It has been stated in several histories of this lamented officer, that the body was privately interred in the evening by a few soldiers; but this is not true; and justice to his generous adversary requires that we should vindicate the reputation of the lieutenant-general of Canada from such a stigma. John Joseph Henry, Esq., who was under Montgomery, and being taken by the enemy, had an opportunity of witnessing the honors that were paid to his memory, writes thus: “It was on this day that my heart was ready to burst with grief at viewing the funeral of our beloved general. Sir Guy Carleton had, in our former wars with the French, been the friend and fellow-soldier of Montgomery. Though political opinion, perhaps ambition or interest, had thrown these worthies on different sides of the great question, yet the former could not but honor the remains of his quondam friend. About noon the procession passed our quarters. It was a mournful sight. The coffin, covered with a black pall, surmounted by transverse swords, was borne by men. The regular troops, particularly that fine body of men, the seventh regiment, with reversed arms, and scarfs on the left arm, accompanied the corpse to the grave. The funeral of the other officers, both friends and enemies, were performed the same day. Many and deeply heartfelt were the tears of affection shed that day; of affection for those who were no more, and of greeting and thankfulness toward Carleton. The British soldiery and inhabitants appeared affected by the loss of this invaluable man, though he was their enemy. If such men as Washington, Carleton, and Montgomery, had had the entire direction of the adverse war, the contention in the event might have happily terminated to the advantage of both sections of the nation.” * * * * * THE TWO PALMS. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. As the last column of a temple vanished, A Palm-tree, in a city of the West, Stood, like a hero from his country banished, A proud though lonely guest. Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain, Or radiant valley of some tropic isle, Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain, By Jordan or the Nile. And oft its high and tufted crest beholding, In each vibration of the arching leaves, A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding, As when an exile grieves. For solemn is the air of isolation, And that lone offspring of the desert wild Wore to my eye a look of consecration, That sympathy beguiled. No more around it eastern balms were stealing, But smoke and dingy vapors of the town, No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling, Nor caravan sunk down. Before it once the sandy ridges heaving, Spread like an ocean, limitless and free, And the mirage its panorama weaving, Rose beautiful to see!