mortal remains is lost. But a greater than these Reformers has slept in an unknown sepulchre for thousands of years. No mortal's dust has ever been honored as was that of Moses. Buried by God Himself on the mountains of Nebo, "in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor." Beautifully does the following poem, taken from the Dublin University Magazine, describe "The Burial of Moses."

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
And no man dug that sepulchre;
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth
But no man heard the trampling
Or saw the train go forth.

As noiseless as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

As noiseless as the Spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;
So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

In silence down the mountain's crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle
On grey Beth Peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns that hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drums,
Follow the funeral-car.

Good company and good conversation are the very sinews of

virtue.

QUEEN VICTORIA AND HER SCOTTISH GUEST.

BY FANNIE ROPER FEUDGE.

Among the memories of pleasant hours spent in England and dear old Scotland I recall the following, related to me with great gusto by a Highland gentleman who was cognizant of the facts. On the occasion of the queen's earliest visit to Scotland she was holding her first "drawing-room" in Edinburgh. Everybody wanted to see the youthful and popular sovereign-of course; and equally, of course, everybody could not be admitted. So cards were sent out to as many as could be conveniently accommodated— many probably who had never before been invited to the presence of royalty, and who had scarcely anticipated such an honor. For the gentle, womanly queen was very gracious, and quite willing to sacrifice something of courtly etiquette in order the more fully to enthrone herself in the loyal hearts of her Scottish subjects; well aware that once gained they were gained forever. For a Caledonian's friendship stands as fast as the sturdy base of his own Ben Nevis.

A Highland dame of about seventy, having heard of the young queen's intended visit to Scotland, had travelled more than a hundred miles to obtain a glimpse of her esteemed sovereign's form and features. All she hoped for was to be permitted, for just once in her lifetime, to stand at the door of "the great house," and, herself unseen, look into the gentle face, and carry away with her to the humble home in her native hills the memory of how a real queen looked, and spoke, and acted. It was for this she had made on foot that weary journey; for this alone she had been for many days domiciled in the tiny cabin of a Highland friend, whose narrow quarters seemed, without her presence, full almost to repletion. For this one brief glimpse of royalty she had longed and waited, hoped and dreamed, and now should she be discouraged because the way was not quite clear, and go back to her lowly home among the hills, and even die without seeing her bonny queen? Nay, nay! she would try, though everybody said it was impossible.

So, late in the evening, keeping her own counsel, the Highland dame stole out alone, and, hurriedly traversing the crowded streets, presented herself, in the peasant's garb, at the castle gate. Through this she managed to pass unnoticed amid a crowd of invited guests; but on reaching the door of the first ante chamber she was rudely