His days were now days of want; his only
means of subsistence being the produce of a
few articles of silver plate, which he had
snatched from the ruin of his property. Infirm
in health, a houseless, almost penniless
wanderer (Napoleon having robbed him of his
estates), he endeavoured, at the age of
seventy-three, to seek refuge in forgotten
obscurity.

George the Third was informed of the
Cardinal Duke's poverty and pitiable situation
by the kindly interference of Sir John Cox
Hippisley. It is said that the King was much
moved by the distressing recital; and, in
eighteen hundred Lord Minto was ordered
to make a remittance of two thousand pounds,
with an intimation that the Cardinal might
draw for two thousand more in the following
July. It was also made known to the Cardinal
that an annuity of four thousand pounds was at
his service, so long as his circumstances re-
quired it. He was spared seven years to
enjoy this munificent pension, and died at
Rome in eighteen hundred and seven, in the
eighty-third year of his age. He was buried
between his father and brother at Frascati.
His tomb, sculptured by Canova, bears as
inscription, the name of Henry the Ninth.

The Cardinal Duke, down to the very
day of his death, although in the receipt
of a munificent pension from England, was
in communication with several noblemen, who
still indulged the hope of placing him upon
the throne of Great Britain. Among the
Cardinal's papers were discovered letters from
active partisans both in Ireland and Scotland;
but the English government wisely
took no notice of these awkward revelations.
Had they done so, many men of high rank
and great influence would have been brought
to a severe account.

THE MORAL OF THIS YEAR.

O'er hill and dale, in surging sea, the waving
       cornfields smile,
Bringing good store to rich and poor of England's
       merric isle;
And many a heart beats gratefully, beams brightly
       many a hearth,
As the stalwart farmers gather in the kindly fruits of
earth.

But white-robed peace droops down and dies, as from
       a serf-trod shore
Comes o'er the land, like flash of brand, the gathering
      din of war;
Where sword to sword, and hand to hand, in
      brotherhood advance
The warriors of England, the chivalry of France!

And whilst with peaceful scythe we cut the
       poppy-bannered grain;
Whilst crimson War his harvest reaps on the sad
       battle-plain;
Comes yet another enemy, with pain, and ruth, and
       blight,
To mow another harvest-field to wage a darker fight!

A Giant-King, a dread disease, with poison in his
      breath;
At each uplifting of his hand sure pestilence and
      death;
At every shaking ofhis torch the human ashes fall
Thickly as leaves when autumn weaves the year's
      black winter pall.

In every town he has his court; in every street his
      slaves,
Who deftly ply their hidden work, filling the crowded
      graves;
Miasma, dank Malaria, man-bred in drain and sewer,
Who strike their blow as reapers mow, so steadily, so
      sure.

In the squalid den of pallid men, where thousands
      meet their doom,
As from the moil of daily toil they crowd from mine
      and loom;
In earthground lair, in garret bare, where Avarice is
      content
To barter health for sordid wealth, men's lives for
      cent per cent.

In a dank, unhealthy cellar a mother's cheek is wet,
A little chair is empty there—a heart more empty yet!
The blush upon a young wife's face shall know its
      place no more,
It writes, in one red line of blood, the sorrows of the
      poor!

But the sorrows of the poor man are the rich man's
      trouble too,
And ev'ry hour of Apathy shall England surely rue!
Not alone in dens of squalor hath this Giant-King his
      lair,
With deadly steps he grimly creeps up many a marble
      stair!

In such a day small right to pray, when in each street,
      each lane,
No drain or sewer, with breath impure, but has its list
      of slain!
Scant right to call on GOD to move this evil from our
     door,
If man cares naught for brother man, and the rich
     forget the poor!

Oh brothers! In this day of death, think less of class
     and creed,
And what you can for fellow-man, DO in his hour of
     need;
Let workmen come to decent home, not to an ambush
     wild,
When in huddled heap at midnight sleep, man, wife,
     girl, stranger, child!

Drive out the blight with air and light! Instead of
     sickening gloom,
In this all glorious world of ours, give men fair
     elbow-room;
Some outlet for the fancy; some interest in their
     kind;
Some cheering ray of holiday; some sunlight for the
     mind!

Of the harvest lately garnered in, by Man was sown
     the grain;
'Twas Man's device God prospered, on ALMA'S
      well-fought plain;